His mind had placed him in some sort of absurd theater, where a weird and decadent pantomime was being acted out for an audience of cadavers.
The account of what had happened in the tower that day was told mainly by Rosemary, with Lamont interjecting occasional details and observations. While she was speaking, Rosemary stood from her perch on the coffee table and began to pace, punctuating her narrative with animated gestures. The eyes of the two men followed her form as she moved about the space. Between the copper sheen of her suit and the somewhat disheveled strawberry blond of her hair, Lamont found himself thinking that she resembled one of the mythically-inspired statuettes that adorned the captain's shelves, grown to life size and animated.
In the meantime, Phobos busied himself with fixing two drinks like the one that rested in a glass tumbler on the broad arm of Carter's chair. There was a small bar near the screen that divided the sitting area from the rest of the suite. Hunched over it, his hands moving with rapid and scientific precision, Phobos resembled nothing so much as a spider fastidiously spinning its web. It was a strange contrast behind the graceful and energetic movements of Rosemary.
"Lamont?" Carter asked.
"What? I'm sorry," Lamont startled. He realized that he had fallen into a revery—perhaps even an open-eyed sleep. His mind had placed him in some sort of absurd theater, where a weird and decadent pantomime was being acted out for an audience of cadavers. He was vaguely aware that the captain had asked him a question, but he had no idea what it was.
"I was asking," Francis repeated, his gray eyes regarding the newspaperman with scrutiny, "Whether you ventured outside the elevator when it had taken you—as far as it would go."
Just then, Phobos was doubling himself over to place the amber drinks on the coffee table. Lamont snatched up the glass closer to him and took a gulp. It was a whiskey and soda; it burned soothingly as it made its way down his throat.
"Yeah, we did," Lamont gasped. "But we didn't see much. Just from the look of it, we could tell that we'd best activate our helmets before we left the protection of the lift. The whole place was filled with some kind of a noxious gas, like a yellow fog. We could some kind of architecture; girders and columns, but it seemed unwise to go far enough in any direction that the lift would be hidden in the mist."
"What was the composition of the gas?" Phobos asked.
"Mostly chlorine and carbon, with sulfur and some argon," Rosemary answered, noticing Lamont's helpless expression.
"Mustard gas," Francis said darkly, leaning forward and stroking his white-stubbled chin. "I suppose it's possible, in the vastness of the cosmos, that there are species that exist in such an atmosphere as naturally as we exist in air."
"It's possible," Lamont agreed, his tone sarcastic. "It's also possible that the tower knew exactly what to do to tell us that we weren't welcome there. And it worked too. We couldn't wait to get back to the safety of the lift and return to the top of the tower with all due haste."