"You've been listening to those old hens gossip," accused Sands. "Look, I knew Blan right well when he was married to Phyllis Allison. Phyllis is my niece and I was sorry to see them break up, but the young people have to live their own lives. Blan has some ideas us old stick-in-the-muds might not understand, Mr. Truggles, but he's all right."
"A dozen women live with him in that big house of his," insisted Truggles. "I've found out there's a turnover, too. When one moves out, another moves in."
"I don't poke my nose into other people's business," said Sands bluntly. "But Dr. Allison tells me Blan maintains a staff, and it's convenient for them to live in that big house. He's doing biological research, along the lines I just explained."
"Biological research, I have no doubt," said Truggles, assuming his best organ-like tone. He fixed his blue eyes on Sands, but Sands' eyes were just as blue. They showed a gleam of anger. "You refuse to take any action against this abomination, then, Mayor?"
"I refuse to believe idle rumors," said Sands firmly. "And before you attempt to stir things up around here with your Social Standards Protective League, Mr. Truggles, I would recommend that you make some effort to secure accurate information. Dr. Allison is Blan's research assistant, and he can tell you much more of Blan's current experiments than I can."
Truggles bowed slightly and turned away. The sharp scent of the marigolds tickled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze.
"Dr. Allison," said Sands behind him, raising his voice slightly as Truggles walked away, "may even consent to tell you why Blan Forsythe's face is liver-colored. From what I hear of you, Mr. Truggles, that probably is your principal complaint against him."
Truggles straightened as though stabbed between the shoulder blades. He quickened his pace.
That had been a telling blow. Could Sands know? No, it was impossible. The recurring waves of time and travel had long since obliterated Truggles' distant past. The Brazilian was a secret demon in his own heart, his private, bitter hatred, the swarthy ogre who had crushed the flower of his life and whose face arose to torment him only in times of bitterness.
Sands was an idiot. All of these people in Marston Hill were idiots, letting a man like Forsythe fool them, liking him, looking up to him. They were empty shells, people, to be possessed alike by the strong, whether angel or demon. He, Truggles, would pit his strength against Forsythe.