He looked. His hands were tight on the terrace rail, and there was a
fulness in him that made it hard to breathe.
"I had something to do with it, Michael. Aren't you going to thank me?"
He turned. She had put on a flowing thing of white, cunningly draped
and spangled over with a diamond frost, and there were strange jewels
caught in the dark masses of her hair. He started to speak and then
forgot the words, when sounds from inside the apartment--it was
Edri's--announced the arrival of Joris.
"Come now and hear how the miracle was done."
From the terrace they passed through sliding doors of glass, open now
to the warm breeze, into a low, broad, spacious room of the utmost
simplicity and comfort. A millionaire's room, Trehearne would have
said, and yet Edri was a poor man by Vardda standards, owning no ships
and working for those who did. The window walls looked out over the
city, a mighty panorama of light and color that was without garishness,
and inside there was quiet and homeliness, made personal by the small
things Edri had brought home from his voyages. Robots of various sorts
did all the cleaning automatically when he was away, and there was no
kitchen. Meals arrived by pressure tube, fresh, hot, and to order,
from a service center. Remembering his own bachelor quarters on Earth,
Trehearne was overcome with envy.
Joris came toward him, holding out a huge hard hand. Trehearne shook
it, and Joris said, "What were you thinking, those five days in the
cell?"