Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally, flatly, "What's it all
about?"
The other put down the unaccepted glass. "We were afraid first
realization would be a shock to you," he said. "My colleague is in the
adjoining room. We will be glad to explain to you if you will join us
there."
"I wanta get out of here," Joe said.
"Where would you go?"
The fear of police, of Al Rossi's vengeance, of the measures that might
be taken by Big Louis on his failure, were now far away.
Reston-Farrell had approached the door by which he had entered and it
reopened for him. He went through it without looking back.
There was nothing else to do. Joe dressed, then followed him.
* * * * *
In the adjoining room was a circular table that would have accommodated
a dozen persons. Two were seated there now, papers, books and soiled
coffee cups before them. There had evidently been a long wait.
Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already met, was tall and drawn of face
and with a chainsmoker's nervousness. The other was heavier and more at
ease. They were both, Joe estimated, somewhere in their middle fifties.
They both looked like docs. He wondered, all over again, if this was
some kind of pressure cooker.
But that didn't explain the view from the window.
Reston-Farrell said, "May I present my colleague, Citizen Warren
Brett-James? Warren, this is our guest from ... from yesteryear, Mr.
Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Brett-James nodded to him, friendly, so far as Joe could see. He said
gently, "I think it would be Mr. Joseph Prantera, wouldn't it? The
maternal linage was almost universally ignored." His voice too gave the
impression he was speaking a language not usually on his tongue.
Joe took an empty chair, hardly bothering to note its alien qualities.
His body seemed to _fit_ into the piece of furniture, as though it had
been molded to his order.