Tom followed at a soberer pace along the wall of the ranch house. He glanced in the huge windows, curious about the living and sleeping arrangements of the Wolvers, but the panes were strangely darkened. Then he entered the wide doorway through which the children had scampered and his curiosity turned to wonder. A resilient green floor that wasn't flat, but sloped up toward the white of the far wall like a breaking wave. Chairs like giants' hands tenderly cupped. Little tables growing like mushrooms and broad-leafed plants out of the green floor. A vast picture window showing the red rocks. Yet it was the wood-paneled walls that electrified his artistic interest. They blossomed with fruits and flowers, deep and poignantly carved in several styles. He had never seen such work. He became aware of a silence and realized that his hosts and hostesses were smiling at him from around a long table. Moved by a sudden humility, he knelt and unlaced his sneakers and added them to the pile of sandals and digitals by the door. As he rose, a soft and comic piping started and he realized that beyond the table the children were lined up, solemnly puffing at little wooden flutes and recorders. He saw the empty chair at the table and went toward it, conscious for the moment of nothing but his dusty feet. He was disappointed that Lois wasn't sitting next to him, but the food reminded him that he was hungry. There was a charming little steak, striped black and brown with perfection, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits, one or two of which he didn't recognize. "Flown from Africa," someone explained to him. These sly scientists, he thought, living behind their security curtain in the most improbable world! When they were sitting with coffee and wine, and the children had finished their concert and were busy at another table, he asked, "How do you manage all this?" Jock, the gay pharaoh, shrugged. "It's not difficult." Rachel, the slim Negro, chuckled in her throat. "We're just people, Tom." He tried to phrase his question without mentioning money. "What do you all do?" "Jock's a uranium miner," Larry (the beard) answered, briskly taking over. "Rachel's an algae farmer. I'm a rocket pilot. Lois--" * * * * * Although pleased at this final confirmation of his guess, Tom couldn't help feeling a surge of uneasiness. "Sure you should be telling me these things?" Larry laughed. "Why not? Lois and Jokichi have been exchange-workers in China the last six months." "Mostly digging ditches," Jokichi put in with a smile. "--and Sasha's in an assembly plant. Helen's a psychiatrist. Oh, we just do ordinary things. Now we're on grand vacation." "Grand vacation?" "When all of us have a vacation together," Larry explained. "What do you do?" "I'm an artist," Tom said, taking out a cigaret. "But what else?" Larry asked.