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wondered who he was supposed to pass it to. Someone tugged his sleeve on the
left. He passed the mashed potatoes to the left.
Somebody took the plate out of his hands. A voice said "Thank you." It could
have been a woman's voice.
Or a man trying to pass as a woman. Or a woman trying to pass as a man trying
to pass as a woman. Bill decided it was time to open his eyes and look around.
He did so, but in a cautious and restrictive manner. His eyes had been open,
of course, because otherwise he would not have been able to see the mashed
potatoes. But when you can see nothing but mashed potatoes you might be
considered, from one point of view, to not be seeing anything at all.
Bill took his time about looking around him. First he took in the sounds of
clinking tableware and murmured conversation, and the aromas of mashed
potatoes, roast beef, horseradish sauce, and tiny
Belgian carrots. This much was promising. He opened his eyes. He was seated at
a long dinner table.
Most of the people he had never seen before. There was at least one familiar
face, however. Splock, now
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Bottled Brains wearing tailored
evening dress with white tie, sitting to his right. The person on his left who
had asked for the mashed potatoes was indeed a woman, as he had guessed from
the sound of her voice. He had never seen her before. She was a raven-haired
beauty, wearing a lowcut evening gown whose décolletage
forced the eye to climb over the edge of her dress in a vain attempt to see
what lay below. Something about her, even before she opened her carmined
mouth, persuaded Bill that this was Illyria in yet another disguise.
"What in hell is going on?" Bill asked Splock.
"I'll tell you later," Splock hissed back. "For now, just pretend you
understand everything and find it all very amusing."
"But how did I get here? And what happened to me while I was getting here?"
"Later!" Splock hissed serpently, in a susurration so sibilant it set the
psyche on edge. Then, in a normal conversational tone, he said, "Bill, I don't
believe you know our host, Messer Dimitri."
Dimitri was the big bald man with the short black beard and satanic eyebrows
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sitting at the head of the table in a sky blue evening jacket with a
multicolored rosette in his lapel which Bill was later to learn was the Grand
Rosette of Merit in the Society of Scientific Thaumaturges.
"Delighted to meet you, Messer," Bill said.
Splock whispered angrily at him, "Messer is a title, not a first name."
"So what's Dimitri, then, first name or last?"
"Both," Splock hissed spittily in return.
Bill was getting more than a little tired of being hissed at but he let it
pass. Splock had told him to be affable and he was determined to be so,
assuming that affable meant smiling like a cretin and making believe like he
enjoyed talking with perfect strangers.
"Nice place you've got here, Dimitri," Bill said.
The smile on Dimitri's face dropped ever so slightly.
"It's not his place," Splock said. "He has been exiled from his real place."
"But of course," Bill said to Dimitri, "it's nowhere near as nice as your real
place."
Dimitri smiled frigidly. "You know my real place?"
Bill choked back a wise-guy retort and said, "I think I've heard of it."
"That's odd," Dimitri said. "I thought my real place was one of the best-kept
secrets in the galaxy."
"Well, you know how word gets around," Bill said. "Anyhow, pleased to meet
you."
"We have been hearing so much about you," Dimitri said insincerely. "We have a
surprise for you."
"That's nice," said Bill, hoping it would be. Since all the surprises of late
had been pretty repulsive ones.
"I won't keep you in suspense any longer," Dimitri said. He clapped his hands
together. They gave off a surprisingly loud sound for paws so white and pudgy.
Immediately a servant came into the room bearing a red velvet cushion upon
which rested an object which Bill did not immediately recognize. Upon
receiving a nod from Dimitri, the servant walked over to Bill and bowed,
holding out the cushion.
"Pretend you're delighted," Splock hissed. "But don't touch it. Not yet."
"Listen, Splock," Bill said in a low, level voice, "you better stop hissing at
me otherwise all hell might just break out here. You catch my meaning?"
Splock glared at him. It wasn't much, but it was better than being hissed at.
Bill turned to his host. He forced a large and rather lopsided grin onto his
face. "Messer Dimitri," he said, "how delightful it is that you have shown me
this " He looked at the thing on the red cushion. It had strings, was made
of a reddish-brown wood, and had black pegs. Bill thought it something to do
with
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Bottled Brains music. But it didn't
look like a synthesizer. What could it be?
"Violin," Splock subvocalized, carefully keeping the hiss and wow out of his
voice.
" this really nice-looking fiddle," Bill said. He peered at it but was
careful not to touch it. Still, he wanted to say something nice about it.
"It's really a very nice-looking one," Bill said. "Got good color. That says a
lot."
The guests tittered in amusement. Dimitri guffawed, and said, "Our guest shows
a delightful whimsy in calling this genuine Stradivarius a fiddle. But of
course, he has the right. No man in our time has so earned the privilege of
slighting his art as Bill Kliptorian, the violin virtuoso who got rave reviews
on his recent tour of the south arcade planets. I'm sure Maestro Bill will
favor us with a small recital later. A
little Mozart, eh, Maestro?"
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"You got it," Bill said. Since his skill in violin-playing was in the
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