There was a moment of abysmal darkness, a giddy sensation, then Vickers found himself standing in the reception room, ankle deep in carpet. He felt unaccountably heavier—not as much as he would weigh on Earth but more than he should weigh on the moon.
A girl was approaching him. She said: "Go right in, Mr. Vickers," indicating a door across the room; "they're waiting for you."
"Who's waiting for me?"
"Mr. Thorpe. The president of International Spy Ring, Inc. Right in here, sir."
The utterly absurd title of the company struck him anew. The seven great nations would no more permit such a business to exist than they would sit supinely by and allow an armed invasion.
In the first place they all maintained their own very efficient espionage and counter espionage systems. They couldn't afford to let one nation grow more powerful than the rest. At any costs they had to preserve the status quo.
He didn't voice his doubts, but followed the receptionist into a large, spartanly furnished office. There were no windows, the room being lit by soft yellow light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The top of a huge desk of purely functional design was littered with gadgets, and behind it sat a bald, pink-faced man, wearing a pleasant expression.
There was one other person in the room—a girl—and she was crying softly.
"Mr. Thorpe," the receptionist said, "Mr. Vickers to see you," and withdrew.
The girl turned her back quickly to Vickers so that he couldn't see her face, but he could watch her hands worrying the material of her dress.