Breathing with difficulty, he arose and addressed the crew. "This is what happens to a man who lies on his dream form." They rustled uneasily. "Go back to your meal."
One by one they resumed eating. Slowly conversation grew and expanded from whispers to abnormal loudness and then back to whispers again. The ubiquitous microphones peered up eagerly from the tables, and the hungry record tapes consumed the sounds.
The food lodged in Herb's throat. There seemed no moisture anywhere in his body. He fought down an irrational impulse to get to his own feet and scream forever.
Once again at his private table, the Oligarch was amazed to find that the complete justification of his own logic left him feeling empty and unsatisfied and disappointed. The matter was behind him. In the future could he expect equal success? Insatiable doubt grew.
He stood up. The compulsion to wash his hands was irresistible. He left the mess hall hurriedly.
As he watched the cool cleanness of the water flow over his hands, he felt at peace.
He was a god, playing with men, knowing them as they would never know themselves, seeing into their inmost souls, moving them to his will.
He was tempted to greater accomplishment. Could he—could he—? Unsure of himself, he was doomed to seek endless reassurance.
Herb. Now Herb. There was a dangerous man. At least, he would become one, in another three days. It would be like playing with fire to play with Herb. It would be exciting, too.
He dried his hands. His heart was beating faster.