The Masters of Atlantis (23 page)

Mr. Jimmerson said, “Yes, but you say you don't remember anything about Meg and the registered dogs?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tell me this, Austin. Here's something I'm curious about. In all your travels did you never run across Sydney? Did you ever hear anything from him?”

“Who?”

“Sydney Hen.”

“Hear from him! I haven't thought of him in ten years! Sir Sydney! Don't tell me he's still creeping around somewhere!”

“Well, I don't know.”

“Still clucking, you say?”

“Well, I'm not sure.”

“The little prince? Still at large? You're not serious!”

“Well, I don't know for sure.”

“But say, we can catch up on Hen later. Plenty of time for that. Make a note, will you, Babcock? Just jot down ‘Catch up on Hen' so we don't forget. We were talking about Mr. Moaler. More Moalers and fewer Hens. Let that be our new goal. Right now, sir, I want you to get the picture at La Coma. What we have there is a soft climate, a beautiful estate and a generous patron. We have a rich man who shares our interest in reviving the Society. Listen to this. I sounded Mr. Moaler out about the idea of establishing a Gnomon retreat there and he went me one better. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘Why not a new Temple, Popper, right here in the Moaler latitudes?' Now what do you think of that? But wait.”

Popper took a small memorandum book from a coat pocket and flipped through the pages in search of something, suggesting that the next point to be made would require precise language. Mr. Jimmerson and Babcock waited in silence and speculated, each in his own way, on what was to come. An important date? Certain dimensions? An extended quotation from Mr. Moaler? A list of names? A poem?

Popper found the page he wanted and jabbed at it with a finger. “There. ‘The Great Moaler
Hall
of Gnomons.' That's the name he would like to give to the new Temple. For some reason I keep wanting to call it the Great Moaler
Dome
of Gnomons. I don't know why. That's what comes of not getting enough air to your brain, or the wrong kind of air. A new Temple in Texas, you see, with a library, a laboratory, an observatory, a computer room with humming machines, a carillon, a reflecting pool, a curving palisade of flagpoles to indicate our international character and some shady walkways on which our Adepts can stroll in pairs with their hands clasped behind them, while chatting of philosophical matters and kicking idly at coconut husks. Those are just a few of the things we came up with. The computer room was Mr. Moaler's idea. I would never have thought of it and yet what is Gnomonism if not harmony of numbers? It's amazing what those machines can do. They can reduce everything you know, sir, to a dot. But let's hear what you think of all this, this Great Moaler Dome, or rather Hall. Here I am rattling on and nobody else gets a chance to say anything.”

“Well, Austin, it's interesting that you should mention the shifting of the Telluric Currents.”

“Wait, I forgot something. I haven't explained the conditions. Let's get that out of the way first, sir, if you don't mind. Plenty of time later for the Telluric Currents. The last thing I want to do is misrepresent Mr. Moaler's position. He is well known for his good works and he is also known for the conditions he lays down. Here's one example. The small children of La Coma are welcome to frolic on his grounds, but whenever they see him they must stop in their tracks and sing to him or dance for him until he gives a ‘Cease singing' signal, which is a sharp clap of those cymbals he has welded to his wheelchair. That's his policy. A little song or some little improvised dance. Quid pro quo. It's the same with the Temple. Mr. Moaler thought at one time of bequeathing his estate to his son, Big Boy, and then later to the Sholto Business College of San Antonio, of which he is a graduate. Then still later he thought he might divide it between the two of them. But where did his real interests lie? More important, where did his duty lie? Men of great wealth have great responsibilities. Had Big Boy or the Sholto people been as attentive to him as they might have been, seeing what was at stake? We went into those questions and others that came up along the way, and I pointed out to him that there were any number of business colleges in this country, probably two or three in San Antonio alone, and all doing a wonderful job too, but that this Great Hall would be a unique institution that would bear his name down through the ages. Mr. Moaler is just as quick as a cat. He saw the cogency of the argument and he is nothing if not decisive. You can't be a quibbler and make that kind of money. He decided right there on the spot to cut Big Boy off and to endow Sholto with a bookkeeping chair, and let it go at that, and to dedicate the remainder of his sand and gravel fortune to this Great Moaler Hall plan—
if
—certain conditions were met. Now we come to his terms and I think you'll agree they're very generous. Here they are in a nutshell. The Master of Gnomons, Mr. Lamar Jimmerson, must go to La Coma and make his home there in the Great Hall, or in one of the guest bungalows, just as he pleases, and he must bring with him the
Codex Pappus
for final repository in the Great Hall, and he must award Mr. Moaler the following degrees—” Here again Popper consulted his notebook. “First Gnomon Knower, Far-Seeing Arbiter, Most High Steward, Grand Almoner, Intimate Counselor, Guardian of the Stone, Judge of the East and Companion of Pythagoras, which is to say, F.G.K., F.S.A., M.H.S., G.A., I.C., G.S., J.E. and C.P., the C.P. entitling him to wear the Poma. These few things, in exchange for which we live on Mr. Moaler's bounty, free from care, like those ducks, while we restore the Gnomon Society to its former eminence. What could be fairer than that? Call me a dreamer if you want to but I believe this is the beginning of a new cycle.”

