She stopped and dabbed at her eyes. “No. Just nerves, I guess. I’m all right.”
“You startled me. You never did anything like that before.”
“No. But I never had a baby before, either.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Well, cry, if it makes you feel better. But don’t let this old fossil get under your skin, kid. You don’t have to receive her, you know. I’ll call her and tell her you can’t.”
She seemed quite recovered from her unease. “No, don’t do that. I’d really like to see her. I’m curious and I’m flattered.”
They had discussed with each other the question as to whether Madame Espartero Carvala had intended to call on both of them, or Phyllis only. Felix was reluctant to be present if his presence was not expected; he was equally reluctant to fail to show proper urbanity by not being present to receive a distinguished visitor. As he pointed out to Phyllis, it was his home as well as hers. He telephoned Mordan, since he knew that Mordan was much closer to such mighty and remote people than himself. Mordan gave him no help. “She’s a rule unto herself, Felix. She’s quite capable of breaking every custom of polite conduct, if she chooses.”
“Any idea why she’s coming?”
“Not the slightest. Sorry.” Mordan himself wondered, but was honest enough to admit that his guesses were unsound-no data; he simply did not understand the old girl, and knew it.
Madame Espartero Carvala settled the matter herself. She came stumping in, supporting herself with a heavy cane. Clutched in her left hand was a lighted cigar. Hamilton approached her, bowed, “Madame — ” he began.
She peered at him. “You’re Hamilton Felix. Where’s your wife?”
“If Madame will come with me.” He attempted to offer her bis arm for support.
“I can manage,” she said rather ungraciously. Nevertheless she clamped the cigar in her teeth and took his arm. He was amazed to find how little she weighed, judging by the pressure on his arm-but the grip of her fingers was firm. Once in the lounging room, in the presence of Phyllis, she said, “Come here, child. Let me look at you.”
Hamilton stood by foolishly, not knowing whether to seat himself or leave. The old lady turned, noticing that he was still there and said, “You were very gracious to escort me in to your wife. I thank you.” The formal politeness of the words were oddly at variance with her first, brittle remarks, but they were not delivered in warm tones. Felix realised that he had been clearly and unmistakably dismissed. He got out.
He went to his retiring room, selected a scrollscript, fitted it into the reader, and prepared to kill time until Carvala should leave. But he found himself unable to fix his attention on the story he selected. He found that he had used the rewind button three times and still had no notion of how the story started.
Damn! He thought-I might as well have gone to the office.
For he had an office-now. The thought made him smile a little. He was the man who was never going to be tied down, who had split his profits with a man-of-affairs rather than be troubled with business worries. Yet here he was, married, an expectant father, actually living at the same address as his wife, and-possessing an office! True, the office had nothing to do with his business affairs.
He found himself actually engaged in the Great Research which Mordan had promised. Carruthers Alfred, former member of the Board of Policy until he had retired to pursue his studies, had been co-opted as instigator for the enlarged project. He in turn had co-opted Hamilton, who had protested, that he was no synthesist, nor scientist. Nevertheless Carruthers wanted him. “You have an erratic and unorthodox imagination,” he had said. “This job calls for imagination, the more heterodox the better. You needn’t do routine research, if you don’t want to-plenty of patient technicians for that.”
Felix suspected that Mordan had had something to do with his selection, but did not press him about it. Mordan, Hamilton knew, had an over-rated opinion of his ability. He esteemed himself as a second-rater, a competent and high-powered man, but a second-rater nonetheless. That chart that Mordan talked about-you could not compress a man into a diagram and hang him on a wall. He was not that chart. And didn’t he know more about himself, from sitting on the inside, than any genetic technician could learn by peering down the double barrel of a ‘scope?