A wall—this one was female, a regular charmer—murmured, "Good evening. You have an appointment?"
"Uh," Phil managed, rather surprised that he could speak at all.
"Do you have an appointment?" the wall repeated. "Please answer yes or no."
"Yes," Phil said.
"May I have your name, please?"
"Phil Gish." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered whether he shouldn't have said Jack Jones, but after humming delicately for a moment the wall said, "How do you do, Mr. Gish. Please come in."
The wall slid open to a surrealist pear shape. Phil stepped through. A sinuous arm, slim and glittering as a serpent, sprang from beside him and indicated a nearby chair with the gracious wave of a hostess who has studied ballet.
"Will you please sit down?" the wall suggested. "Dr. Romadka will be a few secs."
Phil gulped. He had the feeling that if he strayed beyond the indicated area of the room, the arm would do quite as efficient a job as had the heavier one at the wrestling arena, although probably with an "Excuse me, please," or even a "Now, Phil."
He took the suggestion. As if, by sinking into the chair, he had completed a circuit, the wall said, "Thank you." He stood up. The wall said, "Yes?" with just a hint of impatience. He sat down again. "Thank you," the wall repeated.