Free The Dream Master by Roger Zelazny Page A

never understand.”
    “Baudelaire?” said Peter.
    “Hm,” said Render. “Yes, Baudelaire.”
    “… Badly misphrased,” said his son.
    “Circumstance,” said Render, “is a matter of time and chance. Baudelaire at Christmas is a matter of something old and something new.”
    “Sounds like a wedding,” said Peter.
    Jill flushed, above her snowfield of fur, but Render did not seem to notice.
    “Now it is time for you to open your gifts,” he said.
    “All right.”
    Peter tore at the wrappings.
    “An alchemistry set,” he remarked, “just what I’ve always wanted—complete with alembics, retorts, bain-marie, and a supply of elixir vitae. Great! Thanks, Miss DeVille.”
    “Please call me ‘Jill.’”
    “Sure, Jill. Thanks.”
    “Open the other one.”
    “Okay.”
    He tore away the white, with its holly and bells.
    “Fabulous!” he noted. “Other things I’ve always wanted—something borrowed and something blue: the family album in a blue binding, and a copy of the Render Report for the Senate Sub-committee Hearings on Sociopathic Maladjustment among Government Employees. Also, the complete works of Lofting, Grahame, and Tolkein. Thank you, Dad.—Oh my! There’s still more! Tallis, Merely, Mozart, and good dead Bach. Fine sounds to fill my room! Thank you, thank you! What can I give you in return?—Well, lessee…
    “Howzabout these?” he asked.
    He handed his father a package, Jill another.
    Render opened his, Jill hers.
    “A chess set”—Render.
    “A compact”—Jill.
    “Thank you”—Render.
    “Thank you”—Jill.
    “You’re both welcome.”
    “How are you coming with the recorder?” asked Render.
    “Give a listen,” said Peter.
    He assembled his recorder and played.
    He played of Christmas and holiness, of evening and blazing star, of warm hearth, wassail, shepherds, kings, light, and the voices of angels.
    When he was finished he disassembled the recorder and put it away.
    “Very good,” said Render.
    “Yes-good,” said Jill. “Very…”
    “Thanks.”
    “How was school?” asked Jill.
    “Fine,” said Peter.
    “Will the change be much of a bother?”
    “Not really.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m good. I’m a good student. Dad has trained me well—very, very well.”
    “But there will be different instructors…”
    He shrugged.
    “If you know an instructor, then you only know an instructor,” he said. “If you know a subject though, you know a subject. I know many subjects.”
    “Do you know anything about architecture?” she asked suddenly.
    “What do you want to know?” he said, smiling.
    She drew back and glanced away.
    “The fact that you ask the question the way you do indicates that you know something about architecture.”
    “Yes,” he agreed, “I do. I’ve been studying it recently.”
    “That’s all I wanted to know—really…”
    “Thanks. I’m glad you think I know something.”
    “Why is it that you know architecture, though? I’m sure it isn’t a part of the normal curriculum.”
    “Nihil hominum.” He shrugged.
    “Okay—I just wondered.” She looked quickly in the direction of her purse. “What do you think of it?” she asked, reaching for her cigarettes.
    He smiled.
    “What can you think about architecture? It’s like the sun: It’s big, it’s bright, and it’s there. That’s about all—unless you want to get specific.”
    She flushed again.
    Render lit her cigarette.
    “I mean, do you like it?”
    “Invariably, if it is old and far away—or, if it is new and I am inside it when it is cold outside. I am utilitarian in matters of physical pleasure and romantic in those pertaining to sensibility.”
    “God!” said Jill, and looked at Render. “What have you been teaching your son?”
    “Everything I can,” he replied, “as fast as I can.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t want him to be stepped on someday by something the size of a skyscraper, all stuffed full of facts and modem physics.”
    “It is not in