"Yes," agreed Ileth. She had edged close to Saxon. "Maybe we can find the answer inside."
They started for the impressive entrance of the Tri-World Theatre, halted again in near-panic as the doors swung wide.
Ileth gasped, clutched at Saxon's arm, hanging onto it in desperation.
Before any of them could say anything, a voice blared forth. "... a thousand Ganymedian natives in the primitive ritualistic orgy of that Weird little satellite. Hamura in the mating dance of the Ganymedians. Seats: three hundred and seventy-five dollars."
Clo-Javel's voice had lost its rich huskiness. It was a frightened quaver when she said, "It's a working model. Automatic, don't you see?" She giggled nervously, and paused.
"But the voice?" protested Ileth.
"Advertising," explained the archaeologist. "It's a mechanical voice, like the doors."
"Well, I'm not sure how much a dollar was," said Mercedes, "but three hundred and seventy-five for a seat seems rather exorbitant."
Rufus, the psycho-historian, was pale as a corpse. He swallowed, managed to splutter, "Inflation that followed the first atomic war. Inflation...." His voice trailed off as he stared beyond the gaping doors into the foyer of the empty theatre.
"Well, I'm not going in that place!" said the ethnologist suddenly. He was a goat-bearded little dandy. It was his first speech in some time.