Mr. Jimmerson said, “Am I wearing my Poma now?”

“No, sir, you're not. Your head is as bare as I've ever seen it. Please listen to me. In La Coma you'll be able to work in comfortable surroundings for a change. Once more you'll hold an honored position in the community. Do you realize the police in this town don't even know who you are? They make it their business to know things and they don't even know your name.”

“That explains it, then.”

“But the Moaler Plan, you see, was no good without you. Were you alive? Able to travel? I was frantic. I tried to call. No phone. There were no replies to my letters and telegrams. I called the Burnette Police Department. The desk sergeant thought the Temple was abandoned, having been condemned by the Health Department or the Fire Department, or both, but he sent a patrolman out to investigate. The patrolman called me back collect and said he found an old man living here downstairs with two or three other people, and a pack of tramps upstairs. He said the place was a mess, he had seen nothing like it in his nineteen years on the force. I said, ‘Cluttered but not nasty?' and he said, ‘Nasty too. Filthy beyond description.' So here was a cop near retirement, never promoted, been out on the street the whole time, and he had never seen anything like it in all his years on the force. It was a strange report. I told Esteban to gas up the motor home and prepare for a journey north. We came blazing up the Interstate. Esteban has no sense of road courtesy at any time and when he learned that our mission was urgent he blew little foreign cars to one side and cut in ahead of emergency vehicles. Between noon and one he got up to ninety and ninety-five. He says all cops are off the road at that time. They insist on having their lunch at noon on the dot and taking a full hour. I didn't really worry too much about that because I have a deputy coroner's badge and I can usually count on professional courtesy from my fellow officers. All the way up I was wondering what I might find, and here I am and this is what I find. I find the Master here in the Red Room with the walls peeling and the floor carpeted with moldy newspapers and the trucks out there beating his brains to jelly. Over my head I hear the thumps of hoboes turning over in their fitful sleep.”

Mr. Jimmerson said, “Then that explains the draft on my head. I put my Poma on and take it off three times a day. I don't wear it all the time because hot vapors rise from my head and collect in it. Usually I have it on at this time of night but I've been feeling a draft up there and it made me wonder. Now I realize that I must have forgotten to put it on that last time, at around six o'clock.”

“Unless you put it on and took it off again.”

“What?”

“Unless you did put it on again at six and took it off a fourth time.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know. A whim. Another steam buildup. I admit it sounds unlikely.”

“But on and off four times a day? I would hardly have time to do anything else.”

“Yes, but you see, that's another thing, your health. When you get to La Coma you can say goodbye to drafts and head colds, cap or no cap. The first thing I'm going to do is take you out to the beach for a course of sea baths in the Gulf of Mexico. No pounding surf, don't worry, just little brown rollers a foot high. We'll have you tossing a beach ball. We'll put you on a new diet and get those eyes cleared up. You'll have your glossy coat back in no time. There on the border we can get fresh eggs and Mexican range beef and yard chickens that feed on natural substances. No more of this American meat that's been pumped full of female hormones. It's a scandal how they're contaminating our food with these devilish chemicals. All over this country men are developing breasts. You haven't noticed it yourself?”

