She led me to a room whose four walls were lined with books. There was a
wide glass door leading out from this to the patio.
"Dad's old retreat," she said. "Everything from Aristotle to Zola. If
there's something you don't see, don't hesitate to ask. We aim to
please."
She closed the door behind her.
I didn't gorge; I only nibbled. But fed enough to realize this was a
deep, rich culture; this planet had produced some first rate minds and
exceptional talents. But still, with all this to choose from, the people
seemed to prefer Milton Berle. And the people were in command.
I was reading Ambrose Bierce when she came in. She looked at the book,
and at me. "Lunch," she said quietly.