The Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis Read Free Book Online

room was just wide enough for the two single beds and a little leg space between them. Popper sat on one bed and began at once to make telephone calls. He seemed to be trying to make appointments. It struck Mr. Jimmerson that he had left all this until very late. Mr. Jimmerson lay on the other bed and looked over his speaking notes. Tomorrow was the big day.
    Popper winked at him and said he had just arranged a double date with two hostesses named Bobbie and Edna who worked at a nearby night spot that had a good rumba band. “I think you’ll like Edna, sir. She’s a fine, strapping girl. A real armful, Bobbie tells me.”
    Mr. Jimmerson was astonished. Popper said, “My little joke, sir, nothing more. When people are hot and weary I’ve often found that a light note is just what the doctor ordered.”
    That night three Gnomons from the local Pillar came to call on the Master. One was a chubby young man named Pharris White. He was a part-time postal clerk who attended law school at night and who wrote long letters to the Temple on the subject of certain prime numbers and their Pythagorean significance, or lack thereof. Sometimes he sent telegrams. In the hollow place under his lower lip there was a tuft of seven or eight yellow bristles. He carried a satchel. Though he was only a Neophyte, he spoke very freely to the Master, even offensively, demanding to know why he, White, as an ordinary Gnomon, was denied access to the truly secret books by Those Who Know, and kept in dismal ignorance of the truly secret rituals and the truly secret numbers.
    Mr. Jimmerson politely told him that he could hardly be expected to discuss such matters on a social occasion like this. White took notes. The other two Gnomons were older men, a municipal judge and a retired streetcar motorman, who simply wanted to meet Mr. Jimmerson and bask in his radiance and have him sign their copies of Why I Am a Gnomon.
    Popper, still on the telephone, became annoyed with them as they chattered and shuffled about in the tiny room, adding their body heat and cigar smoke to the stifling air, and when he saw Pharris White stealthily rooting around in Mr. Jimmerson’s bag he jumped up from the bed and ordered them all to leave. The Master had given them quite enough of his time. He was here on an important government mission and had papers to study.
    As they trooped out, Popper caught White by the sleeve. “One moment, White. Let’s have a look at your Gnomon card. I want to check the watermark.”
    â€œMy card is in order.”
    â€œThen you won’t mind.”
    White produced his membership card. Popper glanced at it and then whipped out a rubber stamp and stamped VOID across it in purple block letters. “There. You are now a P.S. Get out.”
    â€œYou can’t do this.”
    â€œOn your way. We don’t know you.”
    â€œYou’re making a big mistake.”
    â€œAnd don’t write us any more letters. Understand? You savvy?”
    â€œYou think you can treat me this way because I’m poor and have to go to night law school.”
    â€œAll law schools should be conducted at night. Late at night, in rooms like this. No, I’m turning you out of the Society, White, because there’s something wrong with your mind. I can see it in your eyes. They don’t look right to me. Your eyes and your pallor tell me all I need to know. Maybe you can get some help elsewhere. We just don’t have the time to fool around with people like you. Why aren’t you in the army, anyway?”
    Pharris White left with his satchel.
    Mr. Jimmerson slept badly. He couldn’t get his limbs distributed comfortably on the narrow bed. The scene with the young man had been disturbing and he was homesick and concerned about his wife—a middle-aged woman expecting a child—and he had forebodings about what the next day would bring. Popper continued to ring up people far into the night. His