The Colourful Character
L. Sprague de Camp
GREGORY LAWRENCE put away his notes about food-chains among the freshwater organisms of the Pichidé River on the planet Krishna. He yawned, stretched, lit a cigarette, and said: "I hear we're supposed to be swept off our feet, beginning to-night."
Reginald Schmidt, at the next desk, raised his eyebrows, though the pale eyes remained as non-committal as ever behind their glasses. "Uh—what's that?"
"The celebrity arrives to take the Institute by storm."
"What celebrity?"
"Hadn't you heard? Jeepers, you must lead a sheltered life, boss. I refer to the great explorer of the far planets, Sir Erik Koskelainen."
"Erik Kos—here on Earth?" Schmidt, caught in the act of lighting his pipe, stared open-mouthed at his assistant until the match burned his fingers. He dropped it, swore mildly, and lit another.
Lawrence, watching the big, light-haired man, tried to make out the expression on the flat face. It was certainly more animated than he had ever seen Reggie look before, but he couldn't be sure of the meaning of the expression. It might betoken a mixture of astonishment, curiosity, indignation, and amusement, all struggling for supremacy.
"You know him?" said Lawrence.
"I know of him," mumbled Schmidt through the bush of his moustache and around the stem of his pipe. He drew heavily on the pipe between words. "Uh—what's this visit all about?"
Lawrence shrugged. "He'll be after a grant from the Institute, I suppose. He's a guest of the Ferreiras, who are throwing a big party for him at the Princeton Saturday. Going?"
Schmidt frowned at his pipe-bowl, looking a little cross-eyed as he did so. "Dunno. I usually duck those things."
"Better come. This guy is said to be a very colourful character. By the way, since you know about him, do you know if he's married?"
Up went the eyebrows again. "Not that I know of. Afraid he'll—uh—make time with Licia?"
"He might. You know how women are. He worries me. You see, I'm no colourful character."
Schmidt nodded. "You're right there, Greg. You may make a good ecologist some day, but nobody would call you picturesque. How's the affaire Licia Ferreira coming?"
"So-so. I'm going over to spend the evening sitting in the Ferreiras' parlour again."
"'Smatter, can't you afford to take the doe out?"
"You don't date Brazzy girls that way. It would be what they call an intrigue, and—well, anyway, they have their own code in those matters."
"Don't think that even if you marry the dame, as you seem determined to do, it'll get you any professional advancement or special grants. Ferreira's incorruptible, and even if he weren't, the other members of the Finance Committee—"
"I never had anything of the sort in mind!" cried Lawrence loudly. "She's just a swell wren!"
He dropped his voice as their colleague Louis Prevost stuck his long, sad face around the door-jamb and said: "You geniuses through for the day?" Prevost was an old-timer at the Institute by comparison with both Schmidt and Lawrence.
"Yep," said Lawrence. "How's the study of that misbegotten centaur of yours coming?"
Prevost sighed. "Magramen's losing friends and alienating people as usual. I think he ought to be called half man and half mule instead of half man and half horse."
"Mind if I look in on him again?" asked Lawrence.
"Not at all," said Prevost. "Maybe you can figure out a way to sweeten his disposition."
Lawrence asked Schmidt: "Want to see him, too?"
Schmidt shook his head. "For some reason I've never had much interest in the Dzlieri. If I ever get around to working on the xenology of Vishnu, then maybe I'll take a squint."
Lawrence followed Prevost down to the ground floor of the laboratory building, saying: "Maybe you could feed him an undergraduate every week. The way the guy in the myth did to his pet critter—you know, the half-bull, half-man."
Prevost shook his head. "I've been tempted, but Magramen's a pure vegetarian."
Lawrence's nose told him they were approaching Magramen's stall. The Dzlieri was not really half man and half horse. The front or upright part of him was not entirely human, with its long, pointed ears, prognathous face, four-fingered hands, and solid coat of short, glossy reddisjh hair. Nor was the rest of the extraterrestrial strictly horse, with its three-toed feet and tufted tail. Still, the resemblance to a centaur was close enough to warrant the use of the term by those who found the native Vishnuvan name hard.
Magramen paused in his eternal munching long enough to say: "What you two want, huh?"
"Just thought I'd say hello," said Lawrence. "How's the Earth treating you?"
"Your Earth treat me rotten," roared Magramen, waving his salad fork. "This morning I read newspaper about horse-race. I ask Dr. Prevost simple thing—to go to race, enter myself, win a lot of money. No harm, huh? No, stupid Mushmouth Prevost say no. Horserace people no let me in, he say."
"Well?" said Lawrence.
"What he know? Never attended race in him life. Talk about science, how we must not never jump to conclusions. But won't let me go to race, see if os fiscais won't let me in. This estûpido think I can shoris agheara gakhda all day telling legends of Dzlieri; what think idzelubuli do?"
"Hey!" cried Lawrence. "I can't follow you when you talk three languages at once. I'm afraid Louie's right about the race, though. They'd disqualify you. But if you want some exercise, when are you going to let me ride you again?"
"Never! All those saddles and things, they itch. Tell you what you do, Gregoryen. Get real horse and we have race, you on horse, me all by self, huh?"
"Jeepers, that would be a sight! I'll think about it. Have a cigarette?"
"Obrigado. Too much red tape on Earth. I think I go back to Vishnu."
"When your contract is up," reminded Prevost.
Magramen told Prevost what to do with his contract, and they left him glowering and puffing furiously.
Gregory Lawrence showed up on the Ferreira doorstep at the usual time, shook hands with the lovely brunette, and settled down to an evening of chaff under the watchful eye of Senhora Ferreira. His willingness to put up with this treatment had so far given him an edge over the undergraduates from the University who would otherwise have swarmed about Licia Ferreira.
This time Lawrence had not gotten very far in his campaign, however, when the doorbell rang again. Licia bounced out of her chair to answer it. Lawrence heard:
"But surely, come in, Mr. Koskelainen; we've been expecting you. Oh, Pai!"
Ferreira's goatee swam into view to meet the new arrival, and the voice of the chairman of the Finance Committee said: "A great pleasure, Sir Erik. This is my wife, and my youngest daughter Licia. And this is Dr. Lawrence, who works with Dr. Schmidt on his ecological survey project at the Institute."
The conquerer of far planets shot out a hand of long fingers taut with latent strength to seize Lawrence's hand and wring it—not quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to suggest that they could crush if they wanted to.
He was really a most impressive figure, Lawrence admitted to himself with a pang of envy; tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, with light hair combined with wide cheek-bones and flattish features that gave him a slightly Mongoloid look, but still handsome by conventional standards. The man seemed to be at that delightfully indeterminate age when one is old enough to have had a past and still young enough to have a future. His clothes were the height of something or other, beginning with a red-lined Hollywood cape thrown back over one shoulder.
Jeepers, thought Lawrence, my worst fears are realised.
Here. Lawrence was, a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, forced to compete with this exhibitionistic hero. Maybe he ought to cultivate some deliberate eccentricity of appearance or behaviour, such as growing a beard or keeping a pet ostrich, to lift the curse of his commonplaceness.