"Who are you?" he demanded.
The mottled, angular man perched atop the ladder did not respond. He clutched a book and looked at the book and not at Lieutenant Peterson.
"Come down—I want to talk with you!"
The man on the ladder did nothing unusual: he remained precisely as he had been.
Lieutenant Peterson climbed up the ladder, scowling; he reached the man and jabbed with a finger.
Lieutenant Peterson looked into the eyes of the reading man and descended hastily and did not say goodbye....
Mr. Greypoole reentered the living room with a tray of glasses. "This is apricot wine," he announced, distributing the glasses, "But—where are the others? Out for a walk? Ah well, they can drink theirs later. Incidentally, Captain, how many Guests did you bring? Last time it was only twelve. Not an extraordinary shipment, either: they all preferred the ordinary things. All but Mrs. Dominguez—dear me, she was worth the carload herself. Wanted a zoo, can you imagine—a regular zoo, with her put right in the bird-house. Oh, they had a time putting that one up!"
Mr. Greypoole chuckled and sipped at his drink.
"It's people like Mrs. Dominguez who put the—the life?—into Happy Glades. Or do you find that disrespectful?"