times with the beauty with which Mr. Lowell and California surrounded him.
Now, quick with the energy of dancing practise and the shock of gin, he wondered why—why—really why had Mr. Lowell brought him from Texas to California? Of course it was absurd to identify Mr. Lowell with these pallid, languid young men who dressed so smartly and chatted so volubly. They were vapid nobodies. Mr. Lowell, a big business man, did things.
Yet … Buddy Nolan did things. Buddy worked hard. He made money. He was famous in Hollywood. Buddy considered these denizens of the Rendezvous as his brethren. And Buddy regarded Mr. Lowell as a god, a paternal god, whose open hand brought riches, comfort and peace.
Wonderingly, Ken thought of Star-ridge, its staff of men. The great house on the hillside was a man's paradise, an Eveless Eden.
What fraternity of men was Ken entering? What were its ramifications? Its code? And in what manner had he been seduced into joining this monastic life?
The Rolls, as Ken considered these questions, entered the driveway and a moment later Ken learned that Mr. Lowell was at home.
From the patio to the balcony were twenty-four ascending steps. Desert trees had been planted on the patio level, a joshua with arms lifted in prayer, a pale green cactus, huge with stiletto-like spikes; a sword cactus with prickling blades spread out in the manner of an opening fan.
Ken strode to the foot of the steps. As he did so, his mind tightened. He could feel the sharp, crackling sensation as of a cap being drawn down upon his head.
He started up the steps. He knew in that moment that
