Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“Colorado Springs is a big town,” she said. “Doesn’t it have problems of its own you could be looking after?”

“Surely it does! Corruption can creep in anywhere. Colorado Springs is the very heart and soul of the Dominion, but you’re right, Mrs. Hazzard, vice breeds there as well as anywhere else. Even in my own family—”

He hesitated then, as if unsure whether he ought to proceed. Perhaps the liquor had made him distrust his tongue. To my dismay, Calyxa wouldn’t let the matter drop. “Vice, in a Deacon’s family?”

“My own daughter has been a victim of it.” He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t ordinarily discuss this. But you seem to be a thoughtful young woman. You don’t bare your arms like so many of the ladies present, nor cover your skin with ugly vaccination marks.”

“My modesty is well-known,” Calyxa said, though she had lobbied to wear just such a sleeveless costume—Mrs. Comstock had overruled her.

“Then I won’t offend you by mentioning, um—”

“Unpleasant vices are offensive to me, Deacon Hollingshead, but the words describing them are not. How can we eradicate a problem unless we’re allowed to name it?”

She was baiting him; but Hollingshead was too virtuous or drunk to understand.

“Homosexuality,” he whispered. “Do you know that word, Mrs. Hazzard?”

“The rumor of such behavior has occasionally reached my ears. Is your daughter a—?”

“God forbid! No, Marcy is a model child. She’s twenty-one now. But because she has yet to marry, she drew the attention of a league of degenerate women.”

“In Colorado Springs !”

“Yes! Such a thing exists! And it continues to exist, despite all my efforts to eradicate it.”

“What efforts have you made?”

“Both the Municipal Police and the investigatory arm of the Dominion have been put on the case. Needless to say, I don’t let Marcy go anywhere unobserved. There are eyes on her at all times, though she doesn’t know it.”

“Is it really a wise thing to spy on your own daughter?”

“Certainly, if it protects her.”

“ Does it protect her?”

“Several times it has saved her from absolute ruin. Marcy seems hardly able to leave the house without wandering by accident into some depraved tavern or other. Naturally, when we discover such establishments we shut them down. More than one degenerate woman has attempted to make Marcy a special friend. Those women were arrested and interrogated.”

“Interrogated!—why?”

“Because there’s more than coincidence at work,” the bibulous Deacon said. “Clearly, some group of deviants has targeted my daughter. We interrogated these women in order to find out the connection between them.”

“Has the effort succeeded?”

“Unfortunately no. Even under extreme duress, none of these women will admit that their interest in Marcy was planned in advance, and they deny all knowledge of any conspiracy.”

“Interrogations aren’t generally so fruitless, I take it,” said Calyxa, and I could tell by the reddening of her face that she didn’t approve of the Deacon’s enthusiastic approach to the knotty issues of vice and torture.

“No, they’re not. Our investigators are skilled at extracting information from the unwilling—the Dominion trains them in it.”

“How do you explain the failure in this case, then?”

“Vice has unsuspected depths and profundities—it hides by instinct from the light,” the Deacon said grimly.

“And it occurs so close to home,” Calyxa said, adding, in a low tone, “On aurait peut-étre dû torturer votre fille, aussi.”

I expected Deacon Hollingshead to ignore this incomprehensible remark. He did not. Instead he drew himself up in a rigid posture. His features hardened abruptly.

“ Je ne suis ni idiot ni inculte, Mrs. Hazzard,” he said.

“Si vous vous moquez de moi, je me verrai dans l’obligation de lancer un mandat d’arrét contre vous.”

I didn’t know what this exchange meant, but Calyxa paled and took a step backward.

Hollingshead faced me. His put his smile back on, though it seemed forced. “I congratulate you again on your success, Mr. Hazzard. Your work does you credit. You have a fine career ahead of you. I hope nothing interferes with it.” He took a noisy sip from his glass and walked away.

I don’t mean to leave the reader with the impression that all the Eupatridians we met at the Presidential Reception were boors or tyrants. Many, perhaps most, were entirely pleasant, taken as individuals. Several of the men were yachtsmen, and I enjoyed listening to their spirited discourse on nautical subjects, though I couldn’t reef a mainsail if my life depended on it.

Mrs. Comstock knew a number of the wives. Many of them were astonished to see her here, so long after the death of her husband; but they were accustomed to the caprices of Presidential favor and quickly accepted her back into their ranks.

Sam spent his time with the military contingent, including a handful of notable Generals and Major Generals. I suppose Sam was gauging their attitude toward the Commander in Chief, or trying to pick up clues about the President’s intentions toward Julian. But all that was beyond my ken. Julian himself was deep in conversation with what he described to me as a genuine Philosopher: a Professor of Cosmology from the newly-reformed New York University. This man had many interesting theories, Julian said, about the Speed of Light, and the Origin of Stars, and other such refined subjects. But he was under the thumb of the Dominion, and could not discourse as freely as he might have liked. Nevertheless the man had enjoyed some access to the Dominion Archives, and hinted at the artistic and scientific treasures concealed there.

The general hilarity occasioned by the drinking of Grape Wine, etc., soon reached fresh heights. The musical band had adjourned for a short while—they were out behind the stables, Calyxa suggested, smoking hempen cigarettes—but they returned in relatively good order, and better spirits, just as Deklan Comstock made a third appearance on one of his marbled balconies.

This time the President called out recognition to the most elevated members of the crowd, including the Speaker of the Senate, Deacon Hollingshead, several prominent Landowners, the Surgeon General, the Chinese and Nipponese Ambassadors (who had been eyeing each other uneasily from opposite ends of the room), and other dignitaries. Then he smiled his unwholesome smile and said, “Also present, and home from his adventures defending the Union in Labrador , is my beloved nephew, Julian Comstock, as well as his celebrated Scribe, Mr. Adam Hazzard, and his former tutor, Sam Godwin.”

Hearing my name pronounced by this man was unnerving, and caused a shiver to rush up my spine.

“Mr. Hazzard,” the President continued, “has a very great and subtle literary talent, and I’ve recently learned that his wife is talented as well. Mrs. Hazzard is a singer, and it occurs to me to wonder whether she might favor us with a ballad or such, now that the band is warmed up. Mrs. Hazzard!” He feigned shielding his eyes against the light. “Mrs. Hazzard, are you willing to entertain these ladies and gentlemen?”

Calyxa’s jaw was grimly set—clearly this was Deklan Comstock’s attempt to humiliate her, and indirectly Julian, by exposing her as a cabaret singer—but at the same time it was an invitation she dared not refuse. “Hold my drink, Adam,” she said flatly; [Calyxa had not refused the Champagne as consistently as I had.]then she climbed up onto the bandstand where the musicians were arrayed.

This turn of events had taken the bandleader by surprise as well. He looked at her blankly, perhaps expecting her to call out a familiar song-title— Where the Sauquoit Meets the Mohawk, or some respectable piece like that.