"Before you throw me out," Fred said, "let me tell you one more thing."
"Go ahead."
"You're acting stupidly—though that's nothing new for you, Roy. I'll give you a week's grace to make up your mind. Then the serum goes into production."
"My mind is made up," Walton said stiffly. The door telescoped and Fulks stood outside. He smiled obsequiously at Walton, bowed to Fred, and said to him, "Would you come with me, please?"
It was like one of those dreams, Walton thought, in which you were a butler bringing dishes to the table, and the tray becomes obstinately stuck to your fingertips and refuses to be separated; or in which the Cavendishes are dining in state and you come to the table nude; or in which you float downward perpetually with never a sign of bottom.
There never seemed to be any way out. Force opposed force and he seemed doomed always to be caught in the middle.
Angrily he snapped the kaleidoscope back on and let its everchanging swirl of color distract him. But in the depth of the deepest violet he kept seeing his brother's mocking face.
He summoned Fulks.
The gnome looked up at him expectantly. "Get me a jetcopter," Walton ordered. "I'll be waiting on the west stage for it."