He lay in bed, sleepless, for a long time that night and took stock of himself and of the situation, and he came to a decision that it might not be as bad as he thought it was.
There were jobs to be had, apparently. The Kimonians even seemed anxious that you should get a job. And even if it weren't the kind of work a man might want, or the kind that he was fitted for, it at least would be a start. From that first foothold a man could go up - a clever man, that is. And all the men and women, all the Earthians on Kimon, certainly were clever. If they weren't clever, they wouldn't be there to start with.
All of them seemed to be getting along. He had not seen either Monty or Maxine that evening, but he had talked to others, and all of them seemed to be satisfied - or at least keeping up the appearance of being satisfied. If there were general dissatisfaction, Bishop told himself, there wouldn't even be the appearance of being satisfied, for there is nothing that an Earthian likes better than some quiet and mutual griping. And he had heard none of it - none of it at all.
He had heard some more talk about the starting of the athletic teams and had talked to several men who had been enthusiastic about it as a source of revenue.
He had talked to another man named Thomas who was a gardening expert at one of the big Kimonian estates, and the man had talked for an hour or more on the growing of exotic flowers. There had been a little man named Williams who had sat in the bar beside him and had told him enthusiastically of his commission to write a book of ballads based on Kimonian history, and another man named Jackson who was executing a piece of statuary for one of the native families.
If a man could get a satisfactory job, Bishop thought, life could be pleasant here on Kimon.
Take the rooms he had. Beautiful appointments, much better than he could expect at home. A willing cabinet-robot who dished up drinks and sandwiches, who pressed clothes, turned out and locked up, and anticipated your no-more-than-half-formed wish. And the room - the room with the four blank walls and the single chair with the buttons on its arm. There, in that room, was instruction and entertainment and adventure. He had made a bad choice in picking the battle of Hastings for his first test of it, he knew now. But there were other places, other times, other more pleasant and less bloody incidents that one could experience.
It was experience, too - and not merely seeing. He had really been walking on the hilltop. He had tried to dodge the charging horses, although there'd been no reason to, for apparently, even in the midst of a happening, you stood by some special dispensation as a thing apart, as an interested but unreachable observer.
And there were, he told himself, many happenings that would be worth observing. One could live out the entire history of mankind, from the prehistoric dawnings to the day before yesterday - and not only the history of mankind, but the history of other things as well, for there had been other categories of experience offered - Kimonian and Galactic - in addition to Earth.
Some day, he thought, I will walk with Shakespeare. Some day I'll sail with Columbus. Or travel with Prester John and find the truth about him.
For it was truth. You could sense the truth.
And how the truth?
That he could not know.
But it all boiled down to the fact that while conditions might be strange, one could still make a life of it.
And conditions would be strange, for this was an alien land and one that was immeasurably in advance of Earth in culture and in its technology. Here there was no need of artificial communications nor of mechanical transportation. Here there was no need of contracts, since the mere fact of telepathy would reveal one man to another so there'd be no need of contracts.
You have to adapt, Bishop told himself.
You'd have to adapt and play the Kimon game, for they were the ones who would set the rules. Unbidden, he had entered their planet and they had let him stay, and staying, it followed that he must conform.
"You are restless, sir," said the cabinet from the other room.
"Not restless," Bishop said. "Just thinking."
"I can supply you with a sedative. A very mild and pleasant sedative."
"Not a sedative," said Bishop.
"Then, perhaps," the cabinet said, "you would permit me to sing you a lullaby."
"By all means," said Bishop. "A lullaby is just the thing I need."
So the cabinet sang him a lullaby, and after a time Bishop went to sleep.