She opened bar mouth, closed it, rose to her feet, said, "This way out, sir."
Mario reached, caught sight of Ralston Ebery's fat flaccid fingers, grimaced, pulled back his hands. "I could not touch you-with these hands."
"Nor with any others," she said from the cool distance of her existence.
He passed her to the door. "If you see the most beautiful creature that could possibly exist, if she has a soul like rock crystal, if she challenges you to take her, break her, and you are lost in a fat hideous porridge of a body-"
Her expression shifted a trifle, in which direction he could not tell. "This is the Chateau d'lf," she said. "And you are a fat hideous porridge."
He wordlessly departed. She slid the door shut. Mario shrugged, but Ralston Ebery's face burnt in a hot glow of humiliation. There was no love, no thought of love. Nothing more than the challenge, much like the dare of a mountain to the climbers who scale its height, plunder the secrets of its slopes, master the crest. Thane, cold as the far side of the moon!
Get away, said Mario's brain sharply, break clear of the obsession. Fluff, female bodies, forget them. Is not the tangle of enough complexity?
CHAPTER VI
Leverage
From the door of the Chateau d'lf Mario took an aircab to 19 Seafoam Place-a monster house of pink marble, effulgent, voluted, elaborate as the rest of Ralston Ebery's possessions. He thumbed the lock-hole. The prints meshed with identification patterns, the door snapped back. Mario entered.
The photograph had prepared him for his family. Florence Ebery greeted him with furtive suspicion; the sons were blank, passively hostile. The daughter seemed to have no emotions whatever, other than a constant air of puzzled surprise.
At dinner, Mario outraged Ebery's body by eating nothing but a salad of lettuce, carrots and vinegar. His family was puzzled.
"Are you feeling well, Ralston?" inquired his wife.
"Very well."
"You're not eating."
"I'm dieting. I'm going to take the lard off this hideous body."
Eight eyes bulged, four sets of knives and forks froze.
Mario went on placidly, "We're going to have some changes around here. Too much easy living is bad for a person." He addressed himself to the two young men, both alike with white faces, doughy cheeks, full lips. "You lads now-I don't want to be hard on you. After all, it's not your fault you were born Ralston Ebery's sons. But do you know what it means to earn a living by sweating for it?"
Luther, the eldest, spoke with dignity. "We work with the sweat of our brains."
"Tell me more about it," said Mario.
Luther's eyes showed anger. "I put out more work in one week than you do all year."
"Where?"
"Where? Why, in the glass yard. Where else?" There was fire here, more than Mario had expected.
Ralston Jr. said in a gruff surly voice, "We're paying you our board and room, we don't owe you a red cent. If you don't like the arrangements the way they are, we'll leave."
Mario winced. He had misjudged Ebery's sons. White faces, doughy cheeks, did not necessarily mean white doughy spirits. Better keep his opinions to himself, base his conversation on known fact. He said mildly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Forget the board and room. Spend it on something useful."
He glanced skeptically toward Clydia, Ebery's daughter. She half-simpered. Better keep his mouth shut. She might turn out to be a twelve-hour-a-day social service worker.
Nevertheless, Mario found himself oppressed in Ebery's house. Though living in Ebery's body, the feel of his clothes, his intimate equipment was profoundly disturbing. He could not bring himself to use Ebery's razor or toothbrush. Attending to the needs of Ebery's body was most exquisitely distasteful. He discovered to his relief that his bedroom was separate from that of Florence Ebery.
He arose the next morning very early, scarcely after dawn, hurriedly left the house, breakfasted on orange juice and dry toast at a small restaurant. Ebery's stomach protested the meager rations with angry rumbling. Ebery's legs complained when Mario decided to walk the pedestrip instead of calling down an aircab.
He let himself into the deserted offices of Ebery Air-car, wandered absently back and forth the length of the suite, thinking. Still thinking, he let himself into his private office. The clutter, the rococo junk, annoyed him. He called up a janitor, waved his hand around the room. "Clear out all this fancy stuff. Take it home, keep it. If you don't want it, throw it away. Leave me the desk, a couple of chairs. The rest - out!"
He sat back, thinking. Ways, means.
What weapons could he use?
He drew marks on a sheet of paper.
How could he attack?
Perhaps the law could assist him-somehow. Perhaps the ACP. But what statute did Mervyn Alien violate? There were no precedents. The Chateau d'lf sold adventure. If a customer bought a great deal more than he had bargained for, he had only himself to blame.
Money, money, money. It could not buy back his own body. He needed leverage, a weapon, pressure to apply.
He called the public information service, requested the file on "golasma." It was unknown.
He drew more marks, scribbled meaningless patterns, where was Mervyn Alien vulnerable? The Chateau d'lf, the Empyrean Tower. Once more he dialed into the public information service, requested the sequence on the Empyrean Tower. Typescript flashed across his screen.
The Empyrean Tower will be a multiple-function building at a site in Meadowlands. The highest level will be three miles above ground. The architects are Kubal Associates, Incorporated, of Lanchester. Foundation contracts have been let to Lourey and Lyble-"
Mario touched the shift button; the screen showed an architect's pencil sketch-a slender structure pushing through cloud layers into the clear blue sky. Mario touched the shift button.
Now came detailed information, as to the weight, cubic volume, comparison with the Pyramids, the Chilung Gorge Dam, the Skatterholm complex at Ronn, the Hawke Pylon, the World's Mart at Dar es Salaam.
Mario pushed at his communicator button. No answer. Still too early. Impatient now, he ordered coffee, drank two cups, pacing the office nervously.
At last a voice answered his signal. "When Mr. Correaos comes in, I'd like to speak to him."
Five minutes later Louis Correaos knocked at his door.
"Morning, Louis," said Mario.
"Good morning, Mr. Ebery," said Correaos with a tight guarded expression, as if expecting the worst
Mario said, "Louis, I want some advice ... have you ever heard of Kubal Associates, Incorporated? Architects?"
"No. Can't say as I have."
"I don't want to distract you from your work," said Mario, "but I want to acquire control of that company. Quietly. Secretly, even. I'd like you to make some quiet inquiries. Don't use my name. Buy up as much voting stock as is being offered. Go as high as you like, but get the stock. And don't use my name."
Correaos's face became a humorous mask, with a bitter twist to his mouth. "What am I supposed to use for money?"
Mario rubbed the flabby folds around his jaw. "Hm. There's no reserve fund, no bank balance?"
Correaos looked at him queerly.
"You should know."
Mario squinted off to the side. True, he should know. To Louis Correaos, this was Ralston Ebery sitting before him- the arbitrary, domineering Ralston Ebery. Mario said, "Check on how much we can raise, will you, Louis?"
Correaos said, "Just a minute." He left the room. He returned with a bit of paper.
"I've been figuring up retooling costs. We'll have to borrow. It's none of my business what you did with the fund."