Gurgeh had, indeed, been invited to this tournament, as he had been invited to the Games before that, just as he was to several thousand competitions and convocations of various sizes and complexions every year, either within the Culture or outside it. He'd refused that invitation as he refused them all, but the story now was that he'd changed his mind and would go there and play for the Culture. The next Games were to be held in three and a half years, which made the need to leave at such short notice somewhat tricky to explain, but Contact had done a little creative timetabling and some bare-faced lying and made it appear to the casual inquirer that only the Little Rascal could get Gurgeh there in time for the lengthy formal registration and qualifying period required.
"Cheers!" Hafilis put his head back and the bottle to his lips. Everybody round the great table joined in, drinking from a dozen different types of bowl, glass, goblet and tankard. Hafflis rocked further and further back on his heels as he drained the bottle; a few people shouted out warnings or threw bits of food at him; he just had time to put the bottle down and smack his wine-wet lips before he overbalanced and disappeared over the edge of the parapet.
"Oops," came his muffled voice. Two of his younger children, sitting playing three-cups with a thoroughly mystified Styglian enumerator, went to the parapet and dragged their drunken parent back over from the safety field. He tumbled on to the terrace and staggered back to his seat, laughing.
Gurgeh sat between Professor Boruelal and one of his old flames; Vossle Chu, the woman whose hobbies had in the past included iron-foundry. She had crossed from Rombree, on Chiark's farside from Gevant, to come and see Gurgeh off. There were at least ten of his former lovers amongst the crowd squeezed around the table. He wondered fuzzily what the significance might be that out of that ten, six had chosen to change sex and become — and remain — men over the past few years.
Gurgeh, along with everybody else, was getting drunk, as was traditional on such occasions. Hafflis had promised that they would not do to Gurgeh what they had done to a mutual friend a few years earlier; the young man had been accepted into Contact and Hafflis had held a party to celebrate. At the end of the evening they'd stripped the fellow naked and thrown him over the parapet… but the safety field had been turned off; the new Contact recruit had fallen nine hundred metres — six hundred of them with empty bowels — before three of Hafflis's pre-positioned house drones rose calmly out of the forest beneath to catch him and take him back up.
The (Demilitarised) General Offensive Unit Limiting Factor had arrived under Ikroh that afternoon. Gurgeh had gone down to the transit gallery to inspect it. The craft was a third of a kilometre long, very sleek and simple looking; a pointed nose, three long blisters like vast aircraft cockpits leading to the nose, and another five fat blisters circling the vessel's waist; its rear was blunt and flat. The ship had said hello, told him it was there to take him to the GSV Little Rascal, and asked him if he had any special dietary requirements.
Boruelal slapped him on the back. "We're going to miss you, Gurgeh."
"Likewise," Gurgeh said, swaying, and felt quite emotional. He wondered when it would be time to throw the paper lanterns over the parapet to float down to the rainforest. They'd turned the lights on behind the waterfall, all the way down the cliff, and an inflatible dirigible, seemingly crewed largely by game-fans, had anchored above the plain level with Tronze, promising a firework display later. Gurgeh had been quite touched by such shows of respect and affection.
"Gurgeh," Chamlis said. He turned, still holding his glass, to look at the old machine. It put a small package into his hand. "A present," it said. Gurgeh looked at the small parcel; paper tied up with ribbon. "Just an old tradition," Chamlis explained. "You open it when you're under way."
"Thank you," Gurgeh said, nodding slowly. He put the present into his jacket, then did something he rarely did with drones, and hugged the old machine, putting his arms round its aura fields. "Thank you, very very much."
The night darkened; a brief shower almost extinguished the coals in the centre of the table, but Hafflis got supply drones to bring crates of spirits and they all had fun squirting the drink on to the coals to keep them alight in pools of blue flame which burned down half the paper lanterns and scorched the nightflower vines and made many holes in clothes and singed the Styglian enumerator's pelt. Lightning flashed in the mountains above the lake, the falls glowed, backlit and fabulous, and the dirigible's fireworks drew applause and answering fireworks and cloud-lasers from all over Tronze. Gurgeh was dumped naked into the lake, but hauled out spluttering by Hafflis's children. He woke up in Boruelal's bed, at the university, a little after dawn. He sneaked away early.
He looked around the room. Early morning sunlight flooded the landscape outside Ikroh and lanced through the lounge, streaming in from the fjord-side windows, across the room and out through the windows opening on to the uphill lawns. Birds filled the cool, still air with song.
There was nothing else to take, nothing more to pack. He'd sent the house drones down with a chest of clothes the night before, but now wondered why he'd bothered; he wouldn't need many changes on the warship, and when they got to the GSV he could order anything he wanted. He'd packed a few personal ornaments, and had the house copy his stock of still and moving pictures to the Limiting Factor's memory. The last thing he'd done was burn the letter he'd written to leave with Boruelal, and stir the ashes in the fireplace until they were fine as dust. Nothing more remained.
"Ready?" Worthil said.
"Yes," he said. His head was clear and no longer sore, but he felt tired, and knew he'd sleep well that night. "Is it here yet?"
"On its way."
They were waiting for Mawhrin-Skel. It had been told its appeal had been re-opened; as a favour to Gurgeh, it was likely to be given a role in Special Circumstances. It had acknowledged, but not appeared. It would meet them when Gurgeh left.
Gurgeh sat down to wait.
A few minutes before he was due to leave, the tiny drone appeared, floating down the chimney to hover over the empty fire grate.
"Mawhrin-Skel," Worthil said. "Just in time."
"I believe I'm being recalled to duty," the smaller drone said.
"You are indeed," Worthil said heartily.
"Good. I'm sure my friend, the LOU Gunboat Diplomat, will follow my future career with great interest."
"Of course," Worthil said. "I would hope it would."
Mawhrin-Skel's fields glowed orange-red. It floated over to Gurgeh, its grey body shining brightly, fields all but extinguished in the bright sunshine. "Thank you," it said to him. "I wish you a good journey, and much luck."
Gurgeh sat on the couch and looked at the tiny machine. He thought of several things to say, but said none of them. Instead, he stood up, straightened his jacket, looked at Worthil and said, "I think I'm ready to go now."
Mawhrin-Skel watched him leave the room, but did not try to follow.
He boarded the Limiting Factor.
Worthil showed him the three great game-boards, set in three of the effector bulges round the vessel's waist, pointed out the module hangar housed in the fourth blister and the swimming pool which the dockyard had installed in the fifth because they couldn't think of anything else at such short notice and they didn't like to leave the blister just empty. The three effectors in the nose had been left in but disconnected, to be removed once the Limiting Factor docked with the Little Rascal. Worthil guided him round the living quarters, which seemed perfectly acceptable.