“Nothing,” said Rumfoord. “I’m only sorry for you. You’ll really be missing something.”
“Like what?” said Constant.
“Well — the most pleasant climate imaginable, for one thing,” said Rumfoord.
“Climate!” said Constant contemptuously. “With houses in Hollywood, the Vale of Kashmir, Acapulco, Manitoba, Tahiti, Paris, Bermuda, Rome, New York, and Capetown, I should leave Earth in search of happier climes?”
“There’s more to Titan than just climate” said Rumfoord. “The women, for instance, are the most beautiful creatures between the Sun and Betelgeuse.”
Constant guffawed bitterly. “Women!” he said. “You think I’m having trouble getting beautiful women? You think I’m love-starved, and the only way I’ll ever get close to a beautiful woman is to climb on a rocket ship and head for one of Saturn’s moons? Are you kidding? I’ve had women so beautiful, anybody between the Sun and Betelgeuse would sit down and cry if the women said as much as hello to ’em!”
He took out his billfold, and slipped from it a photograph of his most recent conquest. There was no question about it — the girl in the photograph was staggeringly beautiful. She was Miss Canal Zone, a runner-up in the Miss Universe Contest — and in fact far more beautiful than the winner of the contest. Her beauty had frightened the judges.
Constant handed Rumfoord the photograph. “They got anything like that on Titan?” he said.
Rumfoord studied the photograph respectfully, handed it back. “No — ” he said, “nothing like that on Titan.”
“O.K.,” said Constant, feeling very much in control of his own destiny again, “climate, beautiful women — what else?”
“Nothing else,” said Rumfoord mildly. He shrugged. “Oh — art objects, if you like art.”
“I’ve got the biggest private art collection in the world,” said Constant.
Constant had inherited this famous art collection. The collection had been made by his father — or, rather, by agents of his father. It was scattered through museums all over the world, each piece plainly marked as a part of the Constant Collection. The collection had been made and then deployed in this manner on the recommendation of the Director of Public Relations of Magnum Opus, Incorporated, the corporation whose sole purpose was to manage the Constant affairs.
The purpose of the collection had been to prove how generous and useful and sensitive billionaires could be. The collection had turned out to be a perfectly gorgeous investment, as well.
“That takes care of art,” said Rumfoord.
Constant was about to return the photograph of Miss Canal Zone to his billfold, when he felt that he held not one photograph but two. There was a photograph behind that of Miss Canal Zone. He supposed that that was a photograph of Miss Canal Zone’s predecessor, and he thought that he might as well show Rumfoord her, too — show Rumfoord what a celestial lulu he had given the gate to.
“There — there’s another one,” said Constant, holding out the second photograph to Rumfoord.
Rumfoord made no move to take the photograph. He didn’t even bother to look at it. He looked instead into Constant’s eyes and grinned roguishly.
Constant looked down at the photograph that had been ignored. He found that it was not a photograph of Miss Canal Zone’s predecessor. It was a photograph that Rumfoord had slipped to him. It was no ordinary photograph, though its surface was glossy and its margins white.
Within the margins lay shimmering depths. The effect was much like that of a rectangular glass window in the surface of a clear, shallow, coral bay. At the bottom of that seeming coral bay were three women — one white, one gold, one brown. They looked up at Constant, begging him to come to them, to make them whole with love.
Their beauty was to the beauty of Miss Canal Zone as the glory of the Sun was to the glory of a lightning bug.
Constant sank into a wing chair again. He had to look away from all that beauty in order to keep from bursting into tears.
“You can keep that picture, if you like,” said Rumfoord. “It’s wallet size.”
Constant could think of nothing to say.
“My wife will still be with you when you get to Titan,” said Rumfoord, “but she won’t interfere if you want to frolic with these three young ladies. Your son will be with you, too, but he’ll be quite as broadminded as Beatrice.”