Roberts looked distastefully about him. “My God! This!—all over again!” he thought.
But Carol continued, beaming, “I knew a boy in Chicago that was almost the same way as you, Martin. Every one of us boys said it must have been a trick. He could just turn everything into the best time. And my!—he was handsome! I think he was a bouncer at some cafe. And strong—Oooooh!” Carol adjusted his yellow tie and his eyelids fluttered.
Martin felt increasing annoyance at Rio’s persistent grin.
Still Carol went on blindly. “I’d like to work the way you do, Martin, and get oil and things on me from those machines. And that linotype you operate!” he continued. “I’d just love that!” He put his hands flat on his trousers. “Imagine,” he said, turning to Deane at last, “having one of those big things to play with!”
Rio laughed openly, and Roberts turned away in disgust; but Martin said, “That’s right, Carol. We’ll have a talk one day, all by ourselves.” He went over to Rio. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything. But he cursed him with his eyes, and with a vagrant motion of his lips.
“What is it?” Rio asked him.
Martin replied coldly, “You’re a fundamentalist. I can tell it from the expression on your face.” Then he went to the door. Before he closed it behind him he looked back. “It’s taken me nearly thirty years to get this picture,” he said, and he was gone.
Rio stared at the door where Martin had left.
“There goes a clever lad,” he said. “He knows us well.” He turned to Roberts and glared at him. “He knows you well, indeed. I’d hate to be you. I can see the black days. And,” he added, laughing, “he knows me, all right—but, he don’t know himself. He’ll whip himself to death.” At the word “whip,” Rio had hesitated. Although the room was cool, he started sweating. Without even saying good-by to Deane, he put on his cap, quickly went outside and slammed the door so hard that the floor shook.
“Thank heaven,” said Roberts quietly. “Humanity is maintained—the anthropoids have gone—civilization stands. Let them yell into space and beat their knuckles on drums made of their own skins. But pray God, they yell in the forest and not here. Thank heaven for Society!—even if it is covered by a fool’s cap,” he continued, watching Carol. Turning his eyes to the ceiling and then to Deane, he added incoherently, “We have been shown our destiny. Our portraits, painted by savages, hang on Olympus.... I hope, Deane, that you are not disturbed by the painting, or,” he said, bowing, “by your destiny.” He breathed deeply, painfully. His shoulders were bowed, his face whiter. “You must excuse me,” he said. He walked to the door, opened it, walked out and closed it gently.