“Lies,” Childan said.
“Well, subject not worth discussing,” Betty said tactfully, with a glance at the two of them.
They had finished their drinks, and she went to refill.
“Lot of hot blood stirred up in political discussion.” Paul said. “Everywhere you go. Essential to keep head.”
“Yes,” Childan agreed. “Calmness and order. So things return to customary stability.”
“Period after death of Leader critical in totalitarian society,” Paul said. “Lack of tradition and middle-class institutions combine—” He broke off. “Perhaps better drop politics.” He smiled. “Like old student days.”
Robert Childan felt his face flush, and he bent over his new drink to conceal himself from the eyes of his host. What a dreadful beginning he had made. In a foolish and loud manner he had argued politics; he had been rude in his disagreeing, and only the adroit tact of his host had sufficed to save the evening. How much I have to learn, Childan thought. They’re so graceful and polite. And I—the white barbarian. It is true.
For a time he contented himself with sipping his drink and keeping on his face an artificial expression of enjoyment. I must follow their leads entirely, he told himself. Agree always.
Yet in a panic he thought, My wits scrambled by the drink. And fatigue and nervousness. Can I do it? I will never be invited back anyhow; it is already too late. He felt despair.
Betty, having returned from the kitchen, had once more seated herself on the carpet. How attractive, Robert Childan thought again. The slender body. Their figures are so superior; not fat, not bulbous. No bra or girdle needed. I must conceal my longing; that at all costs. And yet now and then he let himself steal a glance at her. Lovely dark colors of her skin, hair, and eyes. We are half-baked compared to them. Allowed out of the kiln before we were fully done. The old aboriginal myth; the truth, there.
I must divert my thoughts. Find social item, anything. His eyes strayed about, seeking some topic. The silence reigned heavily, making his tension sizzle. Unbearable. What the hell to say? Something safe. His eyes made out a book on a low black teak cabinet.
“I see you’re reading The Grasshopper Lies Heavy,” he said. “I hear it on many lips, but pressure of business prevents my own attention.” Rising, he went to pick it up, carefully consulting their expressions; they seemed to acknowledge this gesture of sociality, and so he proceeded. “A mystery? Excuse my abysmal ignorance.” He turned the pages.
“Not a mystery,” Paul said. “On contrary, interesting form of fiction possibly within genre of science fiction.”
“Oh no,” Betty disagreed. “No science in it. Nor set in future. Science fiction deals with future, in particular future where science has advanced over now. Book fits neither premise.”
“But,” Paul said, “it deals with alternate present. Many well-known science fiction novels of that sort.” To Robert he explained, “Pardon my insistence in this, but as my wife knows, I was for a long time a science fiction enthusiast. I began that hobby early in my life; I was merely twelve. It was during the early days of the war.”
“I see,” Robert Childan said, with politeness.
“Care to borrow Grasshopper?” Paul asked. “We will soon be through, no doubt within day or so. My office being downtown not far from your esteemed store, I could happily drop it off at lunchtime.” He was silent, and then—possibly, Childan thought, due to a signal from Betty—continued, “You and I, Robert, could eat lunch together, on that occasion.”
“Thank you,” Robert said. It was all he could say. Lunch, in one of the downtown businessmen’s fashionable restaurants. He and this stylish modem high-place young Japanese. It was too much; he felt his gaze blur. But he went on examining the book and nodding. “Yes,” he said, “this does look interesting. I would very much like to read it. I try to keep up with what’s being discussed.” Was that proper to say? Admission that his interest lay in book’s modishness. Perhaps that was low-place. He did not know, and yet he felt that it was. “One cannot judge by book being best seller,” he said. “We all know that. Many best sellers are terrible trash. This, however—” He faltered.