he blond Mr. Feller down a series of long corridors which
had been painted a pale green, which gave me the feeling that I was
underwater. There were doors spaced at intervals along the corridor
walls. Occasionally one of them would open and a busy looking man
would cross the corridor, open another door, and disappear. From
behind the doors, I could hear the drum of distant sounds.

We finally ended up in front of what looked like the only wooden door
in the place. When you're carving an office and residence out of a
nickel-iron planetoid, importing wood from Earth is a purely luxury
matter.

There was no name plate on that mahogany-red door; there didn't need
to be.

Feller touched a thin-lined circle in the door jamb.

"You don't knock?" I asked with mock seriousness.

"No," said Feller, with a straight face. "I have to signal. Knocking
wouldn't do any good. That's just wood veneer over a three-inch-thick
steel slab."

The door opened and I stepped inside.

I have never seen a room quite like it. The furniture was all that
same mahogany--a huge desk, nineteenth century baroque, with carved
and curlicued legs; two chairs carved the same, with padded seats of
maroon leather; and a chair behind the desk that might have doubled as
a bishop's throne, with even fancier carving. Off to one side was a
long couch upholstered in a lighter maroon. The wall-to-wall carpeting
was a rich Burgundy, with a pile deep enough to run a reaper through.
The walls were paneled with mahogany and hung with a couple of huge
tapestries done in maroon, purple, and red. A bookcase along one wall
was filled with books, every one of which had been rebound in maroon
leather.

It was like walking into a cask of old claret. Or old blood.

The man sitting behind the desk looked as though he'd been built to be
the lightest spot in an analogous color scheme. His suit was mauve
with purple piping, and his wide, square, saggy face was florid. On
his nose and cheeks, tiny lines of purple tracing made darker areas in
his skin. His hair was a medium brown, but it was clipped so short
that the scalp showed faintly through, and amid all that overwhelming
background, even the hair looked vaguely violet.

"Come in, Mr. Oak," said Shalimar Ravenhurst.

I walked toward him across the Burgundy carpet while the blond young
man discreetly closed the door behind me, leaving us alone. I didn't
blame him. I was wearing a yellow union suit, and I hate to thin