The smile faltered for an instant, reminding the crowd of what a load Rumfoord carried for them — warning the crowd that he might not be able to carry it forever.
Rumfoord carried in his palm a microphone and transmitter the size of a penny. When he did not want his voice carried to the crowd, he simply smothered the penny in his fist.
The penny was smothered in his fist now — and he was addressing bits of irony to the Space Wanderer that would have bewildered the crowd, had the crowd been able to hear them.
“This is certainly your day, isn’t it?” said Rumfoord. “A perfect love feast from the instant you arrived. The crowd simply adores you. Do you adore crowds?”
The joyful shocks of the day had reduced the Space Wanderer to a childish condition — a condition wherein irony and even sarcasm were lost on him. He had been the captive of many things in his troubled times. He was now a captive of a crowd that thought he was a marvel. “They’ve certainly been wonderful,” he said, in reply to Rumfoord’s last question. “They’ve been grand.”
“Oh — they’re a grand bunch,” said Rumfoord. “No mistake about that. I’ve been racking my brains for the right word to describe them, and you’ve brought it to me from outer space. Grand is what they are.” Rumfoord’s mind was plainly elsewhere. He wasn’t much interested in the Space Wanderer as a person — hardly looked at him. Neither did he seem very excited about the approach of the Space Wanderer’s wife and child.
“Where are they, where are they?” said Rumfoord to an assistant below. “Let’s get on with it. Let’s get it over with.”
The Space Wanderer was finding his adventures so satisfying and stimulating, so splendidly staged, that he was shy about asking questions — was afraid that asking questions might make him seem ungrateful.
He realized that he had a terrific ceremonial responsibility and that the best thing to do was to keep his mouth shut, to speak only when spoken to, and to make his answers to all questions short and artless.
The Space Wanderer’s mind did not teem with questions. The fundamental structure of his ceremonial situation was obvious — was as clean and functional as a three-legged milking stool. He had suffered mightily, and now he was being rewarded mightily.
The sudden change in fortunes made a bang-up show. He smiled, understanding the crowd’s delight — pretending to be in the crowd himself, sharing the crowd’s delight.
Rumfoord read the Space Wanderer’s mind. “They’d like it just as much the other way around, you know,” he said.
“The other way around?” said the Space Wanderer.
“If the big reward came first, and then the great suffering,” said Rumford. “It’s the contrast they like. The order of events doesn’t make any difference to them. It’s the thrill of the fast reverse — ”
Rumfoord opened his fist, exposed the microphone. With his other hand he beckoned pontifically. He was beckoning to Bee and Chrono, who had been hoisted Onto a tributary of the gilded system of catwalks, ramps, ladders, pulpits, steps and stages. “This way, please. We haven’t got all day, you know,” said Rumfoord schoolmarmishly.
During the lull, the Space Wanderer felt the first real tickle of plans for a good future on Earth. With everyone so kind and enthusiastic and peaceful, not only a good life but a perfect life could be lived on Earth.
The Space Wanderer had already been given a fine new suit and a glamorous station in life, and his mate and son were to be restored to him in a matter of minutes.
All that was lacking was a good friend, and the Space Wanderer began to tremble. He trembled, for he knew in his heart that his best friend, Stony Stevenson, was hidden somewhere on the grounds, awaiting a cue to appear.
The Space Wanderer smiled, for he was imagining Stony’s entrance. Stony would come running down a ramp, laughing and a little drunk. “Unk, you bloody bastard — ” Stony would roar right into the public address system, “by God, I’ve looked in every flaming pub on bloody Earth for you — and here you’ve been hung up on Mercury the whole bloody time!”