Burgee's long, low house was indecently plain, without even so much as a gimcrack or bit of gingerbread decoration. Its many wide windows looked out over a lake set with islands. Its living room had broad, cushioned couches and indolent chairs—all suspiciously comfortable.
In exactly such houses, Charles knew, in the wicked old days, a fate worse than death had been practically part of the fixtures.
"We shouldn't have let him persuade us," he worriedly told Betty. "Perhaps we'd have starved, but at least Cousin Aurelia wouldn't have locked herself alone into a strange pirate's bedroom!"
"We've been here all afternoon," Betty pointed out, "and he hasn't tried anything yet. Besides, he helped carry those cases of hers and he gave her the keys himself. It's peculiar. Oh, Charles, do you suppose that—that it's me he's after?"
Before he could answer, a robot came in, a practical, old-fashioned model with four arms for waiting at table.
"Dinner is served." It snapped its aluminum jaws. "Come to the dining room, please."
Reluctantly, they obeyed.
"Whatever you do," whispered Charles warningly at the door, "don't let him ply you with liquor."
The captain stood at the head of the table. He was in full evening dress, with a heavy gold-nugget watch chain across his muscular middle. He smelled faintly of mothballs and looked very respectable.
The Buttons examined the table. There wasn't a sign of absinthe or brandy or even champagne. There was nothing but water.