The Antarctican Duke lived well, Kesley thought. His private apartments
were sprawling, luxurious, with more than one strange echo of Miguel's
room. For one, a wall of paintings looked down--but they were not
oil works such as Miguel had, but paintings done in some curiously
realistic technique that hardly seemed to involve brushwork at all.
They were more frozen images of life than paintings, he thought.
In the distance he could see television screens, reminding him of the
closed-circuit battery taking up one wall of Miguel's study. The robot
led him on, gliding him from room to room.
"This is the Duke's room," the robot said finally. "You may go in."
Kesley approached the dark, paneled-wood door. It swung open without
his touching it.
A man stood there, dressed in the customary Antarctican costume,
smiling, his arms folded. Kesley's eyes flickered in surprise; then he
crossed the threshold.
"Van Alen," he said.
The noble grinned. "Hello, Dale. I owe you an apology. I found it
necessary to flee, back there in the woods. But I've been following
your subsequent adventures with great interest, Dale."
"I'll bet you have," Kesley said. He studied van Alen's powerful frame,
meeting eyebrows, wide-set eyes. "I never thought I'd see you again,
but here I am. I suppose you're here to take me to the Duke. Well, I'm
ready."
Van Alen's smile grew broader. He extracted a jewel-studded, gold case
from his tunic, pressed a stud. A tiny yellow filament licked forth. He
touched it casually to his wrist; a fugitive tingle of pleasure passed
over his face.
"Electrostimulator," he explained. "Sensory heightening. One of my
favorite vices; one that I had to leave behind when I made my abortive
journey to Iowa Province."
"I'd like to see the Duke," Kesley repeated impatiently.