The Metallic Muse (7 page)

He jabbed furiously with his spoon. He’d have to be someone healthy soon, he told himself, or he’d starve to death.

The Duchess carefully got to her feet—she was obviously uneasy about her train. A pity, he thought, that they hadn’t given her time to practice.

“You will excuse me, won’t you, dear?” she asked. “I must go over the household accounts. I’ve been putting it off for days. I’ll be in the West Sewing Room.”

He fed himself a large mouthful of egg and waved her away.

“James,” she said to the butler, “see that the Duke is settled in the library as soon as he’s finished breakfast. Do work hard on the speech, won’t you, dear?”

He watched her approvingly as she swept out of the room. She had a very good figure. She’d even had a good figure as Cleopatra, and there wasn’t any place for padding in that costume.

He turned to the butler. “Another egg?”

“Sorry, sir, but your doctor—”

He shattered the egg cup on the floor and then followed the butler down the long corridor to the library.

He sat for some time before the polished expanse of desk, doubtfully eying the pile of scented paper that lay in front of him. He was hungry. Damn, but he was hungry! He wondered what he should do next. He glanced at the ring that circled the small finger of his left hand-a large gold ring with 1319 engraved on it in tiny numbers. He rubbed it futilely. Finally he seized a quill and scribbled a few lines.

The door opened almost before he touched the bell. “You rang, sir?”

“About this speech. Want to ask your opinion about something.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Beginning of a speech is very important, you know. Should catch the attention right from the first word. Universal appeal and all that sort of thing.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Wonder if you’d give me your opinion of this beginning.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

He cleared his throat and bellowed, “Now is the time—” He glanced up. The butler stood watching him attentively, alert interest in his grave face. “Do you think I might go better with more emphasis on the ‘now’?”

“Why don’t you try it that way, sir?”

“Mmm—yes. Now is the time—”

“A decided improvement, sir.”

“Thank you. Please don’t interrupt until I’ve finished.” He got to his feet, paced back and forth briefly, and struck a heroic pose. “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.” He glanced at the butler. “What do you think?”

“A most moving beginning, sir.”

“Think it’ll do?”

“I’m sure of it, sir.”

“Tell me, James, just what is this speech supposed to be about?”

“The Spanish crisis, sir. The entire nation is waiting to hear what the Duke of Wellington will have to say about it.”

“Spanish crisis? Spain? Is that in Africa?” “No, sir. In Europe. It’s close to Africa.”

“I was sure it was. I think, James, that I’d like to have the Duchess hear this beginning.”

“Certainly, sir. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”

He followed the butler, chuckling quietly to himself as James resolutely took the wrong turning and led him down the long corridor to the end of the east wing. James opened a door, glanced in, and turned to him blankly.

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought she said the East Sewing Room.”

They marched back along the corridor to the west wing. The Duchess was seated at the far end of the spacious room, talking quietly with a neatly dressed middle-aged woman. That would be the housekeeper, he told himself. Had he seen her somewhere before? He couldn’t recall. He noted their heaving bosoms with amusement, wondering where they’d been that they had to dash back with such haste.

“I have a beginning for my speech,” he said. “I want you to hear it.” “I’d be delighted, dear.” He paced about nervously.

“Go right ahead, dear,” she said soothingly. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Now is the time,” he thundered, “for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”

“Wonderful, dear. Is there more?”

“No. That’s—that’s as far as I got.”

“I’m sure Parliament will be delighted. You go right back and finish it.”

As he stood staring at her she got to her feet and backed away anxiously. The butler stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his arm.

“Where’s my harem?” he muttered.

“Your—harem, sir?” the butler said, containing his amazement superbly.

“Where’s my harem?” he shouted. “Just because the Duke of Wellington invites me—what did you do with my harem?”

The Duchess and the housekeeper scurried out of the room in near panic.

“You’ve embarrassed the ladies, Your Excellency,” the butler said. “Naturally the Duke couldn’t permit your harem here—politics, you know. But if you’ll come with me, I’ll be glad to take you.” ,

He permitted himself to be led away. With the butler’s plodding assistance he attired himself in robes and a turban, awkwardly mounted a camel that awaited him at the front door, and rode off through the park with an escort dashingly mounted on prancing Arabian horses.

