The Masters of Atlantis (27 page)

“Perhaps. I have nothing more at this time. Senator Rey?”

Big Boy Moaler gathered his stuff and moved down the way at a crouch to take up a new whispering position behind Senator Rey, who was sleek and thoughtful. The senator tapped his microphone with a pencil in an exploratory way, then said, “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Yes, I do have a question or two for this witness. As you can see, Mr. Popper, I have here before me a number of Gnolon or Gnomon books. You prefer Gnomon?”

“I do.”

“Why the two names? Don't you find that confusing?”

“We don't have two names.”

“A number of Gnomon books, then. There are works here by Sir Sydney Hen—
Approach to Knowing, Approach to Growing, Atlantis a Fable?, Teatime at Teddy's, November Thoughts, Boyhood Rambles
and
The Universe a Congeries of Flying Balls?
, every page of them, I'm sorry to say, badly defaced by vandals with green ink. I have also collected some books and booklets that were presumably written by you, Mr. Jimmerson and this man Pappus. It's hard, really, to say. There's not much information in the front of these books, where we might normally expect to find the names of the author and publisher, the date of copyright and so on. I have here
Gnomonism Today, The Codex Pappus, 101 Gnomon Facts, Hoosier Wizard, The Jimmerson Spiral, Dungeon of Ignorance—”

Popper broke in.
“Hoosier Wizard
is the work of an outsider. I don't know
Dungeon of Ignorance.
I don't believe that's a Gnomon book.”

“It's one of Dr. John's books,” said the chairman.

“So it is,” said Senator Rey. “I stand corrected.”

“And please don't tap the mike again with your pencil. There's no need for that. The audio system is in perfect working order.”

“I stand corrected and rebuked. Anyway, I have looked into these books—I won't say read them through—and I find some puzzling and disturbing things. Maybe you can help me, Mr. Popper. It could be that I just need some guidance. This man Hen, for instance. Hen and his busy pen. I don't understand him. Why all the question marks? Why all these approaches to this, that and the other thing? Why can't he ever tell us of his arrival somewhere? And why must he sink our spirits with his November thoughts when he might lift them with his April reflections?”

“Those are good questions, sir, and I only wish you could get the little trifler up here under a two-hundred watt bulb and beat some answers out of him. His books make me gag.”

“You don't defend him?”

“Certainly not. No decent person could defend that trash.”

“All right then, let's leave Hen and turn our attention to some of your own stuff. Here. This flat earth business. Now, do you think it would be a good thing for me at this particular point in time to go around telling people that the earth is flat in this day and age? To instruct small children in that belief discredited so many years ago by Christopher Columbus? Would that be the proper way for me to prepare our boys and girls to play constructive roles in this our modern world and to take their places in society and meet all the future challenges of the space age in whatever chosen fields of endeavor they might choose to—endeavor?”

“Well, if you sincerely believed the earth to be flat, then yes, Senator, I suppose it would be your duty to say so.”

“Which is how you justify your position. You alone in your great pride are right and everyone else is wrong. The plea of every nut in history.”

“I don't know what position you're talking about, sir. The Gnomon Society has never questioned the rotundity of the earth. Mr. Jimmerson is himself a skilled topographer.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Popper, but I have it right here in Mr. Jimmerson's own words on page twenty-nine of
101 Gnomon Facts
.”

“No, sir, excuse me, but you don't. Please look again. Read that passage carefully and you'll see that what we actually say is that the earth
looks
flat. We still say that. It's so flat down around Brownsville as to be striking to the eye.”

“But isn't that just a weasel way of saying that you really do believe it to be flat?”

“Not at all. What we're saying there is that the curvature of the earth is so gentle, relative to our human scale of things, that we need not bother our heads about it or take it into account when going for a stroll, say, or laying out our gardens.”

Senator Rey, now tapping his pencil against his teeth, conferred for a time with Senator Moaler, took some papers from him and went on.

“What is this Jimmerson Spiral, or Hen-Jimmerson Spiral, that we hear so much about? Early on it's the Cone of Fate and then that symbol seems to give way to this spiral. What is this helical obsession you people have?”

“There is no such thing as the Hen-Jimmerson Spiral, Senator. You have been taken in, along with so many others, by Sydney Hen, one of the slickest operators of the twentieth century. There is only the Jimmerson Spiral. Mr. Jimmerson is the only begetter. Let me give you the background on that. When the Master first made his discovery known, Hen, an envious little man, jumped in to claim equal credit, citing the historical parallel with Newton and, who was the other one, Darwin, I believe, yes, the pair of them working independently in their own tiny cottages, and then one day, miles apart, clapping their foreheads in unison as they both hit on the idea of phlogiston at the same time. But there was a big difference. Hen, unlike Darwin, would never show his work sheets to anyone, and do you know why? Because they didn't exist.”

“Yes, but regardless of whose brain the thing was first cooked up in, just exactly what is it?”

