She led me to a room whose four walls were lined with books. There was a wide glass door leading out from this to the patio.
"Dad's old retreat," she said. "Everything from Aristotle to Zola. If there's something you don't see, don't hesitate to ask. We aim to please."
She closed the door behind her.
I didn't gorge; I only nibbled. But fed enough to realize this was a deep, rich culture; this planet had produced some first rate minds and exceptional talents. But still, with all this to choose from, the people seemed to prefer Milton Berle. And the people were in command.
I was reading Ambrose Bierce when she came in. She looked at the book, and at me. "Lunch," she said quietly.
I put the book down, and rose. "The unwelcome guest?"
"I'd tell you, if you were."
"Would you, honestly?"
She didn't answer that. She smiled, and said, "There are some fights at Ocean Park, tonight."
We saw those, and later, some amateur fights. Strange spectacles they were, men belaboring each other, but fascinating, too. The amateurs were less talented, but more friendly, leaving the ring arm in arm, if both were still conscious. The professionals displayed no such amicability.