“Son?” said Constant. He had no son.
“Yes — a fine boy named Chrono,” said Rumfoord.
“Chrono?” said Constant.
“A Martian name,” said Rumfoord. “He’s born on Mars — by you, out of Beatrice.”
“Beatrice?” said Constant.
“My wife,” said Rumfoord. He had become quite transparent. His voice was becoming tinny, too, as though coming from a cheap radio. “Things fly this way and that, my boy,” he said, “with or without messages. It’s chaos, and no mistake, for the Universe is just being born. It’s the great becoming that makes the light and the heat and the motion, and bangs you from hither to yon.
“Predictions, predictions, predictions,” said Rumfoord musingly. “Is there anything else I should tell you? Ohhhhh — yes, yes, yes. This child of yours, this boy named Chrono — “Chrono will pick up a little strip of metal on Mars — ” said Rumfoord, “and he will call it his ‘goodluck piece.’ Keep your eye on that good-luck piece, Mr. Constant. It’s unbelievably important.”
Winston Niles Rumfoord vanished slowly, beginning with the ends of his fingers, and ending with his grin. The grin remained some time after the rest of him had gone.
“See you on Titan,” said the grin. And then it was gone.
“Is it all over, Moncrief?” Mrs. Winston Niles Rumfoord called down to the butler from the top of the spiral staircase.
“Yes, Mum — he’s left,” said the butler, “and the dog, too.”
“And that Mr. Constant?” said Mrs. Rumfoord — said Beatrice. She was behaving like an invalid — tottering, blinking hard, making her voice like wind in the treetops. She wore a long white dressing gown whose soft folds formed a counter-clockwise spiral in harmony with the white staircase. The train of the gown cascaded down the top riser, making Beatrice Continuous with the architecture of the mansion.
It was her tall, straight figure that mattered most in the display. The details of her face were insignificant. A cannonball, substituted for her head, would have suited the grand composition as well.
But Beatrice did have a face — and an interesting one. It could be said that she looked like a bucktoothed Indian brave. But anyone who said that would have to add quickly that she looked marvelous. Her face, like the face of Malachi Constant, was a one-of-a-kind, a surprising variation on a familiar theme — a variation that made observers think, Yes — that would be another very nice way for people to look. What Beatrice had done with her face, actually, was what any plain girl could do. She had overlaid it with dignity, suffering, intelligence, and a piquant dash of bitchiness.
“Yes,” said Constant from below, “that Mr. Constant is still here.” He was in plain view, leaning against a column in the arch that opened onto the foyer. But he was so low in the composition, so lost in architectural details as to be almost invisible.
“Oh!” said Beatrice. “How do you do.” It was a very empty greeting.
“How do you do,” said Constant.
“I can only appeal to your gentlemanly instincts,” said Beatrice, “in asking you not to spread the story of your meeting with my husband far and wide. I can well understand how tremendous the temptation to do so must be.”
“Yes — ” said Constant, “I could sell my story for a lot of money, pay off the mortgage on the homestead, and become an internationally famous figure. I could hob-nob with the great and near-great, and perform before the crowned heads of Europe.”
“You’ll pardon me,” said Beatrice, “if I fail to appreciate sarcasm and all the other brilliant nuances of your no doubt famous wit, Mr. Constant. These visits of my husband’s make me ill.”
“You never see him any more, do you?” said Constant.
“I saw him the first time he materialized,” said Beatrice, “and that was enough to make me ill for the rest of my days.”
“I liked him very much,” said Constant.
“The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms,” said Beatrice.
“Insane?” said Constant.
“As a man of the world, Mr. Constant,” said Beatrice, “wouldn’t you say that any person who made complicated and highly improbable prophecies was mad?”