continuous viewing, listened to nothing but Beatles and PunxReich, never missed an episode of Doctor Who (and could name all three hundred and fifteen Doctors). He even owned a couple of heavily censored
Shakespeare plays. Being a fat asthmatic little boy, he’d taken refuge in the green country behind his eyes, so often and so completely that he’d been diagnosed an eccentric by the authorities.
He was also very bright, though, as brightness went in the twenty-fourth century, and his parents knew certain important people. The diagnosis was changed from eccentric to creative, and instead of being sent to a residential hospital he was shipped down home for training as a museum curator. While he was there, certain work he did came to the attention of Dr. Zeus, Inc.
They sent a headhunter to interview him. A bargain was struck, and the Company agreed to pull a number of strings. When he turned twenty-one he’d been sent to England, and had lived a happy and fulfilled life there ever since.
As happy and fulfilled as one could be in the twenty-fourth century, anyway.
Now he was a fat asthmatic little man of thirty, with a receding hairline and a ginger mustache that made him look silly. His appearance was improved if he put on the goldrimmed spectacles he’d bought from an antique dealer; then he looked like a person in an old photograph. Sometimes he did that, too, staring at himself in a long mirror for hours at a time, imagining he was somebody Victorian. He never put the spectacles on where anybody but his friends could see, of course. He’d got rid of his Luna accent, too, carefully cultivating an English one that was a kind of polyglot of cinema Cockney, late twentieth-century Transatlantic, and Liverpudlian. It wasn’t entirely satisfactory.
Bang! He jumped straight off the floor—hard to do down here on Earth—before he realized that someone was actually using the polished brass knocker to announce themselves. With a sheepish smile he hurried out into the hall and opened the door.
“Chatty, old man!” he said heartily.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Frankie Chatterji. That was his real name. His great-grandparents had self-consciously changed it to Chatterton, but when he’d graduated he’d decided to honor the glories of the Raj and changed it back. Rutherford envied him terribly. He had no need to study an accent; he’d
been born in upper-class London, scion of a long line of civil servants, an elegantly spare fellow with a café au lait complexion and smoky blue eyes. He affected tuxedoes and moreover had a jade cigarette holder, in which he kept a menthol inhalator. It had nearly got him arrested more than once, before he could explain about his sinus condition, but there was no one to compare with him for sheer style.
He stepped into the hall now and shrugged out of his opera cape. Rutherford took it eagerly and hung it up for him, saying:
“Well, you’re here before Foxy, anyroad.”
He was referring to Foxen Ellsworth-Howard, the third member of their fellowship, who was at this moment having a bitter argument with a public transport operator. Ignorant of his plight, Chatterji strolled into the parlor and surveyed the careful preparations with approval.
“I say ,” he enunciated, striding over to the tapestry Rutherford had hung up above the fireplace. It depicted unicorns in a rose garden. It had been manufactured in Taiwan of purple rayon, but Rutherford thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, and Chatterji was inclined to agree with him. There was another on the opposite wall depicting Merlin the Magician, equally cheap and hideous, but Chatterji’s thin face warmed as he turned to regard it.
“This is really something! Where’d you get these, Rutherford?”
“Sotheby’s.” Rutherford beamed. “Late twentieth century! Set the mood, don’t you think? I’ll have to take them down before the tours tomorrow, but I sort of thought—you know—they’ll be
Shakespeare plays. Being a fat asthmatic little boy, he’d taken refuge in the green country behind his eyes, so often and so completely that he’d been diagnosed an eccentric by the authorities.
He was also very bright, though, as brightness went in the twenty-fourth century, and his parents knew certain important people. The diagnosis was changed from eccentric to creative, and instead of being sent to a residential hospital he was shipped down home for training as a museum curator. While he was there, certain work he did came to the attention of Dr. Zeus, Inc.
They sent a headhunter to interview him. A bargain was struck, and the Company agreed to pull a number of strings. When he turned twenty-one he’d been sent to England, and had lived a happy and fulfilled life there ever since.
As happy and fulfilled as one could be in the twenty-fourth century, anyway.
Now he was a fat asthmatic little man of thirty, with a receding hairline and a ginger mustache that made him look silly. His appearance was improved if he put on the goldrimmed spectacles he’d bought from an antique dealer; then he looked like a person in an old photograph. Sometimes he did that, too, staring at himself in a long mirror for hours at a time, imagining he was somebody Victorian. He never put the spectacles on where anybody but his friends could see, of course. He’d got rid of his Luna accent, too, carefully cultivating an English one that was a kind of polyglot of cinema Cockney, late twentieth-century Transatlantic, and Liverpudlian. It wasn’t entirely satisfactory.
Bang! He jumped straight off the floor—hard to do down here on Earth—before he realized that someone was actually using the polished brass knocker to announce themselves. With a sheepish smile he hurried out into the hall and opened the door.
“Chatty, old man!” he said heartily.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Frankie Chatterji. That was his real name. His great-grandparents had self-consciously changed it to Chatterton, but when he’d graduated he’d decided to honor the glories of the Raj and changed it back. Rutherford envied him terribly. He had no need to study an accent; he’d
been born in upper-class London, scion of a long line of civil servants, an elegantly spare fellow with a café au lait complexion and smoky blue eyes. He affected tuxedoes and moreover had a jade cigarette holder, in which he kept a menthol inhalator. It had nearly got him arrested more than once, before he could explain about his sinus condition, but there was no one to compare with him for sheer style.
He stepped into the hall now and shrugged out of his opera cape. Rutherford took it eagerly and hung it up for him, saying:
“Well, you’re here before Foxy, anyroad.”
He was referring to Foxen Ellsworth-Howard, the third member of their fellowship, who was at this moment having a bitter argument with a public transport operator. Ignorant of his plight, Chatterji strolled into the parlor and surveyed the careful preparations with approval.
“I say ,” he enunciated, striding over to the tapestry Rutherford had hung up above the fireplace. It depicted unicorns in a rose garden. It had been manufactured in Taiwan of purple rayon, but Rutherford thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, and Chatterji was inclined to agree with him. There was another on the opposite wall depicting Merlin the Magician, equally cheap and hideous, but Chatterji’s thin face warmed as he turned to regard it.
“This is really something! Where’d you get these, Rutherford?”
“Sotheby’s.” Rutherford beamed. “Late twentieth century! Set the mood, don’t you think? I’ll have to take them down before the tours tomorrow, but I sort of thought—you know—they’ll be
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