Chapter XIX

Mr. Zzyx behaved beautifully at the very brilliant dinner given in his honor by Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk at her town residence, the last red brick mansion of a remote period, except our own, still left standing in Washington Square. A dinner made more memorable than it otherwise would have been by the distinguished array of guests. Among them, Henry's beloved and revered old friend, the venerable Episcopalian prelate, Bishop William Buckingham, who had grown a bit queer in his dotage.

"A very novel idea on the part of our hostess," the Bishop remarked to Henry after dinner, in the smoking-room, while I sat by, listening and silent. "This sort of thing was done, years ago, at Newport, a monkey-dinner, as I recall reading about it, and the clergy and the newspapers made an awful row. Certainly times have changed when we can sit down to dinner with a man-ape without the flicker of an eye-lash. After this, I shan't be at all surprised to have one of my old parishioners invite me to dine with a white rabbit. Mrs. Van Dyk sets the fashions in New York, you know."

"After all," remarked Henry, "brutes and humans really belong to one great family by common descent."

"Hold your miserable tongue, sir!" the Bishop responded, perkily.

"Not until I've extended an invitation to your reverence, to attend the banquet the Exploration Club is giving for Mr. Zzyx on November thirtieth," Henry rejoined.

"The Exploration Club! How extraordinary!" the Bishop exclaimed. "The most exclusive club of its kind in the city. What's up?"

"Oh, just another revelation concerning Mars," Henry replied, nonchalantly. "You will come, won't you?"

"Do my best to oblige," the Bishop replied.

At that, I felt my ears pricking. I already knew that Henry, Olinski and McGinity, had something new about Mars up their sleeves, which was to be disclosed at the banquet at the Exploration Club. What it was, I had no idea. And I found out nothing that night. The conversation between the Bishop and Henry was cut short by the return of Mr. Zzyx and Niki, who had taken our Martian visitor to the lavatory immediately after dinner, to tidy him up a bit before we left for the opera.

A few moments later, we joined Mrs. Van Dyk, and her house guest, Lady Gwynne of London, in the drawing room. The other dinner guests had gone. Both were ready for the opera, Mrs. Van Dyk in a stunning ermine wrap, and Lady Gwynne in sables.

We had no sooner entered the room, when, to my horror, Mr. Zzyx went straight up to our hostess, and began to chatter, and stroke her ermine coat. Then he walked over to Lady Gwynne, and repeated the action on the sable wrap. I could see that they were both terribly frightened.

Henry took the matter in hand at once, and drew Mr. Zzyx aside, tenderly, as a father would treat a child of doubtful sanity. After quieting him with a cigarette, he left him in Niki's care, and approached Mrs. Van Dyk.

"A bad break, I'm afraid," he said to her, "and I apologize for this breach of propriety. After all, Mr. Zzyx is part animal, and I'm afraid the high instinctive animalism in him was beguiled by the sight and smell of ermine and sable."

"A gesture of Martian jungle courtship," Lady Gwynne suggested.

Henry shook his head. "No; I don't think so," he said. "Mr. Olinski, my associate, and I, have definitely proved that he is not influenced in any way by what we mortals call sex appeal. Otherwise, he would be very objectionable to have about. Pretty clothes, sparkling gems and furs attract him just as toys intrigue small children. While instinctively curious, and perhaps a little bold, he means no harm."

"Let's hope he'll keep up this high standard of behavior," the Bishop remarked. "Undoubtedly a tremendous brute force lies sleeping under his apparent docility. A pretty go, if this brute force is ever aroused in him."

"I hope to God that'll never happen," said Henry, gravely.

And then Mrs. Van Dyk spoke. "We can't expect him to measure up to Park Avenue social standards," she said. "A little clowning now and then is relished by the best of men. Indeed, I've known men in my own set to go much further than the mere stroking of a lady's fur coat."

"Exquisite!" laughed the Bishop.

"How droll!" Lady Gwynne commented.

"As a creature from another planet," Mrs. Van Dyk continued, "I feel very honored in having Mr. Zzyx as a guest in my house."

Henry sighed gustily, and said: "Very friendly of you, Mrs. Van Dyk."

And then the Bishop said: "Well, let's push on to the opera."

