“I’m your cousin, Pierre d’Artois from somewhere in New York, on my way to somewhere else, because I do not want to draw a flock of media vultures. They’d include too many enemies from the Third and the Fourth Worlds, and I have a few surviving in North America, too. There would be no real problem in my home territory if I had to liquidate a few, but in France it would cause complications and the very kind of publicity I am shying away from.”
“Wait till I get my thermometer, darling.”
“Thermometer?”
“To take your temperature. Shying from publicity, you know.”
“Coming from the Sudzo Detergent Queen, that’s got me worried.”
There was a detour discussion of hot flashes and the special hormones he had brought, an improvement on the kind that might have accounted for Felix on that all too long ago farewell honeymoon.
“Now that that is settled,” he said finally, “I’ll get at this silly beard. The minute I landed at Lunar Depot, I made for a space platform to hide out until the start I got on a tourist flight would give it a chance to look convincing in a photograph.
“This is not cloak and sword,” he summed up. “All I want is a quiet furlough. A chance to get acquainted with our son. To see Dennis Kerwin, Number One Warlord, semiretired but carrying on. Not many of the old-timers left, and there are a few new ones I want to see some more. Better liaison.”
Flora’s apotheosis dimmed, and for an instant she was mortal again. This lasted only for an instant, yet long enough for Garvin to brace himself against a question. Although no question ensued, he was sure that he would learn that Flora had plans. Garvin changed the subject abruptly.
“Speaking of sons, what with all the hoopla, questions, and doorbells, and car door slammings—you mean he slept through all that or is he just too tactful to break in on a honeymoon?”
“When you phoned from Paris, I told you I’d already given housekeeper and staff vacation with pay, to have a family reunion without big ears auditing complicated Garvin family gossip.”
“Smart girl, always thinking of everything. But what’s that got to do with that young son of...uh, ours?”
“You just stopped short of calling Felix a son of a bitch.”
“In his mother’s presence, that would have been tactless.”
“Lot of the time I couldn’t think of better words! Whoever said that raising a son was a tough job, she spoke gospel.”
“Until her favorite daughter gets knocked up higher than a kite!”
Flora sighed, and looked far back into time. “You and I thought we were marrying to keep me from being an unwed mother, and it was a false alarm.”
Garvin chuckled. “Life’s funny! Lot of my mistakes turned out better than when I was right. The Holy Family would rather have had you give birth to a bastard than have me in the family.”
“Well, yes, until you and Alexander got to know each other.”
Garvin got back to their son. “So Felix is sleeping late.”
“I told you that he moved into the chauffeur’s living quarters in what used to be the stable and carriage house. And he could have heard all the noise.” She braced herself resolutely. “The fact is, if he is not in bed with my jewel of a housekeeper, he is sound asleep after a busy night at her home.”
“Mmmm... Felix romancing. She—”
“Diane Allzaneau,” Flora prompted.
“She must be young, beautiful, and a hot dish, or you’d not have gotten her out of the house well before I arrived.”
“Oh, you bastard!”
“Something I have never called Felix.”
“That’s about the only thing you can’t rightly call him. But wait till you two get acquainted!”
This was getting sticky. They were old marrieds again. Having moved out and away from Mars so that her natural daughter, whom he had adopted, could get the schooling and cultural advantages of France, Garvin felt under attack by Flora’s voice and attitude.
“Fun’s fun, dream girl. Brief me?”
“It was military service. He committed every known kind of perjury to get in before he reached the legal age. Told me that if I dared squawk, he would head for Morocco, hitchhiking outbound or homebound, if he ever wanted to return. He’d set out with that stinker of a young Dutchman, Droste. That’s how Felix learned Americanese. Low Garvinese.”
“Things are getting scrambled,” Garvin objected.
“Linguistics, a young Hollander who has been in north Africa and North America, and so Felix is sleeping with Diane Allzaneau. You’ve never seen her or you’d be imitating him.”
“This is getting confused,” Garvin suggested reasonably.
“I arranged it so he’d not be wallowing with the sluts that the soldiers play around with. You’re not supposed to know about it, and neither am I. If he ever suspected, he’d get stubborn and find some seaport floozie, but as long as he thinks he is putting something over, he’ll keep Diane busy.”
Flora was on the verge of tears. “Oh, that awful Army language, it’s worse than yours.” And now Flora was in tears. “When I got more than broad references to those barmaids, those cantina girls, I suggested that there were really nice girls in Bayonne, if you looked for them.” Sobs choked her.
“Darling.” He patted her shoulder. “He’ll snap out—” His effort was wasted.
Flora’s voice rose hysterically. “And what that young whelp said about women told me something about his lowlife experiences. So I figured if he started with Diane, his taste might improve and he might amount to something someday. Instead of becoming an outright whoremonger.”
“Honey, that was perfect strategy.” Already Garvin was sensing disaster: a honeymoon devoted to improving his son’s tastes in and attitudes about women. He glanced at his watch. “Christ, look at the time! What do we get for breakfast? Corn beef hash, eggs once over, lightly, toast and jelly?”
Flora brightened. “Serve you right if that’s what I fixed! I’m all set for crab meat custard, and crepes suzette, and...”
Garvin was convinced that Part Two of the Felix problem was all processed and ready to swamp him.
Chapter 5
Shortly after the cathedral clock bonged the fifth melodious note, Flora paused at the door of her son’s quarters. Instead of knocking, she balanced on one foot and gave the panel a flat-footed kick—she needed both hands to hold a tray of snacks. Garvin Senior stood by with a basket of bottles, glassware, mixers, and accessories. She had warned Felix by intercom that the Old Man would be over for cocktails. She got this answer:
“Aw, hell!” he’d replied. “I ought to be going over to the big house to—”
“To pay respects to your father,” she cut in. “Always the formal, continental gentlemen.”
With Old World savoir faire, Felix accepted his mother’s restrained reproof. “I knew you two would be sitting up until all hours, and I didn’t want to break into your sleep.”
“With you two men of iron roaring like lions and getting drunker than hoot owls, how would I ever catch up on sleep?” Now she said, “Don’t stand there gaping! Please take this tray.”
Felix did so. The Old Man crossed the threshold and plopped the basket on what would