"Mr. Weldon," he repeated, still looking up at me with that neighborly
smile. "Mark Weldon, isn't it? From the 20th Century?"
I tried to answer, but my throat had tightened up worse than on any
opening night I'd ever had to live through. I nodded, wondering
terrifiedly what was going on.
"Please relax," he said persuasively. "You're not in any danger
whatever. We offer you our utmost hospitality. Our time, you might
say, is your time."
"You know who I am," I managed to get out through my constricted
glottis. "I've been doing all this running and ducking and hiding for
nothing."
He shrugged sympathetically. "Everyone in the city was instructed to
help you, but you were so nervous that we were afraid to alarm you
with a direct approach. Every time we tried to, as a matter of fact,
you vanished into one place or another. We didn't follow for fear of
the effect on you. We had to wait until you came voluntarily to us."
My brain was racing again and getting nowhere. Part of it was
dizziness from hunger, but only part. The rest was plain frightened
confusion.
They knew who I was. They'd been expecting me. They probably even knew
what I was after.
And they wanted to help!
"Let's not go into explanations now," he said, "although I'd like to
smooth away the bewilderment and fear on your face. But you need to be
fed first. Then we'll call in the others and--"
I pulled back. "What others? How do I know you're not setting up
something for me that I'll wish I hadn't gotten into?"
"Before you approached me, Mr. Weldon, you first had to decide that we
represented no greater menace than May Roberts. Please believe me, we
don't."
So he knew about that, too!
"All right, I'll take my chances," I gave in resignedly. "Where does a
guy find a place to eat in this city?"
* * * * *
It was a handsome restaurant with soft light coming from
three-dimensional, full-color nature murals that I might mistakenly
have walked into if I'd been alone, they looked so much like gardens
and forests and plains. It was no wonder I couldn't find a restaurant
or food store or truck garden anywhere--food came up through pneumatic
chutes in each building, I'd been told on the way over, grown in
hydroponic tanks in cities that specialized in agriculture, and those
who wanted to eat "out" could drop into the restaurant each building
had. Every city had its own function. This one was for people in the
arts. I liked that.
There was a glowing menu on the table with buttons alongside the
various selections. I looked starvingly at the items, trying to decide
which I wanted most. I picked oysters, onion soup, breast of guinea
hen under Plexiglas and was hunting for the tastiest and most
recognizable dessert when the pleasant little guy shook his head
regretfully and emphatically.
"I'm afraid you can't eat any of those foods, Mr. Weldon," he said in
a sad voice. "We'll explain why in a moment."
A waiter and the manager came over. They obviously didn't want to
stare at me, but they couldn't help it. I couldn't blame them, I'd
have stared at somebody from George Washington's time, which is about
what I must have represented to them.
"Will you please arrange to have the special food for Mr. Weldon
delivered here immediately?" the little guy asked.
"Every restaurant has been standing by for this, Mr. Carr," said the
manager. "It's on its way. Prepared, of course--it's been ready since
he first arrived."
"Fine," said the little guy, Carr. "It can't be too soon. He's very
hungry."
I glanced around and noticed for the first time that there was nobody
else in the restaurant. It was past the dinner hour, but, even so,
there are always late diners. We had the place all to ourselves and it
bothered me. They could have ganged up on me....
But they didn't. A light gong sounded, and the waiter and manager
hurried over to a slot of a door and brought out a couple of trays
loaded with covered dishes.
"Your dinner, Mr. Weldon," the manager said, putting the plates in
front of me and removing the lids.