On the far side of the park they came to a tent village. The last tents were just going up, and the turbaned workers were perspiring in the crisp fall air.

A rotund, turbaned figure darted from the nearest tent robes trailing, sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “All awaits your pleasure, Excellency.”

“Arise,” he commanded. “I expect to eat well today. My favorite dishes.”

“It is arranged. Will you honor your wives with your presence?”

“Later. The ride was long. I need rest.”

He followed the bowing figure into the largest of the tents. “My favorite dishes, mind you,” he said sharply.

“It is arranged, Excellency.”

He stretched out on a pile of rugs and closed his eyes. Music drifted in from the tent that adjoined his. Pleasantly exotic, it almost made him forget the hunger that seethed within him. He listened until he lost himself in sleep.

It was afternoon when he awoke. His hunger brought him off the rugs with a bellow. Attendants hurried in, and immediately the music started.

“I will watch my wives dance while I eat,” he announced.

He strode haughtily into the adjoining tent and seated himself on a rug-decked dais. An attendant humbly placed food before him. The music grew louder and the scantily clad girls began writhing about with immodest abandon.

He tasted the warm, watery wine, grimaced, and forced himself to drink deeply. Then he plunged his fingers into a sickly-looking stew, brought out a piece of meat, tasted it, spat it out.

“In Allah’s name, what is this?”

“Your favorite dish, Excellency. Camel stew. Would you like a larger portion?”

He took another piece of meat and worked his teeth futilely on its rubbery texture. “This camel was old before its time,” he snarled.

“It is the old camels that Allah blesses with flavor.”

He chewed energetically and forced some pieces of meat down his throat. To his surprise, they stayed down. Still ravenously hungry, he waved the food away and turned his attention to the dancing girls.

He recognized several of them. A lusty-looking brunette had been Madame Pompadour the last time he was Louis XV. He also saw a former Queen Elizabeth and a former Josephine, and suddenly he noticed, sitting demurely in a far corner, his late Duchess.

She did have a good figure, and the filmy dancing-girl costume suited it perfectly—much more so than had her Cleopatra costume. She wasn’t the queenly type, he told himself.

Leaning forward, he summoned her with a commanding gesture. She moved toward him with obvious reluctance, sank to her knees at his feet, and blushed furiously as he drew her up beside him.

“More music!” he called. “Louder!”

The twangy, whining notes crescendoed to an ear-straining blast, and the dancers whirled faster. With a sudden impulse he picked up the girl and carried her into the next tent. Attendants fled in discreet panic as he placed her gently on the rugs and began covering her with passionate caresses and kisses. The deft way she plucked the hypodermic syringe from her brief costume delighted him. He pretended not to notice, even when she plunged it into his arm. He counted ten slowly and began to relax. In a few minutes he was feigning sleep, and she carefully covered him with a rug and tiptoed away.

A rotund, turbaned figure, alias James the butler, met the girl as she came out of the tent. “Everything all right, Dr. Rogers?” he asked.

“I gave him a hypo,” she said. “He was getting pretty worked up. He should be out for several hours.”

“It’ll do him good. It’s usually a strain on them when they switch characters so quickly. Too bad. For a few minutes I thought he really would come up with a speech. It would have been interesting, getting a Parliament together and letting him deliver it.”

“Yes. Maybe we pressed him too hard on that speech. Responsibility always makes them regress if they are ready for it.”

“Don’t I know it! We had Twelve ninety-six ready to cross the Delaware last week, and the strain of making that decision regressed him all the way back to toy soldiers. He hasn’t come out of it yet. But Thirteen-nineteen—I thought he was coming along nicely. He was magnificent yesterday at the Battle of Waterloo. Today he seemed confused, as though his being the Duke of Wellington was our idea instead of his. I don’t think the speech was wholly responsible.”

“We can’t do anything at all until we see what he is when he wakes up. Going to leave the tents standing?”

