Zaer grimaced. "Don't like the sound of it. It's like a fun house at the carnival. Some of 'Em go through the bumps, others stand around watching, waiting for somebody's dress to blow up. And there's the lad who turns the valves, throws the switches. He has the real fun."
Ditmar said, "I've already paid the eight thousand, so you fellows can write me checks. We might as well get that part over now, while I've got you all within reach."
He tucked the checks from Mario, Janniver and Breaugh into his wallet. "Thanks." He turned to Zaer. "This evening at six o'clock, go to this address." He pushed a card across the table. "Give whoever answers the door this card."
Breaugh and Mario, on either side of Zaer, leaned over, scrutinized the card along with Zaer. It read:
THE CHATEAU D*IF 5600 Exmoor Avenue Meadowlands In the corner were scribbled the words: "Zaer, by Sutlow."
"I had to work like blazes to get it," said Ditmar. "It seems they're keeping it exclusive. I had to swear to all kinds of things about you. Now for heaven's sake, Zaer, don't turn out to be an ACP agent or I'm done with Sutlow, and he's my boss."
"ACP?" Zaer raised his eyebrows. "Is it-illegal?"
"I don't know," said Ditmar. "That's what I'm spending two thousand dollars on you for."
"I hope you have a damn good memory," said Breaugh with a cool grin. "Because-if you live-I want two thousand dollars' worth of vicarious adventure."
"If I die," retorted Zaer, "buy yourself a Ouija board; I'll still give you your money's worth."
"Now," said Ditmar, "well meet here Tuesdays and Fridays at three-right, fellows?"-he glanced around the faces-"until you show up."
Zaer rose. "Okay. Tuesdays and Fridays at three. Be seeing you." He waved a hand that took in them all, and stumbling slightly, walked away.
"Poor kid," said Breaugh. "He's scared stiff."
Tuesday passed. Friday passed. Another Tuesday, another Friday, and Tuesday came again. Mario, Ditmar, Breaugh, Janniver reached their table at three o'clock, and with subdued greetings, took their seats.
Five minutes, ten minutes passed. Conversation trickled to a halt. Janniver sat square to the table, big arms resting beside his beer, occasionally scratching at his short yellow hair, or rubbing his blunt nose. Breaugh, slouched back in the seat, looked sightlessly out through the passing crowds. Ditmar smoked passively, and Mario twirled and balanced a bit of paper he had rolled into a cylinder.
At three-fifteen Janniver cleared his throat "I guess he went crazy."
Breaugh grunted. Ditmar smiled a trifle. Mario lit a cigarette, scowled.
Janniver said, "I saw him today."
Six eyes swung to him. "Where?"
"I wasn't going to mention it," said Janniver, "unless he failed to show up today. He's living at the Atlantic-Empire- a suite on the twentieth floor. I bribed the clerk and found that he's been there over a week."
Breaugh said with a wrinkled forehead, eyes black and suspicious, "How did you happen to see him there?"
"I went to check their books. It's on my route. On my way out, I saw Zaer in the lobby, big as life."
"Did he see you?"
Janniver shrugged woodenly. "Possibly. I'm not sure. He seemed rather wrapped up in a woman, an expensive-looking woman."
"Humph," said Ditmar. "Looks like Zaer's got our money's worth, all right."
Breaugh rose. "Let's go call on him, find out why he hasn't been to see us." He turned to Janniver. "Is he registered under his own name?"
Janniver nodded his long heavy head. "As big as life."
Breaugh started away, halted, looked from face to face. "You fellows coming?"
"Yes," said Mario. He rose. So did Ditmar and Janniver.
The Atlantic-Empire Hotel was massive and elegant, equipped with every known device for the feeding, bathing, comforting, amusing, flattering, relaxing, stimulating, assuaging of the men and women able to afford the price.
At the entry a white-coated flunky took the wraps of the most casual visitor, brushed him, offered the woman corsages from an iced case. The hall into the lobby was as hushed as the nave of a cathedral, lined with thirtyfoot mirrors. A moving carpet took the guest into the lobby, a great hall in the Gloriana style of fifty years before. An arcade of small shops lined one wall. Here-if the guest cared little for expense-he could buy wrought copper, gold, tantalum; gowns in glowing fabrics of scarlet, purple, indigo; objets from ancient Tibet and the products of Novacraft; cabochons of green Jovian opals, sold by the milligram, blue balticons from Mars, fire diamonds brought from twenty miles under the surface of the Earth; Marathesti cherries preserved in Organdy Liqueur, perfumes pressed from Arctic moss, white marmorea blooms like the ghosts of beautiful women.
Another entire wall was a single glass panel, the side of the hotel's main swimming pool. Underwater shone blue-green, and there was the splash, the shining wet gold of swimming bodies. The furniture of the lobby was in shades of the same blue-green and gold, with intimacy provided by screens of vines covered with red, black and white blossoms. A golden light suffused the air, heightened the illusion of an enchanted world where people moved in a high-keyed milieu of expensive clothes, fabulous jewelry, elegant wit, careful lovemaking.
Breaugh looked about with a twisted mouth. "Horrible parasites, posing and twittering and debauching each other while the rest of the world works!"
"Oh, come now," said Ditmar. "Don't be so all-fired intense. They're the only ones left who are having any fun."
"I doubt it," said Breaugh. "They're as defeated and futile as anyone else. There's no more place for them to go than there is for us."
"Have you heard of the Empyrean Tower?"
"Oh-vaguely. Some tremendous building out in Meadow-lands."
"That's right. A tower three miles high. Somebody's having fun with that project. Designing it, seeing it go up, up, up."
"There's four billion people in the world," said Breaugh. "Only one Empyrean Tower."
"What kind of a world would it be without extremes?" asked Ditmar. "A place like the inside of a filing cabinet. Breathe the air here. It's rich, smells of civilization, tradition."
Mario glanced in surprise at Ditmar, the saturnine wry Ditmar, whom he would have considered the first to sneer at the foibles of the elite.
Janniver said mildly, "I enjoy coming here, myself. In a way, it's an adventure, a look into a different world." Breaugh snorted. "Only a millionaire can do anything more than look."
"The mass standard of living rises continuously," reflected Mario. "And almost at the same rate the number of millionaires drops. Whether we like it or not, the extremes are coming closer together. In fact, they've almost met."
"And life daily becomes more like a bowl of rich, nourishing mush-without salt," said Ditmar. "By all means abolish poverty, but let's keep our millionaires... . Oh, well, we came here to find Zaer, not to argue sociology. I suppose we might as well all go together."
They crossed the lobby. The desk clerk, a handsome silver-haired man with a grave face, bowed.
"Is Mr. Zaer in?" Ditmar asked.
'I'll call his suite, sir." A moment later: "No, sir, he doesn't answer. Shall I page him?"
"No," said Ditmar. "We'll look around a bit."
"About an hour ago I believe he crossed the lobby toward the Mauna Hiva. You might try there."
"Thanks."
The Mauna Hiva was a circular room. At its center rose a great mound of weathered rock, overgrown with palms, ferns, a tangle of exotic plants. Three coconut palms slanted across the island, and the whole was lit with a soft watery white light. Below was a bar built of waxed tropical woods, and beyond, at the periphery of the illumination, a ring of tables.