time. I have visited Ratwick and Wigtown at the mouth of the Murne, and I frequently cruise the waters of the delta.”
“You are, in a sense, a benefactor for all the folk who otherwise might never see these things.”
Gassoon gave a modest wave of his big white hand. “This might be true. I never think of myself in such terms; I enjoy my work. I like showing people my collection. Come along over here, notice in this cabinet: the skeleton of a fossil oel! And this is the trance-mask of a Kalkar shaman! And here are silver coins from the Earthly Middle Ages; they were antiques even when brought here to Big Planet!”
“Remarkable! Of all the showboats this is truly the finest!”
Gassoon raised his eyebrows. “‘Showboat’? Well, why not? I refuse to recoil at a word.”
“You evidently disapprove of the other showboats?”
Gassoon pursed his lips. “No doubt they serve their purpose.”
“At Lanteen I witnessed productions aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment and Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit. Both were elaborate and carefully staged.”
“Quite so. Still, on either boat did you discern any scintilla of intellectual content? No? I thought not. Apollon Zamp is a popinjay, Ashgale a poseur; their audiences leave no better than when they arrived. Is it any wonder why many folk along the Vissel are semi-barbarous?”
“You would seem to believe that showboats might serve a more constructive function.”
“That goes without saying. Consider the human mind! It is capable of amazing feats when used properly. Conversely, without exercise it atrophies to a lump of gray-yellow fat. But why not come to my office, where we can continue our chat in comfort?”
“With pleasure.”
Gassoon made no apology for the disorder of his office which was cluttered with papers, folios, books, crates, oddments of this and that, as well as a table and two leather chairs, which through some deficiency in the tanning process, had never ceased to exude an unpleasant odor.
Gassoon cleared off one of the chairs. “Be seated if you please. Will you take a cup of tea? Excuse me while I notify my factotum.” Gassoon stepped out of the office and called down a companionway. “Berard, are you there? Be so good as to reply when I call! Prepare a pot of fresh tea and bring it to the office. Use the preparation in the red jar.”
Gassoon returned to find Damsel Blanche-Aster inspecting a pamphlet she had picked up from the table. Gassoon seated himself, hitched forward his chair and clasped his hands across his chest. “I see that you are interested in botany?”
“To some extent. I don’t pretend to understand this.”
“It is written in the dialect of Cusp XIX North. How it found its way to Coble across three oceans and two continents is beyond conjecture. The author discusses the accommodation of native flora to imports from Earth, and cites a number of fascinating instances. The exotic organisms, he discovers, after a period of utter triumph or absolute defeat seem to ‘make their peace with the world’, as he puts it, then across the centuries gradually converge toward the native types. In his epilogue, he wonders if the same may be true of humanity? And he indicates a number of peoples: the Goads of Passaway Valley, the Rhute Long-necks, the Padraic Mountain Darklings, where the process is already much advanced.”
“I have never heard of these places, or these peoples,” said Damsel Blanche-Aster demurely.
“I will point them out on my maps,” declared Gassoon with enthusiasm.
Berard the steward shuffled into the office with a tray; he dropped it upon the table, sniffed, and departed. Gassoon snapped his fingers in happy anticipation of the treat and poured tea into a pair of black stoneware mugs. He looked up under arched eyebrows. “By the way, whom do I have the pleasure of entertaining?”
“Damsel Blanche-Aster Wittendore is the useful part of my name.” She returned the pamphlet to the table. “I am very
“You are, in a sense, a benefactor for all the folk who otherwise might never see these things.”
Gassoon gave a modest wave of his big white hand. “This might be true. I never think of myself in such terms; I enjoy my work. I like showing people my collection. Come along over here, notice in this cabinet: the skeleton of a fossil oel! And this is the trance-mask of a Kalkar shaman! And here are silver coins from the Earthly Middle Ages; they were antiques even when brought here to Big Planet!”
“Remarkable! Of all the showboats this is truly the finest!”
Gassoon raised his eyebrows. “‘Showboat’? Well, why not? I refuse to recoil at a word.”
“You evidently disapprove of the other showboats?”
Gassoon pursed his lips. “No doubt they serve their purpose.”
“At Lanteen I witnessed productions aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment and Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit. Both were elaborate and carefully staged.”
“Quite so. Still, on either boat did you discern any scintilla of intellectual content? No? I thought not. Apollon Zamp is a popinjay, Ashgale a poseur; their audiences leave no better than when they arrived. Is it any wonder why many folk along the Vissel are semi-barbarous?”
“You would seem to believe that showboats might serve a more constructive function.”
“That goes without saying. Consider the human mind! It is capable of amazing feats when used properly. Conversely, without exercise it atrophies to a lump of gray-yellow fat. But why not come to my office, where we can continue our chat in comfort?”
“With pleasure.”
Gassoon made no apology for the disorder of his office which was cluttered with papers, folios, books, crates, oddments of this and that, as well as a table and two leather chairs, which through some deficiency in the tanning process, had never ceased to exude an unpleasant odor.
Gassoon cleared off one of the chairs. “Be seated if you please. Will you take a cup of tea? Excuse me while I notify my factotum.” Gassoon stepped out of the office and called down a companionway. “Berard, are you there? Be so good as to reply when I call! Prepare a pot of fresh tea and bring it to the office. Use the preparation in the red jar.”
Gassoon returned to find Damsel Blanche-Aster inspecting a pamphlet she had picked up from the table. Gassoon seated himself, hitched forward his chair and clasped his hands across his chest. “I see that you are interested in botany?”
“To some extent. I don’t pretend to understand this.”
“It is written in the dialect of Cusp XIX North. How it found its way to Coble across three oceans and two continents is beyond conjecture. The author discusses the accommodation of native flora to imports from Earth, and cites a number of fascinating instances. The exotic organisms, he discovers, after a period of utter triumph or absolute defeat seem to ‘make their peace with the world’, as he puts it, then across the centuries gradually converge toward the native types. In his epilogue, he wonders if the same may be true of humanity? And he indicates a number of peoples: the Goads of Passaway Valley, the Rhute Long-necks, the Padraic Mountain Darklings, where the process is already much advanced.”
“I have never heard of these places, or these peoples,” said Damsel Blanche-Aster demurely.
“I will point them out on my maps,” declared Gassoon with enthusiasm.
Berard the steward shuffled into the office with a tray; he dropped it upon the table, sniffed, and departed. Gassoon snapped his fingers in happy anticipation of the treat and poured tea into a pair of black stoneware mugs. He looked up under arched eyebrows. “By the way, whom do I have the pleasure of entertaining?”
“Damsel Blanche-Aster Wittendore is the useful part of my name.” She returned the pamphlet to the table. “I am very
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