“We might as well. We may get another call for them.”

“I have to change and file my report. Have the others left?”

“Oh, yes. They left the minute you were—abducted.’”’

He helped her roll an air car out of a tent. She took off, and five minutes later she brought it in for a landing in the spacious Central Administration parking lot.

Most of the harem girls had already changed when she reached the dressing room. They were trimly attired in crisp white coats and white skirts, and except for several who were having aching legs massaged, their mien was strictly professional.

“Stell,” a husky blonde called, “what happened there? I thought Thirteen-nineteen was the Duke of Wellington today.”

“Sudden regress,” Dr. Rogers said, peeling off her dancing costume. “Right in the middle of preparing a speech for Parliament, he started shouting for his harem. I’m afraid he nearly cracked.”

“He would pick a time when I’m on call. How’d you make out? Was he impetuous?”

“Very. I hypoed him.”

“Good girl. I was glad when he carried you out. Another five minutes of dancing—hello!”

A sedate middle-aged woman—1319 would have recognized her as the Duke of Wellington’s housekeeper dashed in and peered about nervously. “Emergency! Harem requested for Seven thirty-eight.”

“Oh, my God!” the blonde groaned.

The patter of conversation in the room cut off abruptly.

“Who is it for?”

“Twice in one day? What next!”

“Are they giving Seven thirty-eight hormones? It was only day before yesterday—”

“You should complain!” the blonde snapped. “You’re not his favorite. I’m still black and blue from the last time. If that lecherous old buzzard tries to paw me today-“

“Don’t forget your hypo!”

“I won’t. I know darn well I’ll need it.”

The wardrobe attendant was moving among them and passing out the dancing-girl costumes. The girls struggled into them.

“What was Seven thirty-eight doing?”

“He was a college professor today. Teaching Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to undergraduates. They say it was really weird.”

“One of his students probably showed him too much leg, and bang, he wanted a harem. That’s all it would take.”

The middle-aged woman was counting confusedly. “Dr. Rogers, are you available?”

“Afraid not,” Dr. Rogers said, buttoning her white coat. “I have to file my report on Thirteen-nineteen.”

“Hurry it up, girls. The air cars are waiting. We’ve already sent the camel for him.”

“Dr. Zerbon left the tents up,” Dr. Rogers said. “But Thirteen-nineteen is still asleep there.”

“He’s been moved back to his permanent quarters. Better put that in your report. Dr. Cameron, will you take charge?”

“You just bet I will,” the blonde said. “I’ll make a fuss over him right from the start, and maybe we can cut the dancing short. My legs won’t take much more.”

Chattering irritably, they trooped out to the air cars.

Dr. Rogers left the dressing room, stepped into the hallway, and rode the conveyer to her office in Wing M—the male division. She shared the office with a taciturn young male doctor who seemed half afraid of her. He was seated glumly behind his desk staring at a report form, and he did not look up when she entered.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Karl,” she said primly.

“Oh. Good afternoon, Dr. Rogers.”

She sat down, dialed 1319, and a record card dropped onto her desk. She studied it and then snapped her fingers. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere. He was Julius Caesar. That was my first week. I was Cleopatra, and I was scared stiff.”

“How long ago was that?” Dr. Karl asked. “More than a month ago.”

“They must like your work. Not many of us stay that long.”

“It’s more likely that I haven’t progressed rapidly enough to be promoted,” she said dryly.

She penned another entry onto the card and sat back looking at it thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’ll ever be cured. He’s not so old and he really seems like a nice person. Bt he’s been here six months and he keeps building up an regressing.”

“The directors know what they’re doing. If he was hopeless, they wouldn’t have him here.”

“The patients really have it soft, don’t they? Look when he decided he was Napoleon, so we gave him a luscious Josephine and a court. He went off to fight the Battle of Austerlitz and we rounded up an army for him. Then he made himself Duke of Wellington and beat his former self at Waterloo. Today he wanted a harem and we gave him one. Seems as though you have to be insane to have any fun out of life.”

He winced. “Hush! Not that word—we have no insane patients here. They merely suffer mental delusions.”