He had just about decided that Belvoir, real or otherwise, was a promisingly pleasant if bizarre place, when a rasping voice filled the hall, saying, to Justin's ears at any rate, "Now hear this—now hear this. Your final briefing will follow immediately. Please return to your chambers and await further orders!"
IV
Alone in his cubicle Justin longed for a cigarette. Fortunately he did not have long to wait. The man who entered with brisk graceful steps wore soft grey flannels, a comfortable blue shirt and gay but not loud figured silk tie. He glanced quizzically at Justin, drew a silver cigarette case from a jacket pocket, offered one to Justin, took one himself, lit both with a silver lighter.
He sat down on the chair in the corner, said, "I'm Ortine—I run Belvoir. I suppose you're wondering what this is all about, Mr. Justin."
"That," said Justin, "is understatement, Mr. Ortine. I suppose I must have lost my mind."
"On the contrary," said Ortine with the trace of a smile, "you have been brought here because you are absolutely sane."
"That's a relief—or is it?" Justin countered. There was, he thought, something epicene, almost effeminate, in his host's gestures, in his voice. Furthermore, there was something familiar in his handsome, rather delicate cast of feature—a familiarity that played elusive hide and seek with Justin's memory.
"I shall try to make my explanation brief as possible," said Ortine. "However, Mr. Justin, you are sane—and you are not dreaming. You have been brought to Belvoir in thoroughly material fashion."
"Just what and where is this Belvoir of yours?" Justin asked bluntly.