"Something's very wrong, honey."
"But, Ted—"
"This house is worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more. And they want to trade this—" he looked around him—"for a seven-thousand-dollar trailer?"
"Ted, they're foreigners. And if they're so foolish they don't know the value of this place, then why should—"
"I don't like it," he said. Again he looked around the room, recalled the fantastic equipment of the house. "But maybe you're right."
He stared out at the city lights. They had a lacelike quality: tall buildings linked by lines of flickering incandescence. Something like a Roman candle shot skyward in the distance.
"Okay!" he said. "If they want to trade, let's go push the deal ..."
Abruptly, the house shuddered. The city lights blinked out. A humming sound filled the air.
Martha Graham clutched her husband's arm. "Ted! Wha— what was that?"
"I dunno." He turned. "Mr. Rush!"