“Now there we're getting into deep waters, sir. I have never known quite how to handle that question when put to me so bluntly by a Perfect Stranger. Years ago, when I was on the lecture platform, I would handle it with a cute little story. I find that a light note sometimes helps. Very often the only way to approach these very difficult concepts is by way of allegory. We have to slip up on the truth. We are obliged to amuse our audience while at the same time we instruct them. You gentlemen will understand. All four of us have stood at the podium, may God forgive us, and addressed the public, and all of us have heard those scampering noises, the tramp of many feet making for the doors, and so we have our own little devices for holding our audience. Now this particular story is a story about three brothers. Let me tell you that story, Senator. Once there were three brothers. The first brother—”

The chairman's gavel came down in a single sharp crack of walnut. “Ask him about something else, Senator Rey, if you don't mind. He's leading you around the mulberry bush. We'll be here all night at this rate. And don't get him started on Hen again.”

“Very well. We have annoyed the Chair again, Mr. Popper, so let us move on. Let us have a look at this
Codex Pappus.
I open the book at random here—or farther along—here. Yes, this will do. We have made our way through all the numbers and triangles and here, coming upon a block of text, we think we're in for a bit of plain sailing for a change. Not so. This is what we run into. I quote:

“And on and on. Now, that Initiate's course is far from being clear to me. Can you give us some idea of what all that means, Mr. Popper?”

“It doesn't mean much of anything in a surface reading like that.”

“That's what I would have said too. So much sawdust. I'm surprised to hear you admit it.”

“I acknowledge it freely enough. A lot of that is just filler material in the oracular mode to put P.S. off the scent.”

“P.S.?”

“Perfect Strangers. Those who are not Gnomons. Others, outsiders. P.S. or A.M. Perfect Strangers or the Ape Men.”

“But to what purpose? Apes we may be, but why throw dust in our eyes? Can you explain?”

“Sure can. I thought it would be obvious. We do it to protect our secret knowledge. We don't know whose hands those books might fall into, Senator, and so we are obliged to put a lot of matter in there to weary and disgust the reader. The casual reader is put off at once. A page or two of that and the ordinary man is a limp rag. Even great scholars, men who are trained and well paid to read dull books, are soon beaten down by it. The wisdom is there but in order to recognize it and comprehend it you must have the key. That key is transmitted by word of mouth and only by word of mouth from one Gnomon to another in a closed circuit.”

“So if I had the key I could understand this Choctaw.”

“If you had the key, Senator, you could read that book with profit. You couldn't fully understand it unless you had the key to that key.”

“What, another key?”

“These are our methods. In this way we have kept our mysteries inviolate for sixty thousand years.”

“More like sixty years,” said Senator Gammage, in that bass organ note that had caused so many cheap radio speakers in west Texas to shudder and bottom out. “Will the senator yield?”

“For the moment.”

“Thank you. This won't take long.”

Big Boy moved his campstool again, to a new prompting position behind this third and final examiner.

Senator Gammage squared up the stack of papers before him in a bit of stage business. Then he looked over his glasses at Popper for a silent, challenging minute or so, but in the end it was the senator who broke off and looked away, from Popper's unwavering smile.

“Let me say first that what struck me about those books is how slow they start. Maybe it's just me but I thought they started awfully slow.”

“It's not just you,” said Senator Churton.

“No, I noticed the same thing,” said Senator Rey. “You get hardly any sense of movement or destination.”

“Well, I wasn't sure. I thought it might be just me.”

“No,” said Senator Churton.

“I'll tell you something else about those books,” said Senator Rey. “I was a happier man before I read them.”

“What?” said Senator Churton.

“He said those books made him uneasy,” said Senator Gammage.

“They didn't have that effect on me.”

“Me neither. Your sensitive Latino, I guess.”

“That's not quite what I said.”

“Close enough. May I continue, please, with this witness? Now, Mr. Popper, we have heard about Hen and we have heard about Mr. Nickerson, this cunning, grinning old man with feathers around his mouth, and we have heard—”

“It's Mr. Jimmerson.”

“Jimmerson, yes, we have heard about him too, and we have heard about your Society and your literature, but we haven't heard much about you personally. I have some odds and ends here that need clarification. Perhaps you could help me.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you. Do you present yourself to the public as a petroleum engineer?”

“Petroleum consultant.”

“I see. Are you an American citizen?”

“I am indeed. First and last.”

“I ask that question because there seems to be some mystery surrounding your origins and your early years. Suddenly you just appear on the scene, a grown man.”

“I am an orphan, Senator. I had to make my own way as a child, but I am no less a good citizen for that. I am also an outspoken patriot. My friends tell me I go too far at times but I can't help it, it's always been Fifty-four forty or Fight with me. I'm too old to change now.”

“According to my information you sat out the war in a small upstairs room on Grant Avenue in San Francisco, playing fan-tan with one James Wing, and emerging only for the Victory Ball.”

“My military work was confidential and, much against my wishes, remains so to this day. It will all come out in thirty years.”

“Is Austin Popper your true name?”

“Yes, sir. It's not one I would have chosen.”

“You say that man Esteban is your security chief. Is he armed?”

“He's well armed.”

“You fear some attack in this chamber?”

“We have our enemies.”

“But you did not always travel in such style, did you? With attendants and a briefcase. I'm thinking now of your years on the road as a bum.”

“I was a tramp, yes, sir. I was down and out. I've never tried to conceal that.”

“A drunken bum?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Calling yourself Wally Wilson?”

“I believe I did use that name at one time.”

“Sleeping in haystacks? Stealing laundry off clotheslines and hot pies from the windowsills of isolated farmhouses? Leaving cryptic hobo marks scrawled on fence posts and the trunks of trees?”