"But you do," she said. "Very." She stood up, slender and erect, and put her hand on, a old-fashioned French phone that stood by the bedside. She posed there, as if she had forgotten what she set out to do. "Is your valet reliable?"
"I don't know," said Dick. "They sent him around from the bureau. I guess he's all right."
"What's his name?"
"Albert."
"Oh, dear," she said earnestly. "A gawky sort of thing, who always looks is if he needs a haircut?"
"Yes, that's him. Why?"
"But he's the worst servant in Eagles; they give him to overnight visitors -- couriers, and people like that. Dear Mr. Jones, couldn't you do any better?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Dick; the headache was worse, and it was hard to listen. "They told me you can't bring your own slobs into Eagles."
"Well, of course, that's true, but still -- " She took her hand away from the phone and stood by the chair, looking down at him. "Does your head hurt?"
"Some."
"I should think it would. Here." She took an ice bag from the table and laid it gently on his swollen temple. Her scent when she leaned over him was unobtrusive and fresh, something like sandalwood, not cloyingly sweet like most women's. "Why did you pick that fight with Ruell, anyway? Didn't you know this would happen?"
"I thought I might as well," said Dick, defensively. "I'm not much worse off this way, but if I'd won -- "
She sniffed delicately. "He happens to be the best stickman in Eagles; but you didn't know that, did you?"
"No," said Dick, feeling belatedly foolish. Well, but what else could he have done? If it came to that, what could he do next?
Whatever he did, he mustn't seem to be asking for sympathy. "I really had better be going," he said. "If I could just have my clothes -- "
"Don't be foolish," she said, unsmiling. "Maybe we can help you. Tell me, what did you think would happen if you did beat Ruell?"
"I don't know. It was a loony idea, I guess, but I couldn't think of anything better. I thought I could make him call off his dogs."
"His dogs?"
"He's got Van Etten and I don't know who all else working with him. I can't get my commission, or make a call home -- "
Her fists clenched. "That lizard! That just makes me furious, to hear -- " She turned. "Howard, come in and listen to this; you won't believe your ears."
"No?" said a voice Dick recognized. A tall man came leisurely toward them across the room, broad-shouldered in a plain yellow shirt. He was young, only a few years older than Dick; he had a pleasant, narrow face and a narrow mustache, and he was smoking a lean, long cigar.
"Richard Jones, Howard Clay. Now tell us the whole story, Richard, because we're all friends together. Howard, listen to this."
"I'm listening." Clay perched himself on the end of the bed and leaned back against the bedpost; his brown eyes were friendly but ironical.
Seeing no way out of it, Dick told them everything that had happened to him from the first day. When he had finished, Clay whistled softly. "I admire your spunk, anyhow," he said. "But you went about Ruell the wrong way. He's provoked now; he'll never let you go unless you give in."
Dick's hands clenched into fists on the coverlet. "There must be some way out. Is that what you have to do here, to get along -- let somebody barter you off like a slob, or an animal?"
There was an awkward pause. "I wouldn't put it just like that," said the lady with marked coolness. Clay leaned over and stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray; his eyes were narrowed.
"Well, I'm sorry," said Dick; "but that's how it seems to me."
"Tell me," Clay said, "have you thought of appealing to the Boss?"
Dick hesitated. "I don't know. Do you think that would work?"
"No; but it's the only fool thing you haven't done yet. Now look here, Mister Jones, my advice to you is this: Find yourself a protector, don't wait for Ruell to do it for you. Get somebody to your liking, and if possible somebody a cut above Ruell, so he won't dare make too much trouble. Let your friend barter him off, or frighten him off, or whatever, and you'll be all right. Otherwise, Ruell will make you eat dirt. He'll keep you cooling your heels until you're ragged, and then he'll put you in the Misfit Battalion, and that only for a beginning. It's the truth." Clay rose gracefully, turned his back, and strolled off across the room, hands in his pockets.
The woman looked after him thoughtfully. "Howard."
"Yes?" he said over his shoulder.
"I think I'm going to do it."
He swung around. "I knew you were going to say that. You're insane, you know. You might as well take on the Magyar Corps de Ballet; you can't feed them, either."
"Charles will have to give me a larger quota," she said.
Clay sniffed. "Yes, but will he?"
"He'll have to." She turned to Dick. "Would you like me to adopt you, Richard?"
Dick hesitated. For some reason he did not feel that he would like it at all, and yet reason told him that he couldn't afford to let any honorable opportunity slip away. "What would I have to do for it?" he asked.
"Do for it?" she repeated wonderingly. "Oh, I see. Richard, how old do you think I am?"
The sudden question did not appear to surprise Clay; he came nearer and put his foot up on the arm of the chair, and they both watched Dick with silent enjoyment.
He looked at her: her skin seemed firm and unlined, except for a trace of crepiness around the eyes. There was no loose flesh under the chin and her hands did not seem wrinkled or heavily veined; those were supposed to be the telltales. Her figure was as slim as a young woman's. There was nothing about her that seemed old, except perhaps the confident stare of her eyes and the determined mouth. And yet there was none of the softness of youth about her anywhere: her very slimness was almost skeletal, and the fine bones showed through her face.
She was probably at least forty; he had better lop off a few years for politeness. "Thirty-five?" he said.
They both smiled. Her smile made her seem girlishly delighted; she said, "Much more than that. I'm -- well; I'm old enough. I have a grandson almost your age. Haven't I, Howie?"
"Mm," said Clay, biting off the end of a fresh cigar.
"Let me understand this," said Dick. "You'd clear up this trouble about my commission, and using the TV, and so on?"
"And feed you, and clothe you decently," said Clay. "You've been on a visitor's quota, I expect, haven't you? Well, Vivian will have to do better for you than that; how, I don't know, but if she says so, I suppose she'll do it." He glanced at her out of the corners of his narrow eyes.
She put her hand on his arm. "Don't worry, Howie," she said quietly.
Clay seemed reassured. "And for all this," he told Dick, "you won't even have to carry a parcel ... unless you feel like it. Vivian demands nothing -- she's a philanthropist."
The woman gave him a look which Dick could not interpret. "Oh, you," she said, and turned with a smile. "Then it's all settled -- yes?"
Dick was remembering Ruell's matter-of-fact voice: "Nothing is ever given for nothing, at Eagles." Across the bed, these two strangers were looking at him with something unspoken in their eyes.
But how could he say anything except "yes"?
The screen flickered and blurred, out of synch.
"Dad? Is that you?"
"I'm here, Richard. You're coming in clear and strong; what's the matter at that end?"
"It's -- Oh, it's all right now." The blurred streaks of color coalesced into his father's face, greenish in the shaded parts. Dick touched up the red control, turned down the blue; the face took on a more normal appearance. "How is everybody?"