The Huddlers Part 4

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 d.a.m.ned."

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 gla.s.s 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?

"Money," she said, and looked at me strangely. "Didn't you really know that?"

I lied with a nod. "I wanted you to see it, and to word it for yourself."

"Look," she said with controlled irritation, "if I want any curbstone philosophy, I can read one of those corny columnists. I certainly don't have to sit in a screaming mob watching a couple of morons pound each other b.l.o.o.d.y to arrive at a stupid generality like that."

"Let's get a hamburger," I said.

She just stood there, on the sidewalk. "You--you--"

People were turning to stare.