When they returned to the suite, Ken told Joe to oust quietly all who did not belong.
"Belong to what?"
"To the other world," Ken heard Frankie say.
"The what?" Ken asked.
"The other world," Frankie repeated. "They are different, aren't they?"
"Our world—the other world—" Ken repeated the words to himself. They were significantly simple. The world sharply divided, a line of cleavage between. The others, aliens, invaders, easily recognized. Just look into eyes. In our world, mild eyes, amused eyes, suggestive eyes, perhaps perverse eyes, yet always friendly eyes of those who love life. The others, steely eyes, fish eyes, cold eyes, resentful, suspicious, dangerous. Ken was, he knew now, a naturalized citizen of "our world." He had quit the old scheme of things, entered a new and happier region where life raced by so speedily that one never learned how to care. And here he knew he would remain forever.
"Below Decks" was a frame house on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. It lay high and dry on a lane many miles from the water. Its outer door, an impregnable barrier of reinforced concrete and steel, was operated by electricity. Fifteen reputed millionaires owned "Below Decks." To enter it was to forget that one was ashore. The interior was decorated as a palatial yacht. Port holes took the place of windows; through them one saw a moving panorama of ocean; one could almost hear the restless roar of the sea.
Ken, together with his friends of the company, were entertained by the Fifteen. As they entered, drab, ugly masculine clothes were exchanged for costumes provided
