“Don’t worry!” laughed Rupert. “Just give your order now, and it’ll be ready by the time you arrive.”
“Two large beers, cooled in liquid air,” said George promptly. ‘We’ll be right there.”
Rupert nodded, put down one of his glasses on an invisible table, adjusted an equally invisible control, and promptly vanished from sight.
“Well!” said Jean. “That’s the first time I’ve seen one of those gadgets in action. How did Rupert get hold of it? I thought only the Overlords had them.”
“Have you ever known Rupert not to get anything he wanted?” replied George. “That’s just the toy for him. He can sit comfortably in his studio and go wandering round half of Africa. No heat, no bugs, no exertion-and the icebox always in reach. I wonder what Stanley and Livingstone would have thought?”
The sun put an end to further conversation until they had reached the house. As they approached the front door (which was not very easy to distinguish from the rest of the glass wall facing them) it swung automatically open with a fanfare of trumpets. Jean guessed, correctly, that she would be heartily sick of that fanfare before the day was through.
The current Mrs. Boyce greeted them in the delicious coolness of the hail. She was, if truth be known, the main reason for the good turn-out of guests. Perhaps half of them would have come in any case to see Rupert’s new house: the waverers had been decided by the reports of Rupert’s new wife.
There was only one adjective that adequately described her. She was distracting. Even in a world where beauty was almost commonplace, men would turn their heads when she entered the room. She was, George guessed, about one quarter Negro; her features were practically Grecian and her hair was long and
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lustrous. Only the dark, rich texture of her skin-the overworked word “chocolate” was the only one that described it-revealed her mixed ancestry.
“You’re Jean and George, aren’t you?” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Rupert is doing something complicated with the drinks-come along and meet everybody.”
Her voice was a rich contralto that sent little shivers running up and down George’s back, as if someone was playing on his spine like a flute. He looked nervously at Jean, who had managed to force a somewhat artificial smile, and finally recovered his voice.
“It’s-it’s verynice to meet you,” he said lamely. ‘We’ve been looking forward to this party.”
“Rupert always gives such nice parties,” put in Jean. By the way she accented the “always”, one knew perfectly well she was thinking “Every time he gets married”. George flushed slightly and gave Jean a glance of reproof, but there was no sign that their hostess noticed the barb. She was friendliness itself as she ushered them into the main lounge, already half packed with a representative collection of Rupert’s numerous friends. Rupert himself was sitting at the console of what seemed to be a television engineer’s control unit: it was, George assumed, the device that had projected his image out to meet them. He was busily demonstrating it by surprising two more arrivals as they descended into the parking place, but paused just long enough to greet Jean and George and to apologize for having given their drinks to somebody else.
“You’ll find plenty more over there,” he said, waving one hand vaguely behind him while he adjusted controls with the other. “Just make yourselves at home. You know most of the people here-Maia will introduce you to the rest. Good of you to come.”
“Good of you to invite us,” said Jean, without much conviction. George had already departed towards the bar and she made her way after him, occasionally exchanging greetings with someone she recognized. About three-quarters of those present were perfect strangers, which was the normal state of affairs at one of Rupert’s parties.
“Let’s explore,” she said to George when they had refreshed themselves and waved to everyone they knew. “I want to look at the house.”
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George, with a barely concealed backward look at Maia Boyce, followed after her. There was a faraway look in his eyes that Jean didn’t like in the least. It was such a nuisance that men were fundamentally polygamous. On the other hand, if they weren’t… Yes, perhaps it was better this way, after
511.
George quickly came back to normal as they investigated the wonders of Rupert’s new abode. The house seemed very large for two people, but this was just as well in view of the frequent overloads it would have to handle. There were two storeys, the upper considerably larger so that it overhung and provided shade around the ground floor. The degree of mechanization was considerable, and the kitchen closely resembled the cockpit of an airliner.
“Poor Ruby!” said Jean. “She would have loved this place.”
“From what I’ve heard,” replied George, who had no great sympathy for the last Mrs. Boyce, “she’s perfectly happy with her Australian boy-friend.”
This was such common knowledge that Jean could hardly contradict it, so she changed the subject.
“She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she?”
George was sufficiently alert to avoid the trap.
“Oh, I suppose so,” he replied indifferently. “That is, of course, if one likes brunettes.”
“Which you don’t, I rake it,” said Jean sweetly.
“Don’t be jealous, dear,” chuckled George, stroking her platinum hair. “Let’s go and look at the library. What floor do you think that will be on?”
“It must be up here: there’s no more room down below. Besides, that fits in with the general design. All the living, eating, sleeping and so on’s relegated to the ground flopr. This is the fun and games department-though I still think it’s a crazy idea having a swimming-pool upstairs.”
“I guess there’s some reason for it,” said George, opening a door experimentally. “Rupert must have had skilled advice when he built this place. I’m sure he couldn’t have done it himself.”
“You’re probably right. If he had, there’d have been rooms without doors, and stairways leading nowhere. In fact, I’d be afraid to step inside a house that Rupert had designed all by himself.”
“Here we are,” said George, with the pride of a navigator
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L
making landfall, “the fabulous Boyce collection in Its new home. I wonder just how many of them Rupert has really read.”
The library ran the whole width of the house, but was virtually divided into half a dozen small rooms by the great bookcases extending across it. These held, if George remembered correctly, some fifteen thousand volumes-almost everything of importance that had ever been published on the nebulous subjects of magic, psychic research, divining, telepathy, and the whole range of elusive phenomena lumped in the category of paraphysics. It was a very peculiar hobby for anyone to have in this age of reason. Presumably it was simply Rupert’s particular form of escapism.
George noticed the smell the moment he entered the room.
It was faint but penetrating, not so much unpleasant as puzzling. Jean had observed it too: her forehead was wrinkled in the effort of identification. Acetic acid, thought George-that’s the nearest thing to it. But it’s got something else as well….
The library terminated in a small open space just large enough for a table, two chairs and some cushions. This, presumably, was where Rupert did most of his reading. Someone was reading there now, in an unnaturally dim light.
Jean gave a little gasp and clutched at George’s hand. Her reaction was, perhaps excusable. It was one thing to watch a television picture, quite another to meet the reality. George, who was seldom surprised by anything, rose to the occasion at once.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you, sir,” he said politely. ‘We’d no idea that there was anyone here. Rupert never told us….”
The Overlord put down the book, looked at them closely, then commenced reading again. There was nothing impolite about the action, coming as it did from a being who could read, talk, and probably do several other things at the same time. Nevertheless, to human observers the spectacle was disturbingly schizophrenic.
“My name is Rashaverak,” said the Overlord amiably. “I’m afraid I’m not being very sociable, but Rupert’s library is a difficult place from which to escape.”
Jean managed to suppress a nervous giggle. Their unexpected fellow guest was, she noticed, reading at the rate of a
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page every two seconds. She did not doubt that he was assimilating every word, and she wondered if he could manage to read a book with each eye. “And then, of course,” she thought to herself, “he could go on to learn braille so he could use his fingers… .” The resulting mental picture was too comic to be comfortable, so she tried to suppress it by entering into the conversation. After all, it was not every day that one had a chance of talking to one of the masters of Earth.