The Metropolitan-Civic Opera House was packed that night with one of the largest crowds in its history. I was convinced upon our arrival that the throng was there, not to hear Verdi's opera "Otello," but to see Mr. Zzyx. The evening newspapers had heralded our coming, and we encountered a large crowd outside the opera house, and were met by a barrage of cameramen's flashlights as we entered. Once inside, the crush about us was so great, we had considerable difficulty in reaching Mrs. Van Dyk's box, in the parterre. Although grand opera now was democratized, the "diamond horseshoe" still remained. Opera, I'm afraid, will always remain the pet hobby of the fashionably rich, just as racing will ever be regarded as the sport of kings.

Two uniformed city policemen stood on guard, in the corridor, outside the box. Mrs. Van Dyk, regal in black velvet and sparkling with jewels, occupied the corner nearest the stage. Mr. Zzyx sat in the other corner, with Henry sitting between. Behind them, Bishop Buckingham was sandwiched between Lady Gwynne and Jane, while I hovered, standing, in the rear, too nervous to sit down. Niki was at my elbow.

We had missed the first act. Five minutes after we had settled ourselves in the box, the curtain rose on the second act. Fashionable women, like Mrs. Van Dyk, seem to make it a point to be late at the opera. I doubt if our hostess had ever heard the first act of any opera in the entire Metropolitan-Civic repertoire, during her long ownership and occupancy of the box.

During that five minutes, every eye in the house appeared to be turned on Mr. Zzyx, who, fortunately, was now in a state of lassitude, which always overtook him after a heavy dinner. Apparently undisturbed by the sensation he was causing, he devoted himself, first, to a curious scrutiny of the packed masses in the balconies, then he looked down at the arena below, and, finally, rested his gaze on the two rows of boxes, filled with superbly gowned and bejeweled women.

I was curious to see what effect grand opera music would have upon him. What little music he had heard at the castle had come from our radio, and in this he had displayed only a mild interest. His attitude toward such music as he had heard rather dispelled the theory that had been advanced, that if direct radio communication was ever established between the earth and Mars, the interchange of ideas would necessarily have to be through the medium of music, on account of the lack of a common language.

Here, at last, was a chance to try music at its best on an inhabitant of Mars. I wondered what the reaction would be. Mr. Zzyx watched the musicians curiously as they trickled into the pit, and the noise of the tuning up seemed to interest him immensely. Finally, when the house went dark, he appeared quite excited. Then the baton of the conductor rose, and the first crash of the orchestra came like a thunder-clap.

Mr. Zzyx leapt to his feet, and started to climb over the edge of the box. For a frenzied moment, I thought he was going to dive head first into the midst of the spectators below. But Henry quickly grabbed him by his swallow-tails, and pulled him back into his chair. The incident did not attract the general attention it might have done if the auditorium had not been darkened.

While Henry patted Mr. Zzyx on the shoulder to quiet him, Mrs. Van Dyk leaned over, and said: "I don't wonder at him trying to jump out of the box. To many, grand opera is a perfect hullabaloo, and devastating. That's why so many people go out between acts for a cocktail."

Presently Mr. Zzyx fell to listening, with his mouth open. At first, I thought he was wholly lost in the delight of the orchestral movement--drums and horns were silent now--and the beautiful singing on the stage. Then, like a flash, it occurred to me that it was the dark-skinned Otello who was claiming his attention, not the music or singing.

I watched him, studied him attentively, as the opera swept on to its violent climax--the smothering to death of Desdemona--by the enraged Otello. After the final curtain, while the audience was recalling and applauding the singers, I noticed he looked a little wild about the eyes; a sort of inward brooding.

Was it possible that he had grasped the significance of the story, as it had been unfolded before him on the stage? Could the climax of the opera put ideas into his head beyond his purely natural instincts? The force of ideas even stronger than his own inherent brute force, which might quicken him to the fury of some deed of incredible violence?

But I had no time for surmises. Yet, as we passed out of the opera house, in an atmosphere of acclaim and some disorder, almost mechanically, I jotted down the details in my memory of what I had observed in him. From the look in his eyes, I felt some terrific instinct had been aroused. It gave me a strange and eerie feeling, but I made no mention of it to Henry.

Within ten days I was glad to have paid attention to such details. Little did I suspect then that a black, threatening cloud was gathering over our heads, or that more mystery, intrigue--even death--was closing in about us.