The Waylaid Count (2)

 2

At eight o’clock precisely, I took my seat near the window on the first balcony of the three-story main dining room. It was a splendid restaurant decorated in pure white and gold. As beautiful as the interior was it was simple and plain compared with the extravagantly dressed diners. I wondered if the designer had done that on purpose to better draw attention to the guests.

The menu card did not appeal to me. I gazed through the window at Majrita below. We would stay docked at this spacedock for three more days before heading to the moons. The spacedocks were small docking points in orbit around the planet or moon and passengers were brought to and from the ship in groups through it. The cruiseshuttle stopped at a planet, passengers were loaded and unloaded, then it toured that planet's moons and returned to the planet before moving to the next planet. Although some people had probably chosen to do all the planets, I had thankfully talked my father out of that. None of the people I had seen so far had interested me to the point of wanting to start up a long-term ship relationship with them.

I returned to the menu and pursed my lips. There appeared to be nothing to eat. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Vixie,” my father said, sliding into his seat. I smiled at my parent cautiously.

“You always are late, Pops,” I said.

“Only on a holiday,” he added. “What is there to eat?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let’s have it. I’m hungry. I’m never so hungry as when I’m being seriously idle.”

“Consommé Pinesdor,” I began to read out from the menu, “Saumon d’Termitan, Sauce Gehreloise, Aspics de Pyrntwood. Who wants these horrid messes on a night like this?”

“But, Vixie, this is the best cooking in the galaxy,” he protested.

“Say, Pops,” I said with seeming irrelevance, “had you forgotten it’s my birthday tomorrow?”

“Have I ever forgotten your birthday, O, most costly daughter?”

“On the whole you’ve been a most satisfactory father,” I answered sweetly, “and to reward you I’ll be content this year with the cheapest birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I want it tonight.”

“Well,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “what is it?”

“It’s this. Let’s have filleted steak and a bottle of homebrew for dinner tonight. It will be simply exquisite. I shall love it.”

“But my dear Vixie,” he exclaimed, “steak and homebrew on Feliste’s cruiseshuttle! It’s impossible! Moreover, young women under twenty-three cannot be permitted to drink beer.”

“I said steak and homebrew, and as for being twenty-three, I shall be twenty-four tomorrow.” I gave him my best smile. 

There was a gentle cough. Julbo stood over us. It must have been out of a pure spirit of adventure that he had selected this table for his own services. Usually, maître d'hôtels did not personally wait tables at dinner. They merely hovered observant, like a captain on the bridge during the mate’s watch. I suppose I should have felt honored when Julbo attached himself to our table. Instead, I was suspicious.

My father only hesitated one second, and then issued our order with a fine air of carelessness: “Filleted steak for two, and a bottle of homebrew.” It was the bravest act in my father’s life although I would never say higher courage was lacking in him. I thought whether Julbo had wanted to or not, by waiting on us he had done me a huge favor and saved me a longer debate.

“It’s not in the menu, sir,” said Julbo.

“Never mind. Get it. We want it.”

“Very good, sir.”

Julbo walked to the service-door and, merely pretending to look behind it, came immediately back again.

“Mr. Rocco’s compliments, sir, and he regrets to be unable to serve steak and homebrew tonight, sir.”

“Mr. Rocco?” Pops questioned.

“Mr. Rocco,” repeated Julbo firmly.

“And who is Mr. Rocco?”

“Mr. Rocco is our chef, sir.” Julbo had the expression of a man who is asked to explain who Shakespeare was.

The two men looked at each other. I am sure my father, the indefinable Theodorick Raskelis, who owned a thousand mines, several towns, and sixty votes in the Galactic Senate, was baffled that a waiter or even a whole cruiseshuttle would defy him. It seemed to me, for whatever reason, that the Ritzavoy XI staff’s overly-refined back stood against the wall believing not a regiment of wealthy men could apparently turn its flank. 

Julbo’s calm expression reinforced this belief in my mind. I think he believed he had won. I, on the other hand, knew my father, I foresaw interesting events, and decided to wait confidently for the steak. I was not hungry, and I could afford to wait.

“Excuse me a moment, Vixie,” my father said quietly, “I shall be back in about two seconds.” With that, he strode out of the dining room. If anyone in this room had known him like I did and caught the expression on his face, that man might have trembled for an explosion which should have blown the entire Ritzavoy XI out of the sky.

Julbo retired strategically to a corner. He had fired and believed he had one. I watched him as he perched on a stool, occasionally answering questions as waitstaff came and asked them. No other waiter approached my table, and he did not return. Surely, he saw me still sitting here. I wondered if he believed the battle was over, and I would soon leave?