Childhood's End - Arthur C. Clarke [32]
"What's the matter?"
"The Fosters are here. I'd recognize that colour-scheme anywhere."
"Well, there's no need to talk to them if you don't want to. That's one advantage of Rupert's parties-you can always hide in the crowd."
George had selected a landing place and was now diving purposefully towards it. They floated to rest between another Meteor and something that neither of them could identify. It looked very fast and, Jean thought, very uncomfortable. One of Rupert's technical friends, she decided, had probably built it himself. She had an idea that there was a law against that sort of thing.
The heat hit them like a blast from a blow-torch as they stepped out of the flyer. It seemed to suck the moisture from their bodies, and George almost imagined that he could feel his skin cracking. It was partly their own fault, of course.
They had left Alaska three hours before, and should have remembered to adjust the cabin temperature accordingly.
"What a place to live!" gasped Jean. "I thought this climate was supposed to be controlled."
"So it is," replied George. "This was all desert once-and look at it now. Come on-it'll be all right indoors!"
Rupert's voice, slightly larger than life, boomed cheerfully in their ears. Their host was standing beside the flyer, a glass in each hand, looking down at them with a roguish expression.
He looked down at them for the simple reason that he was about twelve feet tall; he was also semi-transparent. One could see right through him without much difficulty.
"This is a fine trick to play on your guests!" protested George. He grabbed at the drinks, which he could just reach.
His hand, of course, went right through them. "I hope you've got something more substantial for us when we reach the house!"
"Don't worry!" laughed Rupert. "Just give your order now, and it'll be ready by the time you arrive."
"Two large beers, cooled in liquid air," said George promptly. "We'll be right there."
Rupert nodded, put down one of his glasses on an invisible table, adjusted an equally invisible control, and promptly vanished from sight.
"Well!" said Jean. "That's the first time I've seen one of those gadgets in action. How did Rupert get hold of it? I thought only the Overlords had them."
"Have you ever known Rupert not to get anything he wanted?" replied George. "That's just the toy for him. He can sit comfortably in his studio and go wandering round half of Africa. No heat, no bugs, no exertion-and the icebox always in reach. I wonder what Stanley and Livingstone would have thought?"
The sun put an end to further conversation until they had reached the house. As they approached the front door (which was not very easy to distinguish from the rest of the glass wall facing them) it swung automatically open with a fanfare of trumpets. Jean guessed, correctly, that she would be heartily sick of that fanfare before the day was through.
The current Mrs. Boyce greeted them in the delicious coolness of the hail. She was, if truth be known, the main reason for the good turnout of guests. Perhaps half of them would have come in any case to see Rupert's new house; the waverers had been decided by the reports of Rupert's new wife.
There was only one adjective that adequately described her. She was distracting. Even in a world where beauty was almost commonplace, men would turn their heads when she entered the room. She was, George guessed, about one quarter Negro; her features were practically Grecian and her hair was long and lustrous. Only the dark, rich texture of her skin-the overworked word "chocolate" was the only one that described it-revealed her mixed ancestry.
"You're Jean and George, aren't you?" she said, holding out her hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you. Rupert is doing something complicated with the drinks-come along and meet everybody."
Her voice was a rich contralto that sent little shivers running up and down George's back, as if someone was playing on his spine like a flute. He looked nervously at Jean, who had managed to force a somewhat artificial