“I’m not usually this informal at mixed breakfasts,” she told me, smiling, “but I thought it might warm up enough for a swim a little later.”
She threw the robe aside, and I saw she was wearing a scanty garment beneath it. Evidently the huddlers didn’t swim naked, and I wondered at a moral code that sanctioned drinking alcohol but was ashamed of the human body.
I was glad the house had been cold when I answered the maid’s summons, for I had worn a robe I’d found there.
Fruit juice and wheat cakes and sausage and toast and jelly and eggs and milk. We ate in a small room, off a larger dining room, a small room whose walls were glass on two sides.
“It’s too old a house to modernize completely,” Jean told me. “I grew up in this house.”
“You don’t—work, Jean?”
“No. Should I?”
“Work or study. Life must be very dull if you don’t do one of those.”
“You might have a point there,” she said. “I tried everything from the movies to sculpture. I wasn’t very good at anything. What do you do, Fred?”
“I’m a perpetual guest,” I said lightly. “Do you read much, Jean?”
“Too much, though nothing very heavy, I grant you.”
“Have you ever read about a man named Ambrose Bierce?”
“I’ve read everything he ever wrote. Why did you ask that, Fred?”
“I—heard about him. I wondered who he was.”
“Where did you hear about him, Fred? In Mexico?”
“No. I don’t remember where I heard about him.”
“He disappeared,” she said quietly, “some time right before the first world war. I’ve forgotten the exact year. I think it was 1914.”
Before the war, before the “first” war…. And I thought of Jars’ wife, who had come to us just before this last planetary war—the “second” world war. And what was his pet name for her? Guest, he called her, and joked about her coming from another world. But didn’t Jars defend the discredited late-in-life theories of Akers? I tried to remember the name of Jars’ wife, and then it came.
I asked, “And Amelia Earhart?”
Jean’s voice was rough. “July 2nd, 1937. I guess I’ll never forget that, when my god died. What are you trying to say? Is it some new damned cult you’re promoting, Fred?”
“You called her a god. Why, Jean?”
“I don’t know. I was only thirteen when she died. But she was so clean, so—so free and windswept, so—oh, what the spirit of America should be—and isn’t.”
I looked up to see tears in her eyes. Why was she moved? This girl who certainly knew corruption, this worldly, lovely girl. I smiled at her.
She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “Fred, you are the strangest—I know this town’s a zoo, but you, Fred—”
I continued to smile at her. “I’m just a guy trying to learn. May I repeat something I said last night? You’re beautiful, Jean.”
“You’re no three-headed calf, yourself,” she said.
Twin planets and parallel evolution…. Parallel destiny? Not with a third planetary war shaping up here. Three major wars in less than fifty years. Why, why, why….
She said, “Thinking, again? You do a lot of thinking, don’t you?”
“I have to think of something besides you,” I told her honestly. “I can’t afford to fall in love with you, Jean. I’ve too many places to go and too many things to see.”
She just stared at me. It must have been a full minute before she said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
After breakfast, it was still cold, and she said, “There’ll be no swim this morning, I see. If you want to get an appraisal on that diamond, Fred, I’ll phone one of our jewelers to come out.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Would it be all right if I took these newspapers back to my room, now?”
“Just dandy,” she said. “Sorry to be boring you.”
“You’re not,” I told her earnestly. “Believe me, you’re not.”
The papers were interesting. Nowhere was it stated, but a glance at the front pages showed they were on opposite sides of the political fence. On my planet, we keep the editorial opinion in the editorial columns. Not so with these. The wire services were impartial and the accounts in both papers identical. That was as far as the similarities went. Reading the other accounts was like living in two worlds.
An informed people will always be free. Well, perhaps these weren’t typical.
I was to see papers a lot worse than these before long.
I was just starting the want ads when the knock came at the door. It was the maid, again; the jeweler was at the house.
A small man, suave and dark, with the manners of a diplomat, fawning like a puppy.
It was a perfect stone, he decided. He had, he was sure, a customer who would be interested. Would I accept eight thousand dollars for it?
I said I would, and he left.
We were in the living room, and Jean stood near the tall front windows. She had changed to a suit of some soft blue material.
“As soon as I get the money,” I said, “we’re going out for some fun, aren’t we? I owe you for a beef barbecue.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said. She didn’t look at me.
“You’ll get over him,” I said.
“Him—?” She turned to look at me curiously.
“That man you’re in love with, that man you told me about last night.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. I was drunk last night, Fred. I’m not in love.”
Silence. That attraction of hers pulling at me like some localized gravity, silence, and the beating of my heart. Silence, my hands trembling, my knees aching.
“I’d like to see some fights,” I said. “Would you like to?”
She frowned. “Not particularly.” She stared at me, shook her head, and looked away.
“Well,” I said, “I haven’t finished the want ads.”
“Of course,” she said. “Get right back to them, Freddy. You never know when you’ll find a bargain.”
They weren’t very interesting. I kept seeing her standing next to the window, looking unhappy, frustrated, somehow. I kept seeing the soft fabric of the suit clinging to her beautiful body and the proud grace of her posture.
I went back to the house, and she was sitting on the davenport near the fireplace. She looked up without expression.
I asked, “Is there a library around here?”
She sighed, and rose. She said, “Follow me.”
She led me to a room whose four walls were lined with books. There was a wide glass door leading out from this to the patio.
“Dad’s old retreat,” she said. “Everything from Aristotle to Zola. If there’s something you don’t see, don’t hesitate to ask. We aim to please.”
She closed the door behind her.
I didn’t gorge; I only nibbled. But fed enough to realize this was a deep, rich culture; this planet had produced some first rate minds and exceptional talents. But still, with all this to choose from, the people seemed to prefer Milton Berle. And the people were in command.
I was reading Ambrose Bierce when she came in. She looked at the book, and at me. “Lunch,” she said quietly.
I put the book down, and rose. “The unwelcome guest?”
“I’d tell you, if you were.”
“Would you, honestly?”
She didn’t answer that. She smiled, and said, “There are some fights at Ocean Park, tonight.”
We saw those, and later, some amateur fights. Strange spectacles they were, men belaboring each other, but fascinating, too. The amateurs were less talented, but more friendly, leaving the ring arm in arm, if both were still conscious. The professionals displayed no such amicability.
Why? I asked Jean. What was the difference between the amateurs and the professionals?