* * * * * Burgee's long, low house was indecently plain, without even so much as a gimcrack or bit of gingerbread decoration. Its many wide windows looked out over a lake set with islands. Its living room had broad, cushioned couches and indolent chairs--all suspiciously comfortable. In exactly such houses, Charles knew, in the wicked old days, a fate worse than death had been practically part of the fixtures. "We shouldn't have let him persuade us," he worriedly told Betty. "Perhaps we'd have starved, but at least Cousin Aurelia wouldn't have locked herself alone into a strange pirate's bedroom!" "We've been here all afternoon," Betty pointed out, "and he hasn't tried anything yet. Besides, he helped carry those cases of hers and he gave her the keys himself. It's peculiar. Oh, Charles, do you suppose that--that it's _me_ he's after?" Before he could answer, a robot came in, a practical, old-fashioned model with four arms for waiting at table. "Dinner is served." It snapped its aluminum jaws. "Come to the dining room, please." Reluctantly, they obeyed. "Whatever you do," whispered Charles warningly at the door, "don't let him ply you with liquor." The captain stood at the head of the table. He was in full evening dress, with a heavy gold-nugget watch chain across his muscular middle. He smelled faintly of mothballs and looked very respectable. The Buttons examined the table. There wasn't a sign of absinthe or brandy or even champagne. There was nothing but water. "It's too bad your cousin won't join us," said the captain, seating them courteously. "I hope those cartons of hers have something tasty inside them." "They contain Dr. Stringfellow's Vegetable Remedy and Tonic for Gentlewomen," replied Betty primly. "It is said to be very nourishing." Their host shuddered. Recovering, he clapped his hands sharply. "Oh, steward!" "Aye, aye, sir!" said the robot, appearing with a big silver tureen and setting it down on the table. The Buttons drew back. "I can see you don't trust me," laughed the captain. "So we'll serve everything out in plain sight. You can shuffle the plates if you want to." He proceeded to ladle out a clear, fragrant soup. "There. Take whichever you want." The Buttons selected their plates. They picked up their spoons, dipped them nervously, made rowing motions. The captain ate heartily, talking away between spoonfuls. He told them that Sugar Plum was surrounded by an ionized layer impervious to DoItAll waves. He said he had no use for such gadgets, or for the Age which produced them. "And why," he demanded, "did we become fake Victorians? Why are we worse than the real ones? I'll tell you. Because space was too big. It made people feel puny. They wanted a hole to crawl into--something small, safe and stuffy."