Times Without Number by John Brunner

was

compelled to follow up this chore on the river with a whole evening of

acting as a host to all kinds of noble idiots in the Commander's palace

at Greenwich. He could tell he was not alone among the younger Licentiates

on the rowers' benches in thinking that this might prove unendurable.

Probably the crowds that watched the splendid water-procession from

the embankments did not even imagine that anyone could object to being

involved. Probably, when the spectacle was over, they dispersed sighing

with envy, thinking of the magnificence of the royal reception and

wishing they were prominent enough to be invited.

In bitter contrast Don Miguel and his companions sat hauling on their

oars and envied the simple folk going off to spend New Year's Eve with

their families or to join the revels which would make the streets noisy

and bright until dawn.

"You'd think," he growled, selecting one of the many discomforts that

plagued him, "in a Prince's barge they'd at least pad the seats decently!"

His opposite number on the other side of the boat, another Licentiate of

about his own age whose name was Don Felipe Basso, curled his lip. "It's

clear you'd rather be anywhere else tonight, Miguel!" he answered in a

low tone.

"Even Macedonia was better than this," Don Miguel agreed, invoking a

reference to the field-trip into the age of Alexander the Great on which

he had first made Don Felipe's acquaintance . . . and acquired the scar

which, while it merely twisted his smile, nowadays rendered his scowl

positively ferocious.

"Don Miguel! Keep the time!"

From his post in the stern Don Arturo Cortés rapped the order in his

shrill, acid voice. Seated in his most magnificent plum-coloured cloak

and snow-white velvet breeches on a high-backed gilt and plush chair,

he was making the most of his assignment as overseer of the amateur

rowers. He was one of the senior Licentiates of the Society below General

Officer rank; he had already commanded a number of expeditions into

the past, and was widely tipped to succeed Red Bear as the Director of

Fieldwork. Somehow he had acquired a General Officer's wand, to which he

was not yet entitled, and was employing it as a baton to beat time for

the oarsmen. Such a presumptuous gesture was typical of his over-weening

self-esteem.

Don Miguel bit back his answer -- he was altogether too close alongside

the tapestry pavilion in which the Prince was sitting to speak louder

than a whisper without being overheard and perhaps ticked off -- and

leaned compliantly on his oar. But when Don Arturo's attention had

wandered again, Don Felipe spoke softly.

"He doesn't seem to like you, Miguel!"

"Who -- Don Arturo? That makes us even. I don't like him either."

"A little faster still!" rasped Don Arturo, rising now with his wand

outstretched as though he were conductor of a band of music. "We're

falling too far behind!"

By the time the barge was gentled in to the wharf near the Commander's

palace, Don Miguel's buttocks were bruised, his hands were rubbed sore

by the oar, and his temper was close to flashpoint. Face like thunder, he

remained on his bench and watched Don Arturo with his usual officiousness

directing the disembarkation of the Prince. With part of his mind,

however, he was wondering whether out of sheer self-interest he ought

to try and counter the dislike which Felipe had referred to. It was

obvious where it had its source. Everyone seemed to think he had handled

the recent affair of the contraband Aztec mask rather well -- indeed,

he was wearing tonight for the first time at any Society function the

outward sign of the Commander's approval, the gem-encrusted collar and

star of the Order of the Scythe and Hourglass which cynical old Borromeo

himself had selected for the Society's emblem.

It crossed his mind that if he had played his cards right he might have

used this new honour as a means of escaping duty on the rower's bench. But

it was not in his