The Masters of Atlantis (32 page)

A whiff of sage came from the corn-bread dressing and there were other pleasant smells from the long buffet table. Mr. Moaler struck a green note himself, with a Gnomon sash across his body, which was like that of an Eagle Scout or a South American president. When the ceremony was done and the congratulations had trailed off, he rang his thumb bell. The guests looked at one another and became very still, like Sweet Boy. They steeled themselves. Breathing was suspended.
Here it comes.
Mr. Moaler offered a long prayer of thanksgiving for their many blessings, but made no announcement.

“Amen,” said Popper. “After all, we still have our—I started to say our health. But we do still have our wits about us and we still hold our ancient secrets inviolate and we have our Society intact, lean and strong, under the generous patronage of Mr. Morehead Moaler.”

There was applause for Mr. Moaler. He stopped it with a raised hand. “Time to eat,” he said. Plates were prepared and served to the two Masters, and to Mr. Moaler and Popper in their wheelchairs, the four of them sitting
en banc.
Then the others formed a line and served themselves.

Adele said, “No need to overload your plate like that, Ed. There's plenty of food. You can come back.”

Hen helped Mr. Moaler tuck his napkin, showing that he was not too proud to perform such small offices. “A lovely dinner, Morehead. Do you know, I believe I'm recovering some of my old form, thanks to you and your kindness.”

“Good food,” said Mr. Jimmerson. “Give me the dark meat every time and you can have your white meat.”

Popper said, “Did you hear that, Maceo? Lázaro? Teresita? The Master's compliments. Mine too. A real dining experience. How about it, everyone? Can't we show a little appreciation for our cooks?”

More applause.

Outside there was a rustling noise, which, to Babcock, reminded of that last terrible day in the Temple, sounded like many thousands of cockroaches on the march. Again the guests looked at each other with alarm, in the way of the Atlanteans, when they first heard the rumbling on their single day and night of misfortune. What now? There was a rush for the windows, such that the Great Hall tilted a bit. Outside they saw a magnificent new mobile home, yellow, with pitched roof, being towed in under the palm trees and brushing against the dead fronds. This was Mr. Moaler's surprise. He had bought a new trailer.

His red face was glowing under his Poma. “How do you like it?” he said. “That's your eighty-foot Cape Codder with cathedral roof and shingles of incorruptible polystyrene. It's the top of the line. The Cape Codder is built with sixteen-inch centers and will never sag in the middle like those cheaper models with twenty-inch centers. The furniture is done in indestructible Herculon and there are two master bedrooms for our two Masters. Plenty of room for everybody. By day we'll study or do whatever we please and every night we'll play Sniff.”

There were more cheers for Mr. Moaler, on this day of cheers and goodwill. Even Popper, who never laughed, was moved to laugh a little. Another trailer! And the suggestion that there were still more where that one came from! A Gnomon panzer formation in the Moaler grove! It wasn't the Temple of the old days but it was better than being breathed on by Dean Ray Stuart!

Hen, exultant, foaming, almost weeping, said, “I think I'll grow tomatoes by day, Lamar. The Better Boy variety for preference, in this sand. Yes, a little garden for me. How about you?”

“It's study for me, Sydney.”

Babcock remained standing at a window but he was not looking at the long yellow flanks of the new Temple. He could feel the Telluric Currents. The pulsing made him a little dizzy. The surge and ebb. He saw what must be done. The flame was faint indeed and he had much work to do. He need no longer take account of the thoughtless multitude in the cities of men or of the three elderly gamesters at their table in their conical caps. He had often suppressed the thought but now he knew in his heart that he himself was a Master and that Maurice Babcock was to be Master of the New Cycle.

Whit said, “What a wonderful Christmas!”

Ed, who no longer missed the Red Room, said, “This is the best party I've ever been to!”

ALSO BY CHARLES PORTIS