The indicator light sped to the top of the tall column of studs, the
elevator whooshed to a stop, the door opened and Phil stumbled out into
a tiny foyer with carpeting like a gray lawn.
A wall--this one was female, a regular charmer--murmured, "Good
evening. You have an appointment?"
"Uh," Phil managed, rather surprised that he could speak at all.
"Do you have an appointment?" the wall repeated. "Please answer yes or
no."
"Yes," Phil said.
"May I have your name, please?"
"Phil Gish." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered
whether he shouldn't have said Jack Jones, but after humming delicately
for a moment the wall said, "How do you do, Mr. Gish. Please come in."
The wall slid open to a surrealist pear shape. Phil stepped through. A
sinuous arm, slim and glittering as a serpent, sprang from beside him
and indicated a nearby chair with the gracious wave of a hostess who
has studied ballet.
"Will you please sit down?" the wall suggested. "Dr. Romadka will be a
few secs."
Phil gulped. He had the feeling that if he strayed beyond the indicated
area of the room, the arm would do quite as efficient a job as had the
heavier one at the wrestling arena, although probably with an "Excuse
me, please," or even a "Now, Phil."
He took the suggestion. As if, by sinking into the chair, he had
completed a circuit, the wall said, "Thank you." He stood up. The wall
said, "Yes?" with just a hint of impatience. He sat down again. "Thank
you," the wall repeated.
The room was as dark, soft and silent as a womb. Evidently most of
Dr. Romadka's patients dreamed expensively. The inevitable desk had a
double curve like a love seat. There were no advertisements anywhere: a
sure sign of wealth. On one wall was a large, round design, apparently
copied from some classical Greek original, which disturbed Phil with
its suggestions of nymphs and satyrs. He quickly shifted his gaze to
an arch, through which he could see the beginning of a stairway. He
decided Dr. Romadka must also have a penthouse.
Suddenly he heard angry voices, a man's and a girl's. The latter's rose
to a catsquall of hate. A door somewhere shut with a snap, and a bit
later a man came down the stairs without moving his feet. Phil deduced
an escalator.
Dr. Romadka was tubby, bald and beaming with subtlety. He had on his
left cheek four new, deep scratches, which he ignored completely and
apparently expected Phil to. He summoned Phil to the desk with an
indicating nod. They sat down and looked at each other across the
curved and gleaming plane.
The analyst smiled. "Well, Mr. Gish? Yes, Jack Jones told me your name,
and since Sacheverell and Mary are paying for things in any case, the
new arrangement is quite all right. Oh, Sacheverell and Mary are Mr.
and Mrs. Akeley, Jack Jones' friends. I thought you might have known.
Incidentally, you're an hour late for your appointment."
A drop of blood fell from the deepest scratch to his white shirt and
spread.
Phil shivered, then made himself say it. "I was spending the time going
crazy."