floor by the most convenient staircases. By the time he reached the fifth story he had decided that the big surprise about Melford Castle was not its size, or its opulence, or even its odd setting in a Martian grotto. Its principal oddity was its emptiness. He had encountered plenty of cleaners and polishers, smart enough to roll out of his way and delicate enough to handle fine silver and eggshell porcelain. But he had met not a single human being, in eight floors of random wandering.
Just who lived here? Not Jarvis Dommer, who spent most of his time back on Earth. Not the BEC research staff, who remained in their superbly-equipped labs.
Bey was beginning to suspect the answer, and to add it to his growing list of mental queries, when he descended a little crooked staircase carpeted with a thick-piled green rug and found himself where he was not supposed to be.
The stairs were not intended for general use. They brought Bey down right into a little changing-room that formed part of Trudy Melford's private wing. He saw the dress that she had been wearing when she met him at the link terminal, dumped unceremoniously on the floor together with underwear and shoes. The launderers would take care of those—they had stood waiting for Bey's clothes until he shooed them away—but logic said that Trudy must be here, probably beyond the inner door of white enamel.
Bey was clearly in private territory. He should go no farther. He peered at the panties, which he was delighted to see bore a repeating printed pattern Empress of BEC. Trudy had a sense of humor. How many people got to appreciate this particular demonstration of it? He went to the white door.
It was still another ante-chamber, or maybe a study. A great wooden desk stood in one corner and the walls were lined with old paper books. Bey started for them—books were one of his own addictions—but he paused halfway. On the wall by the desk hung a series of framed pictures. One showed a baby, fat-faced and frowning at the camera. The next was the same child with a httle more dark hair. This time it was smiling. In the final image it was clear from the clothing that the baby was a boy-child. But the same picture was black-edged, and bore along its lower boundary the grim legend: Errol Ergon Melford. In Memoriam, sweet baby. Sleep in peace.
Bey knew that he had intruded on a very private place. It was almost a relief when the inner door opened and Trudy Melford emerged. She saw Bey, gasped, shivered, and looked around her before she spoke.
"My God, you startled me. Where did you spring from?"
"I didn't feel tired. I thought I'd look round the castle."
"But this is my private suite. I mean, I had no idea you were even on this floor. This is my dressing-room. I might have wandered out here stark naked. That's why I was so shocked."
Nice try; but not persuasive. "I'm sorry."
It was the conventional reply. Bey wasn't sorry, not in the least. Trudy had been shocked, no doubt about it, but not at the prospect of being caught nude. She was not far from it now, when she presumably considered herself appropriately dressed for lunch and all she had on was a short and tight-fitting sleeveless blue tunic that left her arms, midriff, and most of her legs and breasts bare.
"I guess you're not used to having people around here."
Now Bey was fishing, but Trudy had recovered her composure. "Not usually. I'm like you. Company is fine, but unless it's with just the right person"—those startling eyes stared into his— "it's usually too much of a good thing."
A deliberate distraction, intended to set his mind running along other tracks. Bey decided to play along and see how far it would go. He stared hard at Trudy's body before he offered her his arm.
"I didn't meet anyone on the way down," he said. "Just how private is this place?"
"I'm like you." Trudy slipped her arm through Bey's and snuggled close. "I prefer to live alone. The castle is as private as you want it to be."
So
Just who lived here? Not Jarvis Dommer, who spent most of his time back on Earth. Not the BEC research staff, who remained in their superbly-equipped labs.
Bey was beginning to suspect the answer, and to add it to his growing list of mental queries, when he descended a little crooked staircase carpeted with a thick-piled green rug and found himself where he was not supposed to be.
The stairs were not intended for general use. They brought Bey down right into a little changing-room that formed part of Trudy Melford's private wing. He saw the dress that she had been wearing when she met him at the link terminal, dumped unceremoniously on the floor together with underwear and shoes. The launderers would take care of those—they had stood waiting for Bey's clothes until he shooed them away—but logic said that Trudy must be here, probably beyond the inner door of white enamel.
Bey was clearly in private territory. He should go no farther. He peered at the panties, which he was delighted to see bore a repeating printed pattern Empress of BEC. Trudy had a sense of humor. How many people got to appreciate this particular demonstration of it? He went to the white door.
It was still another ante-chamber, or maybe a study. A great wooden desk stood in one corner and the walls were lined with old paper books. Bey started for them—books were one of his own addictions—but he paused halfway. On the wall by the desk hung a series of framed pictures. One showed a baby, fat-faced and frowning at the camera. The next was the same child with a httle more dark hair. This time it was smiling. In the final image it was clear from the clothing that the baby was a boy-child. But the same picture was black-edged, and bore along its lower boundary the grim legend: Errol Ergon Melford. In Memoriam, sweet baby. Sleep in peace.
Bey knew that he had intruded on a very private place. It was almost a relief when the inner door opened and Trudy Melford emerged. She saw Bey, gasped, shivered, and looked around her before she spoke.
"My God, you startled me. Where did you spring from?"
"I didn't feel tired. I thought I'd look round the castle."
"But this is my private suite. I mean, I had no idea you were even on this floor. This is my dressing-room. I might have wandered out here stark naked. That's why I was so shocked."
Nice try; but not persuasive. "I'm sorry."
It was the conventional reply. Bey wasn't sorry, not in the least. Trudy had been shocked, no doubt about it, but not at the prospect of being caught nude. She was not far from it now, when she presumably considered herself appropriately dressed for lunch and all she had on was a short and tight-fitting sleeveless blue tunic that left her arms, midriff, and most of her legs and breasts bare.
"I guess you're not used to having people around here."
Now Bey was fishing, but Trudy had recovered her composure. "Not usually. I'm like you. Company is fine, but unless it's with just the right person"—those startling eyes stared into his— "it's usually too much of a good thing."
A deliberate distraction, intended to set his mind running along other tracks. Bey decided to play along and see how far it would go. He stared hard at Trudy's body before he offered her his arm.
"I didn't meet anyone on the way down," he said. "Just how private is this place?"
"I'm like you." Trudy slipped her arm through Bey's and snuggled close. "I prefer to live alone. The castle is as private as you want it to be."
So
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