Later, someday, many centuries from now, there would be a time and place and room for a new concept. When Man's grip was firmer, when the line was not too thin, when a mistake or two would not spell disaster.
Man, at the moment, controlled every factor. He held the edge at every point…a slight edge, admitted, but at least an edge. And it must stay that way. There must be nothing that would tip the scale in the wrong direction. Not a word or thought, not an action or a whisper.
VII
Apparently they had been waiting for him for some time and they intercepted him when he stepped out of the elevator on his way to the dining room for lunch.
There were three of them and they stood ranged in front of him, as if doggedly determined that he should not escape.
"Mr. Sutton?" one of them asked, and Sutton nodded.
The man was a somewhat seedy character. He might not actually have slept in his clothes, although the first impression was that he had. He clutched a threadbare cap with stubby, grimed fingers. The fingernails were rimmed with the blue of dirt.
"What may I do for you?" asked Sutton.
"We'd like to talk to you, sir, if you don't mind," said the woman of the trio. "You see, we're a sort of delegation."
She folded fat hands over a plump stomach and did her best to beam at him. The effect of the beam was spoiled by the wispy hair that straggled out from beneath her dowdy hat.