Gassoon’s remarkable exhibits. His cases displayed the most diverse objects: costumes from far regions of Big Planet; weapons and musical instruments; models of space-ships and aircraft; dioramas of fabulous scenes; maps and globes of various inhabited worlds; photographs, books and art reproductions of Earthly provenance brought to Big Planet during the original immigrations; a periodic table with glass vials containing samples of each element; a collection of minerals and crystals; a toy steam engine built of brass, which Gassoon sometimes operated to amuse the children.
Twice a year, during those intervals between the monsoons, when the air hung still and heavy, he took the Universal Pancomium out on the river and performed a cautious circuit of the delta towns, sometimes venturing up the Vissel as far as Wigtown, or even Ratwick, and once, throwing caution to the winds, he had voyaged to Badburg. As much as possible he traveled on the thrust of his stern-wheel. Sailing made him uneasy; he distrusted the whims of awesome and uncontrollable forces out of the sky, and was truly comfortable only when moored snug up against Bynum’s Dock.
Aboard the Universal Pancomium came all sorts of folk, of every race and gradation of caste. Gassoon reckoned himself as expert at identifying and classifying these folk as a man could be. He also had an appreciative eye for beautiful women, and his interest, therefore, was doubly stimulated one afternoon by the sight of a slim young woman in a gray cloak, whose erect carriage suggested aristocracy, but whose racial background was not immediately evident. Gassoon approved of her coolness and poise, her sleek blonde hair, the delightful modeling of her features. Gassoon often indulged himself in grand day-dreams, wherein he conquered empires, founded noble cities and made the name Throdorus Gassoon revered across the lunes of Big Planet. This particular young woman might have stepped out of one of these day-dreams, so clear-eyed and romantically pensive was she, so charged with an indefinable élan.
Definitely a most interesting young woman. Gassoon considered her features, her garments, her posture as she wandered among his exhibits. She showed interest in his maps, charts and globes, which pleased Gassoon; here was no vulgar little hussy to coo and gurgle over trinkets and gew-gaws.
Gassoon, for all his lore, subscribed to a common fallacy: he assumed that all those whom he encountered appraised him in the same terms as he did himself. To Gassoon his tight black suit signified elegant simplicity. When he saw his pallid long-nosed face with its wild brush of white hair in the mirror, he saw the face of a defiant Prometheus, a visionary aesthete. Musing among his relics, Gassoon had loved, suffered, gloried, despaired; he had known the surge and crash of empires; he had listened to titanic musics; he had roamed far space. A single glance must convey to a sensitive mind the wondrous richness which Gassoon carried behind the noble jut of his forehead.
Therefore, without modesty or diffidence, he approached the young woman in the gray cloak. “I see that you are interested in maps. I approve of this. Maps nurture the imagination, enrich the soul.”
The young woman appraised him with candid interest. Gassoon approved her self-possession: no titters, no simpering, no insipid confessions of utter ignorance. She asked: “Are you the proprietor of this ship?”
“Yes, I am Throdorus Gassoon. Do you find my exhibits worthy of note?”
The young woman nodded rather absently. “Your exhibits are most interesting. I would think that they are unique in Lune XXIII.”
“And elsewhere! Have you never before heard of the Universal Pancomium ?”
“Never.”
“Ha ha! At least you are frank. And where, may I ask, is your home?”
The young woman stared absently at the map. “At the moment I am staying here in Coble. Do you often take your vessel to distant places?”
“From time to
Twice a year, during those intervals between the monsoons, when the air hung still and heavy, he took the Universal Pancomium out on the river and performed a cautious circuit of the delta towns, sometimes venturing up the Vissel as far as Wigtown, or even Ratwick, and once, throwing caution to the winds, he had voyaged to Badburg. As much as possible he traveled on the thrust of his stern-wheel. Sailing made him uneasy; he distrusted the whims of awesome and uncontrollable forces out of the sky, and was truly comfortable only when moored snug up against Bynum’s Dock.
Aboard the Universal Pancomium came all sorts of folk, of every race and gradation of caste. Gassoon reckoned himself as expert at identifying and classifying these folk as a man could be. He also had an appreciative eye for beautiful women, and his interest, therefore, was doubly stimulated one afternoon by the sight of a slim young woman in a gray cloak, whose erect carriage suggested aristocracy, but whose racial background was not immediately evident. Gassoon approved of her coolness and poise, her sleek blonde hair, the delightful modeling of her features. Gassoon often indulged himself in grand day-dreams, wherein he conquered empires, founded noble cities and made the name Throdorus Gassoon revered across the lunes of Big Planet. This particular young woman might have stepped out of one of these day-dreams, so clear-eyed and romantically pensive was she, so charged with an indefinable élan.
Definitely a most interesting young woman. Gassoon considered her features, her garments, her posture as she wandered among his exhibits. She showed interest in his maps, charts and globes, which pleased Gassoon; here was no vulgar little hussy to coo and gurgle over trinkets and gew-gaws.
Gassoon, for all his lore, subscribed to a common fallacy: he assumed that all those whom he encountered appraised him in the same terms as he did himself. To Gassoon his tight black suit signified elegant simplicity. When he saw his pallid long-nosed face with its wild brush of white hair in the mirror, he saw the face of a defiant Prometheus, a visionary aesthete. Musing among his relics, Gassoon had loved, suffered, gloried, despaired; he had known the surge and crash of empires; he had listened to titanic musics; he had roamed far space. A single glance must convey to a sensitive mind the wondrous richness which Gassoon carried behind the noble jut of his forehead.
Therefore, without modesty or diffidence, he approached the young woman in the gray cloak. “I see that you are interested in maps. I approve of this. Maps nurture the imagination, enrich the soul.”
The young woman appraised him with candid interest. Gassoon approved her self-possession: no titters, no simpering, no insipid confessions of utter ignorance. She asked: “Are you the proprietor of this ship?”
“Yes, I am Throdorus Gassoon. Do you find my exhibits worthy of note?”
The young woman nodded rather absently. “Your exhibits are most interesting. I would think that they are unique in Lune XXIII.”
“And elsewhere! Have you never before heard of the Universal Pancomium ?”
“Never.”
“Ha ha! At least you are frank. And where, may I ask, is your home?”
The young woman stared absently at the map. “At the moment I am staying here in Coble. Do you often take your vessel to distant places?”
“From time to
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