“It’s hardly fair to judge the place from this angle,” he replied, sensibly enough. “From ground level it may look quite different. Oh dear!”
“What’s the matter?”
“The Fosters are here. I’d recognize that colour-scheme anywhere.”
“Well, there’s no need to talk to them if you don’t want to. That’s one advantage of Rupert’s parties — you can always hide in the crowd.”
George had selected a landing place and was now diving purposefully towards it. They floated to rest between another Meteor and something that neither of them could identify. It looked very fast and, Jean thought, very uncomfortable. One of Rupert’s technical friends, she decided, had probably built it himself. She had an idea that there was a law against that sort of thing.
The heat hit them like a blast from a blow-torch as they stepped out of the flyer. It seemed to suck the moisture from their bodies, and George almost imagined that he could feel his skin cracking. It was partly their own fault, of course.
They had left Alaska three hours before, and should have remembered to adjust the cabin temperature accordingly.
“What a place to live!” gasped Jean. “I thought this climate was supposed to be controlled.”
“So it is,” replied George. “This was all desert once — and look at it now. Come on — it’ll be all right indoors!”
Rupert’s voice, slightly larger than life, boomed cheerfully in their ears. Their host was standing beside the flyer, a glass in each hand, looking down at them with a roguish expression.