Silently, Fess sighed and carefully did not point out that the Assembly had no particular reason to grant Ruthven's request, either. If the factory business department had not been automated, d'Armand Limited would have gone bankrupt from sheer neglect.

Not that the House of d'Armand would have fallen. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ruthven seemed to spend all his time building.

"Of course the tower will stand."

"How, milord?"

Ruthven waved the question away. "A minor detail. See to it, Fess."

The robot sighed within and focused its lenses on the blueprints. Perhaps a judicious use of gravity generators… On a low-gravity asteroid, there was no concern about the tower falling down… But if there was too little of it, it might fall apart from centripedal force.

"How dare they!" Ruthven stormed, jamming his helmet at Fess. "How can they have the effrontery to be so insolent!" He yanked at the seals of his pressure suit so hard that the fabric ripped. He saw the gaping rent, and cursed all the more loudly.

"Ruthven, please!" His wife came running with apprehensive glances. "The children…"

"They had damned well better be at lessons in their nursery, madame, or I shall bid Fess cane them!" Ruthven yanked his arms out of the pressure suit, relying on Fess to catch the sleeves in time, and pulled his feet out of the legs as he stepped forward. "The degraded peasants!"

"Ruthven!" his wife gasped. "Your own children?"

"Not the children, you goose! The Assembly!"

"What… Oh!" Matilda's eyes widened. "Did they refuse your patent of nobility?"

"No—much worse! They raised me to the rank of…" Ruthven's voice sank to a hiss. "… Viscount!"

"Viscount! Oh, how dare they! One cannot be lower, and still be a peer!"

"Precisely." Ruthven threw himself into a lounger and pushed the "medium massage" button. "I shall be revenged upon them! I shall humiliate them! How, I do not know—but the time will come, will come for each of them!"

"At least," Fess offered, "you are now legally a lord."

"But only barely a lord, you officious ingrate!" Ruthven shouted. "How dare you address me as 'you'? Do you not know a more respectful form of address?"

"But… my program indicates no flaw in etiquette…"

"Then it shall!" the new Viscount thundered. "You shall learn, sirrah, you shall be educated! I shall buy the module today!"

Castle Gallowglass rose far above its humble beginnings in a maze of towers joined in vaulting arches, a fairytale concoction of metallic traceries and onion domes and gargoyles.

It was a mess.

It was a hodgepodge of periods and styles of architecture, all jumbled together without rationale or critical standard. Somewhere beneath the festoons of rococo plasticrete, the original, classic simplicity of Lona's tranquil palace gathered in upon itself—but the casual passerby would never know it was there. What he would see was the most disgusting example of nouveau riche lack of taste Fess had ever seen—and after a hundred fifty years of contemplating the handiwork of the Maximans, that was saying quite a bit.

Not that he could say it, of course—not about his owner's masterpiece. His new programming had seen to that.

"How could they possibly have denied me!"

"I'm sorry, milord, I'm sorry." Fess's judgment circuits produced massive reluctance at the sound of his own words. "The College of Heralds of Europe says that another family's been using that coat of arms of three lions quartered with fleur-de-lis, for many generations."

"Then they may forfeit the device! How much do they want for it?"

Inwardly, Fess shriveled, but his vocoder said, "Oh, no, sorry, milord boss! Coats of arms simply can't be bought!"

"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Ruthven raged. "They have no right to that device, I tell you—because I want it!"

"Well, certainly, milord boss, but that doesn't mean there is any way we can get it."

"There must be a way! Confound it, find a way to gain a coat of arms!" Ruthven stalked away toward the bar.

Fess sighed and rolled off toward the library to plug himself into the data banks. He knew very well that no family would be willing to give up its coat of arms, and that the College of Heralds would not honor such a transaction even if it could be made. The answer, of course, lay in designing a device that Ruthven would accept, and that was not already in use.

"A wonderful design." Ruthven beamed at the drawing. "It says so much."

"Yes, milord boss." Fess knew quite well that the device said only what the viewer read into it. It was nothing but the silhouette of a man with girded loins, a cloak, and a staff in his hand, standing with one foot atop some nameless geological formation, facing toward the left, but with his back mostly toward the viewer. Nonetheless, it was silver on a field of blue, so he knew Ruthven would like it.

"A masterpiece! Am I not a genius?"

"Yes sir, boss milord. No, boss mi—uh, yes, milord!"

"Architecture, fine letters, now design—there are no limits to my talents! Surely the College of Heralds cannot deny me now!"

"No sir, boss milord." That, Fess could say with conviction—because he had examined the records of the College thoroughly, then sent off the sketch by fax as soon as it was finished. He hadn't shown it to Ruthven until the College had sent back preliminary approval.

"None must deny me anything." Ruthven patted his stomach, which had grown steadily with the years and was approaching critical mass. "There is none like me!"

The phrase struck an echo in Fess's memory banks—several of them, in fact.

"But, boss milord!" Fess protested. "How am I going to do that?"

"Order one from Terra, of course." Ruthven waved away the problem.

"Order one, milord sir? A family ghost?"

"There is a catalog, I presume."

"But you can't buy a thing that doesn't exist!"

"Of course ghosts exist. Every noble family on Terra has one." Ruthven gestured carelessly with sausage fingers. "An ancestral ghost for my castle, Fess. At least one. Don't ask me for particulars, though. I know nothing about them."

That, at least, was true. Sometimes Fess could have sworn that Ruthven had gone to great pains to know nothing—and when he did accidentally pick up some information, he did the best he could to forget it. His way of making sure he had a clean mind, no doubt.

But the ghost of one of Ruthven's ancestors? Would he want one, really? Fess was tempted, and if he could have brought back Lona's ghost, he would have. He would have loved to see her haul Ruthven over the coals fifty times, for what he had done to her palace—and when she had finished, she would have bullied what was left of him into restoring some vestige of order to his household. Or maybe the ghost of Dar, who would have taken one look around, bellowed in outrage, taken Ruthven apart, then remembered his vocation as a teacher and put the aging playboy back together and tried to explain the basics of good taste to him.

Or, best of all, the ghost of Tod Tambourin—alias Whitey the Wino.

Now, wait. The ghost of Whitey… That had possibilities…

A shriek split the night, and the Countess Freiliport came barreling out of the bedroom. Fess heaved a 16-Farad sigh, stretched alloyed arms (the more conducive to the mood because Ruthven had given him a new, and very skeletal, body) to catch her, and began soothing. "There, now, Milady, it's gone. Nothing to be afraid of, no spooks out here, only your good old faithful Fess the butler, here to make sure the nasty thing can't get at you…"

"Oh! It is you!" The Countess collapsed against Fess's ribcage, sobbing. The sobs choked off as she saw the ribs and went rigid.