“I don't get out much these days, Austin.”

“You don't have to go out. Jiggle your own and see. Just take a look at Babcock there when he bends over. I'm telling you, sir, it's a national scandal. Our soldier boys are wearing earrings and dancing with one another and drinking pink cocktails festooned with little paper parasols. A wave of foppery is sweeping over our country and it's all the work of those hormones. But let's hear what you think about all this. I know you must have some questions about Mr. Moaler. There are so many things I haven't touched on yet—his fine head of hair, his famous domino games, his deep-pouch coin purse with the snap top, his manner of eating—the way he sniffs his food just before forking it in, and the great care he takes to get a bit of cake and a bit of strawberry and a bit of cream in each spoonful. But please, don't let me give you the idea that Mr. Moaler toys with his food or lingers over it—nothing could be further from the truth. But look here, I think it's time I took some questions from the floor. High time. You'll just have to stop me with your questions or I'll rattle on here all night.”

Babcock said, “Am I included in that offer?”

Popper looked at his watch. “Certainly. Fire away.”

“Thank you. I have no questions but I do have a comment or two. First, the matter of the Poma. What seems to be uncertain is when the Master last took it off.”

“Or why he did not put it back on at six. I understood that to be his concern.”

“Yes, but it's all part of the same puzzle. There's a simple explanation. I can tell you that he took his Poma off at around three o'clock in the excitement of your arrival and simply forgot to put it on again. It was a curious lapse and I noticed it at the time.”

“You may be right.”

“I am right, and I have another point to make. It may interest you to know, Mr. Popper, that the new cycle has already begun. We are well into the new cycle and it has nothing whatever to do with you or Mr. Morehead Moaler or his red grapefruit. I plotted the curve myself and the Master has confirmed it.”

Mr. Jimmerson said, “It's true, Austin. Those figures are sound. It's a sharply rising curve, even allowing for the Lag. Maurice worked it out on his slide rule.”

Babcock was emboldened by this support. “Let me say further, Mr. Popper, how surprised I am that this Mr. Moaler would attempt to dictate terms to the Master of Gnomons. People come to the Master, he doesn't go to them. The Moaler millions count for nothing here. The Poma is not for sale and Mr. Moaler will just have to make do with his sombrero for a bit longer. We are perfectly content here in the Temple. This is and shall remain the seat of Gnomon authority. Under no circumstances can the
Codex Pappus
be removed from our archives. There is no need for any research institute, such as you mention, and certainly not in Texas. The climate and the southern folkways down there would not suit us at all.”

Popper crossed his arms and looked Babcock over anew. “Suit you? Who are you? You have no standing here that I recognize.”

“For one thing I am Keeper of the Plumes. I take my duties seriously. Now, you like Texas, Mr. Popper. That's fine. It's just the place for you, a big place, offering plenty of scope for your life of sly maneuver and sudden departure. I think your work is there and I think you should leave us to our work here.”

Popper turned to Mr. Jimmerson. “You allow this secretary of yours a good deal of liberty.”

“Maurice is a good boy.”

“Maurice is a middle-aged boy. Is a boy going to lead us into a new cycle? I can't believe you would put yourself in the hands of this rabbit secretary.”

Mr. Jimmerson grinned. “Maurice has a lady friend in Chicago. I think he wants to stay close to her.”

“Now we get down to it.”

“He's sweet on Dolores. I believe they have marriage plans.”

“I might have known there was a woman in it. I never get over it, the power of this mating business. Out there on the woodland floor there are white worms living under rotten logs, blind, deaf, barely able to move, and yet they never fail to find one another, the male and the female. Now Babcock here, he wants to get in on it too. I should have seen through this fellow and all his high-minded talk about the Temple. One minute he's Keeper of the Plumes and the next minute he's Maurice, the ace of hearts. What is she, Babcock, a plump widow with a little money put by?”