They emerged into a dining room.
At first, Don was mildly surprised at its size. He had expected, from what he had seen thus far, some absolutely baronial room. This was large but not as much so as all that. The table was set for four, and possibly could have accommodated eight, but no more in comfort.
Demming mumbled, “Family dining room. Cozy, eh?”
Cozy wasn’t quite the word. Still again, though no connoisseur of art, Don Mathers recognized that the room was done in Picasso, the twentieth century master.
Demming saw the direction of his eyes and said, “My daughter’s a collector. Can’t stand the man myself. Lot of crud. Could do better myself. Pay off the national debt of France, at the time he lived, for what they cost.”
There were two women at the far side of the room and the interplanetary magnate led Don over to them. They were in semi-formal afternoon dress and both had small sherry glasses in hand.
Demming said, “My dear, may I present sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers? My wife, Martha, Lieutenant.”
Don Mathers had taken the usual course in etiquette at the Space Forces Academy, which supposedly turned out gentlemen as well as fighting pilots. He bent over Mrs. Demming’s hand.
She was completely unattractive, colorless and bland of expression. She even had slightly buck teeth and Don could only wonder why she hadn’t had them straightened as a child; dental science had advanced as much as any other field of medicine and a mouth full of perfect teeth was assumed in everyone. He vaguely remembered reading something about her once. The Demming fortune went back several generations and the tycoon had inherited wealth beyond the dreams of most men, but when he had married the heiress Martha Wentworth his fortune had doubled. Looking at her, Don wondered inwardly if it had been worth it.
Demming said, “And this is my daughter Alicia, Lieutenant.”
Now Alicia was another thing and Don wondered how such a woman as Martha Demming could ever have produced her. Her eyes were a startling green and her skin was flawlessly tanned an even gold that looked theatrical and almost implausible. Her hair was long, down to her shoulders, blond, rich and pale. Her figure, too, was rich, though possibly just a shade underweight.
She didn’t offer to shake hands. She said, “A sub-lieutenant? What in the world do you do, Lieutenant?”
Don said, “I pilot a One Man Scout.”
“Good heavens,” she said, her nose slightly high, as though there was an odor about. “Father does bring home the strangest people.”
“That will be all, Alicia,” Demming sighed. “The lieutenant is a most perceptive young man.” And to Don. “Would you like an Amontillado before we eat?”
“Amontillado?”
“The driest of the Spanish sherries. I put down quite a few pipes before they discontinued the wineries.”
“Oh. Well, no thanks. I suppose I got a sufficient edge on from the cognac.”
The fat man looked at the women and gestured to the table. “Then, my dears…”
Don was seated across from Alicia. She was so startlingly attractive that it was difficult to keep his eyes off her. She, however, seemed completely oblivious to his masculine charm. Alicia obviously did not mingle with ranks as low as sub-lieutenant.
Miraculously, liveried servants materialized. Two stood behind each chair. Two silver ice buckets were brought and placed immediately to the side of Demming. A long green bottle was brought forth, deftly wrapped in a napkin, deftly opened. The servant had a gold key suspended about his neck. He poured half a glass of wine into a crystal goblet before Demming and took a step backward respectfully.
The fat tycoon swirled the wine a bit to bring up the bouquet, then sipped. He pursed his plump lips thoughtfully.
The sommelier said, anxiety in his voice, “Perhaps the Gewurztraminer instead? It has come of age and should be supreme, sir.”
Demming shook his head and said, “No, no, Alfredo. The Riesling is still excellent, though in another six months or so we may have another story.”
The servant served the two ladies, then Don, and returned to fill his master’s glass, then put the bottle back into the ice bucket. There were two other similar bottles.
Meanwhile, another lackey had pushed an hors d’oeuvre cart up beside Martha Demming. On it was a variety sufficient to feed a hungry squad of infantrymen. She selected exactly one canapé and the cart moved on to Alicia.
Demming indicated the wine to Don. “Edelbee-rensauslese Riesling,” he said.
Don tasted and blinked. He said, “But, it’s real wine.”
“Yes, of course,” the other said in fat satisfaction, and taking another sizable swig. The wine waiter was there immediately to refill the glass to the two thirds level.
Don said, in puzzlement, “But I thought that the government had terminated wine grapes so that the acreage could be devoted to more necessary produce.”
Demming leered smugly. “I prevailed upon the authorities to allow me to continue production on small, but the very best, vineyards in France, Germany, Italy and Hungary, in the name of retaining an art that has come down through the centuries. My vineyards, then, are in the way of being museums. A manner of maintaining a tradition.” He winked one of his pig eyes. “Even the President often dines with me and appreciates my vintages.” He chuckled heavily. “He wouldn’t dare serve wine in his own palace. The outcry in such areas as what we once called France, would reach the skies, if they knew his privilege.”
The hors d’oeuvre cart had reached Don Mathers.
Demming pointed out several, judiciously. “I can recommend Choux au Caviar Mimosa.”
One of the waiters behind Don’s chair immediately served the guest two puffs overflowing with gray-black fish eggs.
Don looked blank. “Caviar?” he said. “I’ve read about it but I didn’t know it was still being produced.”
Demming said, “I have my own artificial lake in the Caspian Mountains. It’s stocked with sturgeons and produces sufficient roe to provide me and some of my closest associates. And you must try some of this Anchovy Garlic Canapé and a bit of this Pistachio Cheese Roll.”
Don’s plate was soon overflowing. He couldn’t have eaten this much food even if nothing else was to come. He looked from the side of his eyes at Alicia’s plate. She had selected three small tasties.
When the cart got to Demming it was another thing. He not only selected more than he had recommended to Don, but half again as much.
Course followed course, each with a different wine. Soup, shellfish, poultry—in this case, wild duck. Where in the hell did you get wild duck these days? Don thought. All came with various vegetable dishes, done up in such a way that sometimes Don couldn’t recognize the vegetables. He was surfeited before he had finished the sautéed soft-shell crabs.
The women ate moderately, especially Alicia, who also no more than sipped at the continuing selection of wines. Don sipped too. He had done his share of sampling the Riesling and the rosé that went with the shellfish but gave up when it came to the heavier and heavier reds. He felt he was rapidly becoming drenched. Now he realized that he never should have taken those three cognacs earlier.
The climax came when one of the servants brought in an enormous platter of meat and placed it before the billionaire interplanetary tycoon, whose eyes lit up.