The Greatest SF Classics of Stanley G. Weinbaum. Stanley G. Weinbaum
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laid carefully on his bed. It was exactly like his present garb save that it shimmered black with metallic scales, and was edged with silver. Crossing to the window he sat staring down at Evanie in the Gardens, bathing her rounded limbs in sunlight, until a man in Urban dress who could only be Jan Orm joined her. He turned angrily away then, fuming.
With no breakfast or lunch, he was both short–tempered and ravenous. So when the hours had dragged by, and he finally located the Chambers on the hundred and seventh level of the South Tower, he was in no pleasant mood. Two armed guards stepped aside, and the serving woman, Sora, admitted him with a clumsy curtsy.
He passed into the anteroom, furnished, as was the Black Flame's laboratory behind the Throne Room and her place at the summit of the Tower, lavishly and ornately. But surprise leaped to his eyes as he saw the gigantic black Persian cat that gazed steadily at him, with green eyes that seemed almost a replica of those of the Princess.
"A cat!" he exclaimed. "I thought they were extinct."
"Satan is immortal," said the soft voice of Margaret of Urbs.
He whirled and faced her as she emerged from the inner chamber, and hunger and anger alike drained out of him as he stared.
She was magnificent! Garbed in a jet–black cape that dropped to her green– crystalled sandals, she seemed taller as she advanced into the room. A circlet of green gems—emeralds, he thought—bound her ebony hair, and beneath it her eyes were smoldering sea–green fire.
But he felt the thrill of surprised shock as she threw open the cape. Her brief kirtle and corselet glittered in a solid surface of green gems, and at her waist sparkled that mystic crystalline flower of many colors, glistening from red to violet, blue, and purest emerald. Then she moved toward the lamp, and in its yellow radiance her whole costume was green no longer, but the deep lavender of wine.
"Alexandrites," she laughed, answering his unspoken question. "Green by day, lavender by artificial light. Synthetic, of course. There aren't this many natural stones in the world." She turned. "Like it?"
"Exquisite!" he whispered. "You daughter of Lucifer!"
He followed her in rebellious fascination as they progressed unattended to the ground floor and into a long Palace car with stiff–backed driver and footman.
"Merimee's," she said, and the car spun silently away, mounting to the upper tier of Palace Avenue.
It was dusk, but now and then, when traffic slowed their motion, cheers sounded, and many a glance was cast at them. Margaret of Urbs ignored the glances, but smiled at the cheers.
"Who's Merimee?" Connor asked.
"A rich Sleeper in Kaatskill. Society here is largely Sleepers."
"No nobility?"
"The Immortals seldom entertain. We're a serious lot."
Kaatskill appeared, and they glided into the grounds of an imposing Grecian mansion. Lights were glowing, gay voices sounded as they entered.
There was a sudden silence as the whole assemblage knelt. Margaret of Urbs gestured and the guests arose. Merimee himself, paunchy, bald, came babbling his appreciation, his gratitude for the honor to his house.
"But the 'entertainment, Your Highness! On such short notice, you see—best the bureau could furnish—I know you'll forgive—"
Declaration
The dinner was lavish. Connor sat at the left of the Princess. Lines of servitors passed in a steady stream, bearing soups, then fish—Bombay ducks, pompano, a dozen unknown viands—and fowl—ortolan, ptarmigan, pheasant, and nameless others.
Connor was ravenous. He sampled everything, and it was the middle of the meal before he noticed the aghast looks of the crowd, and that he was almost the only one who was eating.
"Have I violated the proprieties?" he asked the Princess.
"You're supposed to eat only of the dishes I taste," she informed coolly.
"But I'm hungry. And you've eaten practically nothing."
It was true. Margaret of Urbs had taken only a little salad, though she had sipped glass after glass of wine.
"I like to tantalize these hogs," she replied in low but audible tones. "This bores me."
"Then why come?"
"A whim."
He chuckled, turning his attention to the entertainment. This, he thought, was excellent. An incredibly skillful juggler succeeded a talented magician; a low–voiced woman sang sweet and ancient tunes; a trio played tinkling melodies. A graceful pair of adagio dancers performed breathtakingly in the square surrounded by the tables, and a contortionist managed unbelievable bodily tangles. The performers came and went in silence. Not one burst of applause rewarded them.
"Unappreciative audience!" Connor growled.
"Is it?" the Princess drawled. "Watch."
The following number, he thought, was the worst of the lot. A frightened, dingy man with a half–trained dancing monkey that chattered and grimaced, but made a sad failure of the dancing. Yet at the conclusion Margaret of Urbs raised her dainty hands, and applauded.
Instantly bedlam broke loose. Applause crashed through the hall; encores were shouted, and the astonished player stumbled once more through the ludicrous performance.
"Well, his fortune's made," observed the Princess. "N'York will want him and Ch'cago, and Singapore as well."
The master of ceremonies was presenting "Homero, the Poet of Personalities," a thin–faced Urban crowned with laurel leaves and bearing a classical harp.
He bowed and smiled.
"And who, Ladies and Lords, shall it be? Of whom do I sing?"
"Her Highness!" roared the crowd. "The Princess of Urbs!"
Homero strummed his harp, and began chanting minstrel–like:
_"The Princess? Adjective and verb
Turn feeble! Glorious? Superb?
Exquisite? None of these can name
The splendor of the Urban Flame._
_"Our Princess! Stars are loath to rise
Lest they be faded by her eyes,
Yet once they've risen, they will not set,
But gaze entranced on Margaret._
_"The continents and oceans seven
Revolve beneath the laws of Heaven;
What limit, law, or cannon curbs
The tongue that speaks the Flame of Urbs?"_
Applause, violent and enthusiastic, greeted the doggerel. Margaret of Urbs lowered her eyes and smiled.
"Who now?" Homero called. "Of whom do I sing?" Unexpectedly, Merimee spoke. "Tom Connor!" he cried. "Tom Connor, the Ancient!"
Romero strummed his harp and sang:
_"Ladies and Lords, you do me honor,
Giving the name of Thomas Connor,
That Ancient, phoenixlike arisen
Out of his cold, sepulchral prison,
Thrust into life—a comet hurled
From the dead past into the world._
_"What poet great enough to sing
The wonderful awakening?
Let golden Science try explain
That miracle—and try in vain;
For only Art, by Heaven inflamed.