Players at the Game of People by John Brunner

signing Virgo, just as there came a

subtle increase in volume of the background music; also there was a

change of register, so that a series of bright and lively phrases,

mostly in triplets, overran the ground chords with a sparkling rivulet

of treble tones.

And there was their host: a tail man wearing a dark brown velvet suit

which somehow contrived to give the impression of robes, even though it

was splendidly cut to fit. At his throat was a lace jabot, and a white

silk handkerchief cascaded from his breast pocket. He bore himself with

the commanding air of full maturity, but it was impossible to judge his

age, for his skin -- which was smoothly tanned -- was wrinkle-free except

around the eyes, where one might detect laughter lines, and contrasting

with his tan he had a leonine mane of swept-back hair which might, or

might not, have been white rather than ash-blond. His voice was of a

thrilling deepness, yet every now and then it turned up at the corners,

so to say, as though a sternly engraved face on a statue were occasionally

unable to resist hinting at a smile, and nearly but never completely

implied a giggle.

"My dear fellow!" he boomed as he advanced, both hands outstretched to clasp

Godwin's right hand and his elbow in a single gesture. "It's been too long

-- it always is too long! And who's your . . charming young friend?"

There was a significance about the pause. But that was to be expected.

Godwin gave a bald answer.

"This is Ambrose Farr," he said, turning. "Ambrose, this is Gorse.

Just Gorse, at the moment."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance!" Ambrose declared warmly, extending

his right arm at full stretch and abbreviating contact with Gorse's hand

to a minimum. For the obviousness of this be was at once apologetic.

"You'll forgive me! But I carry a certain astral charge which is at risk

of diminishment -- not, of course, that one would suspect such a risk

in the case of someone brought here by an old and good friend like him!"

The not-quite-giggle added a string of extra exclamation marks to his

statement. A heartbeat later, though, he was intensely businesslike in

both tone and manner.

"How wise of you, at all events, to consult an expert in nomenclature

before settling on your permanent appellation. The careers, the entire

lives, which I've seen ruined by an inappropriate choice . . . Perhaps

you've never considered the point, though merely by looking at you

I would deduce that you have, but I can state with conviction that

the vibrations which resonate from names affect even such fundamental

aspects of the personality as the way in which one regards oneself. How

much wiser are those cultures which employ different names at different

ages! How unfortunate is, let us say, a Helen who turns out to be fat

and pimply rather than a queen for beauty, or a Dorothy whose parents

resent her because they hoped she'd be a boy! Your selection, though, is

Gorse: a prickly plant, with certain medicinal virtues, which in summer

is capable of transforming mile upon square mile of landscape into a

wonderland of brilliant yellow -- already an inspiration. With overtones,

regrettably, of deception and entrapment . . . Hmm! God, you have brought

me a problem worthy of my steel. We shall devote entire attention to it,

never fear. Come down into my sanctum that we may perform analyses."

He was standing, so it seemed, stock-still in the middle of the passageway.

Nonetheless, as though responsive to his mere intention, two of the

tarot-painted panels folded back: The Juggler and The Fool. Between them

appeared the head of a stairway leading down to a dim-lit basement. A few

wreaths of smoke wafted forth.

"I must precede you," he murmured, doing so. "There are certain barriers

and rituals . . ."

Producing -- from his sleeve, or somewhere -- an ebony wand capped at one

end with silver, at the other with ivory, he descended the stairs, making

signs at intervals. Gorse,