“Who’s been talking?”
Clodleberg said with immense dignity, “The head porter at the landing inquired your identity… I saw no reason to conceal it. You had issued no orders to that effect.”
Glystra turned away. If any harm was to result from the indiscretion, the harm was by now done; no benefit would come of dressing down Clodleberg, for whom, in general, he felt a high regard. “News certainly travels fast in Kirstendale… What is your opinion in regard to the invitation?”
Clodleberg turned to the desk clerk. “Exactly who is Sir Walden Marchion?”
“One of the wealthiest and most influential men in Kirstendale. A very distinguished gentleman.”
Clodleberg fondled his mustache. “Unusual, but gratifying…” He surveyed Glystra with a new appraisal. “I see no reason to decline.”
Glystra said to the desk clerk, “We’ll accept the invitation.”
The desk clerk nodded. “I’m sure that you’ll find your visit pleasant. Sir Walden has served meat at his table on several occasions… The carriage is awaiting. Ah, Man-ville, if you will…” He signalled to the clerk at the Grand Savoyard sector of the desk. This clerk nodded to a young man in a rich black livery with yellow piping down the sides, who clicked his heels, bowed, stalked out the Grand Savoyard entrance and a moment later reappeared in the Hunt Club corridor. He strode up to Glystra, clicked his heels, bowed.
“Sir Walden’s carriage, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Careful not to commit the faux pas of leaving by the Travellers Inn entrance, the party returned outside, climbed into a long low brougham. The doorman closed the door, the carriage driver said, “Your luggage will be conveyed to Sir Walden’s.”
“Such courtesy,” murmured Pianza. “Such unbelievable punctilio!”
Cloyville sank back in the deep cushioned seats with a sigh. “I’m afraid that I like it. Guess I’m soft, or possibly an anachronism. I’ll have to admit that all this feudalism finds a customer in me.”
“I wonder,” said Glystra, watching out the window, “what the desk clerk meant when he said that Sir Walden often served meat.”
Clodleberg blew out his cheeks. “Easily explained. By a peculiar freak the Galatudanian Valley supports no animal life other than the zipangotes, whose flesh is so rank as to be inedible. A parasitic insect deadly to creatures with fur, scales or floss is responsible. The zipangote, with his naked hide, is not troubled. The Kirsters therefore subsist on vegetable food, fruits, yeast, fungus, an occasional water-creature, certain varieties of insect, and on rare occasions, meat, imported from Coelanvilli.”
The carriage, drawn by five runners in Sir Walden’s black livery, trundled across the pavement. They passed a row of shops. The first displayed delicate creations of gauze and puff, the second sold flagons carved of green chert and mottled blue soapstone. The next booth offered pom-poms of twirled green and rose satin, the next was a jewellery, with trays full of glinting lights, next a display of glassware—goblets exceedingly tall and slender, with tiny cups and long fine stems, and the window glittered and glistened in vertical lines and diamond-colored striations.
“I’m rather interested in the economy,” said Cloyville. “Somewhere these goods are fabricated. Where? By whom? Slaves? It takes lots of production to support this kind of a set-up. Expensive leisure classes—like that.” He pointed to a plaza where men and women in extravagant clothes sat listening to seven young girls playing flutes and singing in clear sweet voices.
Glystra scratched his head. “I don’t see how they do it. They certainly can’t be supplied from Earth”
“Evidently this is their secret,” said Pianza. “The Kirstendale Paradox.”
Cloyville said with an air of finality, “Whatever it is, it seems to suit everybody; everybody seems happy.”
“Everybody in sight,” said Corbus.
Wailie and Motta had been chattering—bright-eyed, excited. Glystra watched them a moment, wondering what was going on in their brains… They had filled out, their cheeks were no longer hollow, their hair was glossy and well-tended, they were pretty girls. Corbus and Bishop were modestly proud of them. Corbus patted Motta’s head. “See anything you’d like?”
“Oh, yes! Jewels and metal and lovely cloth, and ribbons and spangles and those lovely sandals…”
Corbus winked at Bishop. “Clothes, clothes, clothes.”
“Le plus de la différence, le plus de la même chose” said Bishop.
The carriage turned among the towers—graceful spires swooping up to the onion-shaped dwellings.
The carriage halted by a pale green column; a servant swung wide the door. “The castle of Sir Walden Marchion…”
12
Kirstendale Idyll
The party alighted, the carriage swept off.
“This way if you please…”
They climbed the stairs, spiralling up to the beetling shape of Sir Walden’s castle. Buttress vanes sprang out from the central column, elbowing up and out to the outer flange.
Corbus felt one of the vanes—a parchment-tan material two inches thick. “Wood… Looks like it grows right out of the trunk.” He cocked his head up to where the floor swelled out in a smooth curve. “These things grew here! They’re big plants!”
The servant looked back, his black brows in a straight disapproving line. “This is the castle of Sir Walden, his manse”
Corbus winked at Glystra. “Guess I was wrong; it’s not a big acorn after all.”
“Certainly not,” said the servant.
The stairway made one last swoop far out from the central column, apparently supported by its own structural strength; then the party stood on a wide plat, swept by the cool Big Planet breezes.
The servant flung open the door, stood aside. Sir Walden’s guests entered the sky-castle.
They stood in a large room, light and airy, decorated with an unobtrusive intricacy. The floor was not level, but flared like a trumpet bell. A pool of water dyed bright blue filled the depression in the center. Insects with white gauzy wings and feelers scuttled and ran back and forth across the surface, trailing V-ripples which sparkled momentarily green. The floor surrounding the pool was covered by a carpet woven from dark and light-green floss; the walls were bright blue, except where a frieze in sharp black and white, of blank-faced men with owl-insect eyes, occupied one wall.
“Be at your ease,” said the servant. “Sir Walden is on his way to welcome you; in the meanwhile dispose yourselves as you will. Refreshing ichors are at your disposal, in three vintages: maychee, worm, vervaine; pray be so good as to enjoy them.”
He bowed, withdrew. The travellers were alone.
Glystra sighed heavily. “Looks like a nice place… Doesn’t seem to be a jail”
Five minutes passed before Sir Walden appeared—a tall man, sober-faced, rather gravely beautiful. He apologized for not being on hand to greet them, professing himself delayed beyond remedy elsewhere.
Glystra, when he found opportunity, muttered aside to Pianza, “Where have we seen him before? Or have we?”
Pianza shook his head. “Nowhere to my knowledge…”
Two lads of fourteen and sixteen wearing pink, yellow and green, with curl-toed sandals of remarkable design, entered the room. They bowed. “At your service, friends from Mother Earth.”
“My sons,” said Sir Walden, “Thane and Halmon.”
Glystra said, “We are delighted to enjoy the hospitality of your house, Sir Walden, but—bluntly—may I inquire why it has been extended to us, complete strangers that we are?”
Sir Walden made an elegant gesture. “Please… We will chat far and long—but now, you are weary and travel-worn. So you shall be refreshed.” He clapped his hands. “Servants!”