Wolfe, Gene - War Beneath The Tree

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WAR BENEATH THE TREE

By Gene Wolfe

It's Christmas Eve, Commander Robin," the Spaceman said. "You'd better

go to bed or Santa won't come."

Robin's mother said, "That's right, Robin. Time to say good night."

The little boy in blue pajamas nodded, but he made no move to rise.

"Kiss me," said Bear. Bear walked his funny, waddly walk around the

tree and threw his arms about Robin. "We have to go to bed. I'll come,

too." It was what he said every night.

Robin's mother shook her head in amused despair. "Listen to them," she

said. "Look at him, Bertha. He's like a little prince surrounded by his

court. How is he going to feel when he's grown and can't have

transistorized sycophants to spoil him all the time?"

Bertha the robot maid nodded her own almost human head as she put the

poker back in its stand. "That's right, Ms. Jackson. That's right for

sure."

The Dancing Doll took Robin by the hand, making an arabesque penche of

it. Now Robin rose. His guardsmen formed up and presented arms.

"On the other hand." Robin's mother said, "they're children only such a

short time."

Bertha nodded again. "They're only young once, Ms. Jackson. That's for

sure. All right if I tell these little cute toys to help me straighten

up after he's asleep?"

The Captain of the guardsmen saluted with his silver saber, the Largest

Guardsman beat the tattoo on his drum, and the rest of the guardsmen

formed a double file.

"He sleeps with Bear," Robin's mother said.

"I can spare Bear. There's plenty of others." .

The Spaceman touched the buckle of his antigravity belt and soared to a

height of four feet like a graceful, broad shouldered balloon. With the

Dancing Doll on his left and Bear on his right, Robin toddled off

behind the guardsmen. Robin's mother ground out her last cigarette of

the evening, winked at Bertha, and said, "I suppose I'd better turn in,

too. You needn't help me undress. Just pick up my things in the

morning."

"Yes um. Too bad Mr. Jackson isn't here, it bein' Christmas Eve and you

expectin' an' all."

"He'll be back from Brazil in a week-I've told you already. Bertha,

your speech habits are getting worse and worse. Are you sure you

wouldn't rather be a French maid for a while?"

"Maize none, Ms. Jackson. I have too much trouble talkin' to the men

that comes to the door when I'm French."

"When Mr. Jackson gets his next promotion, we're going to have a

chauffeur," Robin's mother said. "He's going to be Italian, and he's

going to stay Italian."

Bertha watched her waddle out of the room. "All right,

you lazy toys! You empty them ashtrays into the fire an' get everythin'

put away. I'm goin' to turn myself off, but the next time I come on

this room better be straight or there's goin' to be some broken toys

aroun' here."

She watched long enough to see the Gingham Dog dump the contents of the

largest ashtray on the crackling logs, the Spaceman float up to

straighten the magazines on the coffee table, and the Dancing Doll

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Wolfe, Gene - War Beneath The Tree

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