"Nonsense!" exploded Mercedes. "There isn't anything in there. You can
see for yourself. I'm going in."
"I think we should explore the city a bit further," Rufus protested.
He glanced uneasily toward the helicopter. Basil and his helper were
nowhere in sight.
Mercedes said, "Humph," gave her plump shoulders a shake, disappeared
with short sturdy steps through the door.
"She shouldn't go in there alone," said Saxon starting after her. Ileth
clung to his arm. "I'm coming along." They left the others standing
huddled outside, watching them nervously.
* * * * *
The foyer was carpeted ankle deep in mauve. Life-like,
three-dimensional photographs of actors and actresses in every
conceivable costume from none at all to the cumbersome furs of Titan
lined the walls.
The magnificent foyer gave the startling impression that just the
moment before, crowds of theatre goers had been surging across it.
Saxon could feel the hair lift on the back of his neck.
"Where's Mercedes?" asked Ileth in a small voice.
Saxon glanced around, realized that the anthropologist wasn't in the
foyer. "She must have gone into the theatre." He lifted his voice,
called, "Mercedes. Mercedes!"
His voice echoed hollowly. There was no answer. Saxon and Ileth
exchanged worried glances.
"Our voices probably don't carry beyond the foyer," Saxon reassured the
girl. "The ancients were clever with sound."
They crossed the floor, their steps cushioned noiselessly in the thick
mauve carpet. They went through the doors, past the automatic ticket
taker and paused.
A vast amphitheatre with curving rows of empty seats fell away below
them like the terribly ancient Roman theatre at Pompeii. The walls by
some trick of construction trapped the light, shedding it softly over
the seats, concentrating it in a glowing pillar of illumination on the
stage.
Suddenly, Ileth brought her hand to her mouth, a look of horror
springing into her features. "Oh, my Lord!" she whispered. "Look!" and
pointed at the floor at their feet. Saxon glanced down, caught his
breath.
A puddle of clothes lay on the floor as if the middle-aged, gray-haired
anthropologist had just stepped out of them.
Saxon dropped to his knees beside the garments, turned them over.
Sturdy leather walking shoes and heavy gray socks. Gray skirt and
jacket. A stout brassiere and practical mannish shorts. They were so
typically Mercedes, that Saxon felt a lump in his throat.
The socks were still in the shoes, brassiere inside the jacket. He
stood up, feeling his palms begin to sweat. It was as if Mercedes had
been suddenly dissipated into thin air, her clothes falling in on
themselves.
He heard Ileth give a dry sob, realized suddenly that he felt no alien
presence. He and the girl were alone in the theatre, alone as they'd
been in the street that night in Adirondaka.