He smiled. To the list of mechanical inventions he meant to introduce he added a couple of items. But for the present, should he . . .
A small gray thing with six legs, not much larger than a pin-head, emerged from the hair under her armpit. Pale against her olive-brown skin, it crept with glacial slowness . . .
Padway shot out of bed. Face writhing with revulsion, he pulled his clothes on without taking time to wash. The room smelled. Rome must have blunted his sense of smell, or he'd have noticed it before.
Julia awoke as he was finishing. He threw a muttered good morning at her and tramped out.
He spent two hours in the public baths that day. The next night Julia's knock brought a harsh order to get away from his room and stay away. She began to wail. Padway snatched the door open. "One more squawk and you're fired!" he snapped, and slammed the door.
She was obedient but sulky. During the next few days he caught venomous glances from her; she was no actress.
The following Sunday he returned from the Ulpian Library to find a small crowd of men in front of his house. They were just standing and looking. Padway looked at the house and could see nothing out of order.
He asked a man: "What's funny about my house, stranger?"
The man looked at him silently. They all looked at him silently. They moved off in twos and threes. They began to walk fast, sometimes glancing back.
Monday morning two of the workmen failed to report. Nerva came to Padway and, after much clearing of the throat, said: "I thought you'd like to know, lordly Martinus. I went to mass at the Church of the Angel Gabriel yesterday as usual."