“Feels like we’re moving downwards,” said Porsupah.

“I sense so too,” Philip added.

“The building is half below sea level,” Mal informed them. “I’ve never been here myself, but I’m acquainted with the schematics for storage reasons.” He indicated the lights over the front door. Number 18 had just winked out and 17 on.

“We entered at midpoint—about the 20th floor.” The door slid back silently. He stepped out into an enormous, unfamiliar room. It had a concave ceiling and was crescent shaped. The elevator shaft formed its apex.

The far wall was entirely glass. It revealed a breathtaking panorama of the sea floor that disappeared in a turquoise haze. Fish and sea mammals swam lazily back and forth in front of the glass, catching the sunlight which filtered down through the clear water. Some clustered around feeding platforms. A number differed sufficiently from the familiar vertebrates to be classed as eye-catching, if not exotic.

No, it was the room’s decor that deserved the latter label. There was no individual furniture. Seats, tables and chairs were formed by rises and depressions in the floor of the room. The entire compartment was covered in a rich, reddish-brown fur. Artificial, but still exorbitantly expensive. The hairs ran as long as five centimeters. The lining—it couldn’t be called a carpet—covered every space: floor, ceiling, walls, everything but that single panoramic window. Like the skin of some misshapen behemoth turned inside out. They were in the belly of a dream.

“Fascinating concept,” Kitten whispered. “Kind of like being inside a marsupial’s pouch.”

“A fine analogy, Miss Kai-sung,” boomed a voice from near the window.

Chatham Kingsley reclined on a low, fur-covered platform. He was shorter than any of them, with the exception, of course, of Porsupah. A good three centimeters shorter than Mal or Kitten. He affected a blond crewcut, a short, thick brush mustache, and a gold and topaz ring in one ear. Angular cheekbones, a pointed chin, Roman nose, and falsely innocent china-blue eyes completed the face. A curious mixture of putty and flint. The mind behind the baby-eyes was at least that hard—a fact which Kingsley’s ever-polite chatter strove to obscure.

“Well Malcolm, you arrived in time for lunch, anyway. Sit yourselves down, all of you. I’ve instructed the cook appropriately.”

“I’m afraid, Chatham, that there are a few things that are more important than—”

‘”Hold on,” said Kitten. “Porsupah and I haven’t had anything but a few scraggly canapes and fish sandwiches in the past 36 hours. At the moment, nothing is more important than lunch.”

“I myself have no intention,” added Porsupah, his eyes glued to the subterranean scene, “of staring at all those delightful and no doubt edible swimmers without taking a bite of something. Your obviously well-nourished bulk not excepted, Captain.”

“So we accept your invitation,” finished Kitten firmly. She stared challengingly at Mal, who sighed deeply and chose not to fight back.

“Marvelous! Bless you, my dear. Miss Kai-sung, wasn’t it?”

“Call me Kitten.”