Greg and the astrophysicist went outside. Greg looked along the deserted street for the twelve year old, but the boy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had returned to Chicago. Yet if he had come to send Greg back to the colonies, would he have given up so easily?
The blue intersection lights swam in a comfortable haze, spinning when Greg looked at them directly. Occasionally the drifts of sand seemed to run like water and Greg became unsure of his footing. He knew he was drunk, but alcohol had never interfered with his reasoning. Back in the bar he had made a tremendous discovery; he mustn't let it slip his mind. The children were alien invaders: that was it. In the morning he would be able to decide what he was to do with the information.
The old man took him to a pseudo-Spanish structure across the main highway from the field. The Biltmore Hacienda, at one time the gaudiest and costliest hotel in Port City. Now the neon signs were out, the streetfront shops were closed, and only a pale light glowed dimly behind the ornate, iron gate.
As he followed Vayle up the three tile steps, Greg looked back toward the field. He saw his ship standing in its landing slot. Someone was working to unload his useless cargo of Redearth. The field attendant was displaying an unusual conscientiousness, Greg thought; he hadn't expected action in less than a week.
Then, abruptly, Greg knew the real significance of such prompt service. It fit with the discovery he had made in the bar. The only trouble was, his mind was too hazy for him to grasp the connection clearly. It would come to him later; he was sure of that.
He followed Vayle through the dusty, thick-carpeted lobby. Vayle slept in a disorderly room adjoining the cavernous hall of the dining room, where the tables were covered with dust and the band instruments lay rusting on the bandstand. The astrophysicist swept a litter of loose manuscript pages from his bed and sat down. He fished a bottle of gin from under the bed and took a long drink.
"For my nerves," he apologized.
Greg saw a score of empty bottles in the debris on the floor. Apparently Vayle had been treating his nerves for a long time. Greg picked up one of the manuscript pages. It was a part of a book. At least the patter of phrases was familiar, but the whole context was incoherent, without beginning or end.
"My new text," Vayle explained. "When it's finished, the kids have promised to publish it. That's why they let me stay here, so I can work in peace." He pulled at the bottle again. "They're still children at heart. An adult can twist them around his finger, if he goes at it properly."