And now they’d all gone. For two weeks—or for good.
The girl’s voice broke in on his thoughts.
“Oh, Mr. Malone,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I just remembered. They left a note for you.”
“A note?” Malone said.
“Sir Lewis said you might call,” the girl said, “and he left a message. If you’ll hold on a minute I’ll read it to you.”
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it and read:
“My dear Malone, I’m afraid you are perfectly correct in your deductions; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss G. sends her apologies to you, as do I.” The girl looked up. “It’s signed by Sir Lewis,” she said. “Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?”
“I’m afraid it does,” Malone said bleakly. “It means entirely too much.”
12
After the great mass of teeth, vaguely surrounded by a face, had faded from Malone’s screen, he just sat there, looking at the dead, grey screen of the visiphone and feeling about twice as dead and at least three times as grey.