To his relief the man — Weemsby? — who claimed to be his Uncle Jack said with polite authority, “We had better go. I’ll bet this boy is tired. So I’ll take him home. Eh?”
The Bradley’s murmured agreement; the party moved toward the exit. Others in the room, all men none of whom had been introduced, went with them. In the corridor they stepped on a glideway which picked up speed until walls were whizzing past. It slowed as they neared the end — miles away, Thorby judged — and was stationary for them to step off.
This place was public; the ceiling was high and the walls were lost in crowds; Thorby recognized the flavor of a transport station. The silent men with them moved into blocking positions and their party proceeded in a direct line regardless of others. Several persons tried to break through and one man managed it. He shoved a microphone at Thorby and said rapidly, “Mr. Rudbek, what is your opinion of the –”
A guard grabbed him. Mr. Weemsby said quickly, “Later, later! Call my office; you’ll get the story.”
Lenses were trained on them, but from high up and far away. They moved into another passageway, a gate closed behind them. Its glideway deposited them at an elevator which took them to a small enclosed airport. A craft was waiting and beyond it a smaller one, both sleek, smooth, flattened ellipsoids. Weemsby stopped. “You’ll be all right?” he asked Mrs. Bradley.
“Oh, surely,” answered Professor Bradley.
“The car was satisfactory?”
“Excellent. A nice hop — and, I’m sure, a good one back.”
“Then we’ll say good-by. I’ll call you — when he’s had a chance to get oriented. You understand?”
“Oh, surely. We’ll be waiting.” Thorby got a peck from his grandmother, a clap on the shoulder from his grandfather. Then he embarked with Weemsby and Leda in the larger car. Its skipper saluted Mr. Weemsby, then saluted Thorby — Thorby managed to return it.
Mr. Weemsby paused in the central passage. “Why don’t you kids go forward and enjoy the hop? I’ve got calls waiting.”
“Certainly, Daddy.”
“You’ll excuse me, Thor? Business goes on — it’s back to the mines for Uncle Jack.”
“Of course . . . Uncle Jack.”
Leda led him forward and they sat down in a transparent bubble on the forward surface. The car rose straight up until they were several thousand feet high. It made a traffic-circle sweep over a desert plain, then headed north toward mountains.
“Comfy?” asked Leda.
“Quite. Uh, except that I’m dirty and mussed.”
“There’s a shower abaft the lounge. But well be home shortly — so why not enjoy the trip?”
“All right.” Thorby did not want to miss any of fabulous Terra. It looked, he decided, like Hekate — no, more like Woolamurra, except that he had never seen so many buildings. The mountains —
He looked again. “What’s that white stuff? Alum?”
Leda looked. “Why, that’s snow. Those are the Sangria de Cristos.”
” ‘Snow,’ ” Thorby repeated. “That’s frozen water.”
“You haven’t seen snow before?”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s not what I expected.” “It is frozen water — and yet it isn’t exactly; it’s more feathery.” She reminded herself of Daddy’s warning; she must not show surprise at anything.
“You know,” she offered, “I think I’ll teach you to ski.”
Many miles and some minutes were used explaining what siding was and why people did it. Thorby filed it away as something he might try, more likely not. Leda said that a broken leg was “all that could happen.” This is fun? Besides, she had mentioned how cold it could be. In Thorby’s mind cold was linked with hunger, beatings, and fear. “Maybe I could learn,” he said dubiously, “but I doubt it.”
“Oh, sure you can!” She changed the subject. “Forgive my curiosity, Thor, but there is a faint accent in your speech.”
“I didn’t know I had an accent –”
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You weren’t. I suppose I picked it up in Jubbulpore. That’s where I lived longest.”
” ‘Jubbulpore’ . . . let me think. That’s –”
“Capital of the Nine Worlds.”