Purple Forever

It was the peak of the rush hour when he left the apartment. Overhead, a congested swarm of copter traffic buzzed like an angry beehive. A block away was a monorail kiosk. Ever conscious of the strange feel of his new civvies, Keating entered it and boarded a Huntington express. From there it was only ten minutes to Wading River by copter-cab. Dr. Hamlin had left the lawn lights burning, and even before he'd paid his fare, was standing at his elbow. He extended a hand in greeting. "You made good time," he said.

Keating gripped the other man's hand. "You made a good offer."

Hamlin gestured him through an opening in the dura-glass ell of the house. The room was a library, the same one he'd seen over Hamlin's shoulder during the phone conversation. In the center of the book-bordered room was a rectangular table. A man sat at the head of it.

"Sit down," the man said.

Carl sat down. The man at the head of the table was robust, almost to the point of flabbiness. He was probably in his late twenties, but the pink flush on his cheekbones and a pair of broad-arched eyebrows gave him a mannequin appearance.

"This is Mr. Stewart Ferguson," Dr. Hamlin announced.

"Not THE Mr. Stewart Ferguson?"

"I take it then you've heard of him?"

Carl studied the man whimsically. "Yeah, I've heard of him," he said. "All the way from here to Mars and back I've heard of him."

Stewart Ferguson lit a cigarette. "Am I to understand, Mr. Keating, that you don't approve of my so-called behavior?"

Carl shrugged. "Who am I to comment on your behavior? If I had your money I'd probably act the same way you do. Who doesn't want to sleep with a video actress?"

Dr. Hamlin coughed. "There are times when perhaps the newspapers have exaggerated Mr. Ferguson's escapades. Furthermore, I hardly think his private life is any concern of ours."

"I'm not concerned," Carl said. "If I'm being paid five thousand dollars to listen to an evening's chatter I'd as soon listen to Ferguson's autobiography as anything else ... might even come down on my price a bit."

Stewart Ferguson dug into his coat pocket and came up with a sheaf of bills. He threw them across the table. "That takes care of our agreement," he said, "now suppose we get down to the business you're being paid to listen to."

Carl picked up the bills and rapped them across his knuckles. For just a moment he toyed with the idea of throwing them back in the playboy's face. He didn't. Not only was five thousand dollars a lot of money, but his curiosity was aroused. "I'm listening," he said.

Norman Hamlin braced his bony elbows on the table and leaned toward him. "Mr. Keating, in the course of the three trips you made to Mars with the military, what was it that stood out foremost in your mind?"

"Men's emotions vary," Carl said carefully. "An architect would probably admire the beauty of the Martian cities, while a gourmet would savor the taste of candied encoms. Probably the thing that impressed me most was the friendliness of the people."

Hamlin drummed his fingers on the table. "I see," he said. "You'd say, then, it was a reasonably nice place to live?"

"Reasonably nice," Carl agreed. "Certainly nicer than the science-fiction writers had pictured it."