The man’s name was Koitska, he said in his accented wheeze. If he had another name he did not waste it on Chandler. He took as few words as possible to order Chandler to be seated and to be still.
Koitska squinted at the copy of Gibran’s The Prophet. He did not glance at Chandler, but Chandler felt himself propelled out of his seat, to hand the book to Koitska, then returning. Koitska turned its remaining pages with an expression of bored repugnance, like a man picking off his arm. He seemed to be waiting for something.
A door closed on the floor below, and in a moment a girl came into the room.
She was tall, dark and not quite young. Chandler, struck by her beauty, was sure that he had seen her, somewhere, but could not place her face. She wore a coronet like the fat man’s, intertwined in a complicated hairdo, and she got right down to business. “Chandler, is it? All right, love, what we want to know is what this is all about.” She indicated the book.
A relief that was like pain crossed Chandler’s mind. So that was why he was here! Whoever these people were, however they managed to rule men’s minds, they were not quite certain of their perfect power. To them the sad, futile Orphalese represented a sort of annoyance—not important enough to be a threat—but something which had proved inconvenient at one time and therefore needed investigating. As Chandler was the only survivor they had deemed it worth their godlike whiles to transport him four thousand miles so that he might satisfy their curiosity.
Chandler did not hesitate in telling them all about the people of Orphalese. There was nothing worth concealing, he was quite sure. No debts are owed to the dead; and the Orphalese had proved on their own heads, at the last, that their ritual of pain was only an annoyance to the possessors, not a tactic that could long be used against them.
It took hardly five minutes to say everything that needed saying about Guy, Meggie and the other doomed and suffering inhabitants of the old house on the mountain.
Koitska hardly spoke. The girl was his interrogator, and sometimes translator as well, when his English was not sufficient to comprehend a point. With patient detachment she kept the story moving until Koitska with a bored shrug indicated he was through.
Then she smiled at Chandler and said, “Thanks, love. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“I don’t know. I thought the same thing about you.”
“Oh, everybody’s seen me. Lots of me. But—well, no matter. Good luck, love. Be nice to Koitska and perhaps he’ll do as much for you.” And she was gone.
Koitska lay unmoving on his couch for a few moments, rubbing a fat nose with a plump finger. “Hah,” he said at last. Then, abruptly, “And now, de qvestion is, vot to do vit you, eh? I do not t’ink you can cook, eh?”
With unexpected clarity Chandler realized he was on trial for his life. “Cook? No, I’m afraid not. I mean, I can boil eggs,” he said. “Nothing fancy.”
“Hah,” grumbled Koitska. “Vel. Ve need a couple, three doctors, but I do not t’ink you vould do.”
Chandler shook his head. “I’m an electrical engineer,” he said. “Or was.”
“Vas?”
“I haven’t had much practice. There has not been a great deal of call for engineers, the last year or two.”
“Hah.” Koitska seemed to consider. “Vel,” he said, “it could be … yes, it could be dat ve have a job for you. You go back downstairs and—no, vait.” The fat man closed his eyes and Chandler felt himself seized and propelled down the stairs to what had once been a bay of a built-in garage. Now it was fitted up with workbenches and the gear of a radio ham’s dreams.
Chandler walked woodenly to one of the benches. His own voice spoke to him. “Ve got here someplace—da, here is cirguit diagrams and de specs for a sqvare-vave generator. You know vot dat is? Write down de answer.” Chandler, released with a pencil in his hand and a pad before him, wrote Yes. “Okay. Den you build vun for me. I areddy got vun but I vant another. You do dis in de city, not here. Go to Tripler, dey tells you dere vere you can work, vere to get parts, all dat. Couple days you come out here again, I see if I like how you build.”
Clutching the thick sheaf of diagrams, Chandler felt himself propelled outside and back into the little car. The interview was over.
He wondered if he would be able to find his way back to Honolulu, but that problem was then postponed as he discovered he could not start the car. His own hands had already done so, of course, but it had been so quick and sure that he had not paid attention; now he found that the ignition key was marked only in French, which he could not speak. After trial and error he discovered the combination that would start the engine and unlock the steering wheel, and then gingerly he toured the perimeter of the lot until he found an exit road.
It was close to midnight, he judged. Stars were shining overhead; there was a rising moon. He then remembered, somewhat tardily, that he should not be seeing stars. The lane he had come in on had been overhung on both sides with trees.
A few minutes later he realized he was quite lost.
Chandler stopped the car, swore feelingly, got out and looked around.
There was nothing much to see. The roads bore no markers that made sense to him. He shrugged and rummaged through the glove compartment on the chance of a map; there was none, but he did find
