By Damon Knight
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Port? ” “No Riesling, misser,” said the waiter, shuffling the bottles on his cart. “Riesling,” Cashel said decisively. “Yes, I guess Riesling. Well, I suppose there’s another waiter around here somewhere—” He started to move away. A for Anything 50 The phrasing was unfortunate; Dick bristled. “I guess there are one or two,” he said emphatically. ” He glared at Cashel briefly, then used the same expression on the unhappy waiter, who winced, bobbed his head, and trundled rapidly away into the crowd.
He saw hands poised in mid-air and surprised expressions around the room as the same delated realization struck the others; then they were all silent and attentive. It was a matter of family pride to listen to that story, but not only that: as the Man told it, the story itself was fascinating. One after another, the leading figures of all three families were sketched in—Jeremy Logan, who had fought the Morganists at Pimple Hill and Big Pocono; Fabrique deForest Dabney, the founder of the line, whom the family slobs still claimed to see on moonlit nights, riding like a domon and dressed in nothing but his famous white bread; Edward R.
Cashel did not follow him. The house was filling up again; some of the guests were streaming downstairs for the bowling tournament, some gathering for cards and dice. Dick prowled purposefully through the house, glancing into each game room and lounge. In the Upper Hall he ran into his mother, serenly promenading with a group of ladies in flustered hats. She saw him before he could get clear. ” She put her plam against his cheek, ignoring his attempt to pull away. ” “It’s hot out in the open,” said Dick.