"If I told you, the name would mean nothing. And if I said what it cost, you'd be scared to drink it.
Just taste it slowly; you'll never have another chance, and it will do you good."
It was good — smooth, slightly sweet, and, Duncan was quite certain, charged with several megatons
of slumbering energy. He sipped it very slowly indeed, watching Calindy as she moved around the room.
He had not really known what to expect, yet her apartment had still been something of a surprise. It
was almost stark in its simplicity, but large and beautifully proportioned, with dove-gray walls, a blue vaulted ceiling like the sky itself, and a green carpet that gave the impression of a small sea of grass lapping against the walls. There were fewer than a dozen pieces of furniture: four deeply cushioned
chairs, two divans, a closed writing desk, a glass cabinet full of delicate chinaware, a low table upon which were lying a small box and a splendid book on twenty-second-century primitives — and, of course, the ubiquitous Comsole, its screen now crawling with abstract art that was very far from primitive.
Even without the force of gravity to remind him, there was no danger that Duncan would forget he
was on Earth. He doubted if a private home on any other planet could show a display like this; but he
would not like to live here. Everything was a little too perfect and displayed altogether too clearly the Terran obsession with the past. He suddenly remembered Ambassador Farrell's remark: "We aren’t
decadent, but our children will be." That would include Calindy's generation. Perhaps the Ambassador was right...
He took another sip, staring at Calindy in silence as she orbited the room. Clearly ill at ease, she
moved a chair through an imperceptible fraction of an inch, and gave the picture an equally invisible
adjustment. Then she came back to the divan and sat down beside him.
A little more purposefully now, she leaned across the low coffee table and picked up the box lying
upon it..
"Have you seen one of these?" she asked, as she opened the lid.
Lying in a nest of velvet was something that looked like a large, silver egg, about twice the size of the real eggs that Duncan has encountered in the Centennial Hotel.
"What is it?" he asked. "A piece of sculpture?"
"Pick it up — but be careful not to drop it."
Despite this warning, that was very nearly what he did. The egg was not particularly heavy, but it
seemed alive — even squirming in his hand, though it showed no sign of any visible movement.
However, when he looked at it more carefully, he could see faint opalescent bands flowing over the
surface and momentarily blurring the mirror finish. They looked very much like waves of heat, yet there was no sensation of warmth.
"Cup it in both hands," Calindy instructed him, "and close your eyes."
Duncan obeyed, despite an almost irresistible impulse to see what was really happening to the
extraordinary object he held. He felt completely disoriented, because it seemed that the sense of touch —
the most reliable of all man's messengers from the external universe — was betraying him.
For the very texture of the egg was constantly changing. It no longer felt like metal; unbelievably, it was furry. He might have been fondling some small woolly animal — a kitten, perhaps...
But only for seconds. The egg shivered, became hard and rough — it was made of sandpaper, coarse
enough to grate the skin...
... the sandpaper became satin, so smooth and silky that he wanted to caress it. There was barely time to obey the impulse when...
... the egg was liquefying and becoming gelatinous. It seemed about to ooze through his fingers, and
Duncan had to force himself not to drop it in disgust. Only the knowledge that this could not really be happening gave him strength to control the reflex...
... it was made of wood; there was no doubt of that, for he could even feel the grain...
... before it dissolved into myriads of separate bristles, each so sharp and distinct that he could feel them prickling his skin...
And there were sensations that he could not even name, some delightful, most neutral, but some so
unpleasant that he could scarcely control his revulsion. At last, when within his cupped palms Duncan
felt the unique, the incomparable touch of human skin, curiosity and amazement got the better of him. He opened his hands; the silver egg was completely unchanged, though now it felt as if it were carved from soap.
"What in heaven's name is it?" he cried.
"It's a tactoid. You haven't heard of them?"
"No."
"Fascinating, isn't it? It doest to the sense of touch what a kaleidoscope does to vision. No, don't ask me how it works — something to do with controlled electrical stimulation."
"What's it used for?"
"Must everything have a purpose? It's just a toy — a novelty. But I had a very good reason for
showing it to you."
"Oh, I know. ‘The latest from Earth.’"