As the others turned, the door swung open all the way. A woman with coppery hair piled around the merest sketch or suggestion of a hat was leaning into the room with her slender hand on the doorknob. George caught a glimpse of someone standing behind her, and then, smiling brilliantly, she was advancing toward them like a minor natural catastrophe.
“There you all are,” she said happily. “Hiding! Did you think I wasn’t coming, Luther? Art, when did you get into town? Why didn’t you call me? Morey, you’re looking as eatable as ever. George, darling,” she finished, and patted him on the cheek.
The four of them were standing, even Luther, who normally made getting out of a chair a ceremony. George found his heart going at an unusual rate. Glancing at the others, he conjectured that they all felt the came symptoms as far as the state of their arteries would permit. Luther and Art were beaming, and Morey’s grin was a little more shy than usual. Hilda Place affected men like that—all men, as far as George had been able to discover.
She had enormous brilliant eyes, with faint bluish shadows under them, the eyes of a mature and knowing woman; but her lips had the softness of youth. Her slender body was covered from throat to wrist and calf by her dark green dress. Hilda preferred not to expose herself in public; she had never worn the showcase gowns that were currently fashionable.
Accepting their greetings, she gave each of them a kiss on the cheek. All except George. While he was still telling himself that it was absurd for this to matter so much to him, she had turned and brought a stranger into the group.
“I want you all to meet Joseph Krueger,” she said gaily. “He’s the most fascinating man in the world, and I want everybody to remember that I discovered him. Gentlemen, this is the Man From the Past!”
The Man From the Past looked as young as George; he was well set up, but had a curious awkwardness about him, a coltish uncertainty. He had a large chin, mild eyes behind dark-rimmed spectacles, and an engaging smile. George, despite a stab of jealousy, decided that he liked him.
“I’m not a time traveler or anything,” Krueger was saying. “That’s only Miss Place’s exaggeration. I’m an amnesiac, they tell me. I found myself standing on a street corner in Vienna two weeks ago, and the last thing I remember before that was having a drink in Wichita, Kansas, in December, 1953. So I’m amusingly ignorant, as Miss Place puts it.”
“Astonishing,” said Levinson. “Isn’t it?” said Hilda delightedly. Her parted lips were moist. “This is all new to him. He drinks it in like a man from Mars — about the world government, and what happened to New York, and G-string parties—”
“And people hundreds of years old,” Krueger put in. “That, mostly.”
Levinson was still pursuing his own thought. “You lived under amnesia for better than three centuries, then,” he said. “That must be a record. You have no idea what you were doing all that time, I suppose?”
Krueger shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve made inquiries, of course, but there was nothing in my pockets that gave any clue, and apparently I didn’t live in Vienna; I couldn’t find anybody who knew me there. Actually, I don’t mind very much—I feel like what Miss Place calls me, the Man From the Past. I’m having a time just trying to catch up.”
“We’ve been to see the Peace Monument, and Chico’s, and the Doges’ Palace—”
“And the pretty girls on the Lido,” added Krueger, widening his grin.
“—and we’re still not half done. I’m exhausted,” Hilda said. “And I’ve got to disappear for a few weeks on business, so I hope some of you will find time to show Joseph the sights. Not you, Luther. I know you never go out. And, Art, I suppose you’re running back to your fruit-flies. But Morey? Or George?”
Krueger looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be any bother.”
“Not at all,” said George sympathetically. “You’re a novelty, you know, and that’s a rare thing after the first hundred years or so. Have you got any notion where you’d like to go next, or is it all too new?”
“Too new, I’m afraid. But any place I haven’t seen yet would be fine with me, as long as I’m no trouble.”
“I’ll work out an itinerary and Call you,” said George. “Let me have your address and number.”
Luther said, “Meanwhile, shall we go mingle with the populace? I’ve got to, anyway. Some of them would probably recognize me if they saw me and will be hurt if they don’t.” He offered his arm to Hilda and they started out. He turned at the door to ask Levinson, “You’re staying the night at least, aren’t you. Art? Good. We’ll all get together again a little later.”
George exchanged a few more words with Krueger, introduced him to three beautiful women, and wandered off looking for Hilda.
He found her in the middle of a tight group near the end of the room where dancing was being attempted to the strains of Luther’s music-library outlet, and wormed his way in to her.
“Dance with me?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course, George,” she said, and a reluctant lane opened for them. Then her lithe warm body was in his arms, and the ridiculous gilded feathers on her hat were tickling his ear.
“I rather like your Joe,” he said.
“I’m glad. Isn’t he delicious?” Her breath warmed the side of his neck.
“Haven’t kissed him,” said George. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Somehow, without seeming to withdraw deliberately, she no longer was quite so close to him.
“Sorry, ” he said.“That slipped.”
“I didn’t like it,” she told him, “but I think I’ll forgive you, because I like you so much. Actually, though, you’re wrong. Joseph is one man I’m absolutely certain I shall never have an affair with.”
“That’s not much comfort,” George said grumpily. “It seems to make two of us—Joseph and me.”
She smiled up at him. “As if it matters, darling. There are so many women in the world.”
“But it’s you I want.”
“For the moment.”
He stared in astonishment at her softly laughing eyes. “Well, good Lord, you don’t think it should be forever, do you? I mean monogamy was all very well for a short-lived human race, but—”
“Don’t be silly, George. Nobody could stand one mate for what may be centuries or even more. It’s a horrifying thought.”
“Then what are you trying to tell me?” he challenged.
“I’m very fond of you; you know that. And I’m very pleased and flattered that you want me.”
“Then why not—”
She seemed almost embarrassed. “I don’t know just how to put it, darling. If it’s just me you want, when there are so many other women, then it’s an obsession and you ought to see an analyst.”
“But I said it wasn’t that. Really, Hilda, this is all very damaging to my self-esteem. I’m not sure I want to know your objection to me, but I’m afraid I must. What is it?”
She turned still pinker and looked away. “It’s idiotic, George. You probably won’t understand it; I don’t think I do, myself.” She turned her face up defiantly. “I feel—motherly toward you.”
“Motherly?” he repeated, stunned. “But that’s nonsense! You wouldn’t know how a mother feels! None of us would—I mean women, of course — any more than I know what it’s like to feel fatherly.”
“But I’m so much older than you.”
“Well, who isn’t?”
“You see, I said you wouldn’t understand,” she answered sadly, then tugged his arm with sudden desperate gaiety toward the bar. “Let’s forget all this sociological argument, George. I want a drink.”