The Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis Read Free Book Online Page A

telephone manner was unctuous. Mr. Jimmerson turned away from the wheedling voice and the glow of the table lamp and tried to rest. When at last he did sleep his exhalations were moist and troubled.
    The next morning, as he inspected himself in a mirror, he told Popper that it had been a mistake to leave Fanny at home. She would have remembered to unpack his gown and hang it up. It was now all wrinkled and puckered. The garment was made of unbleached linen, with a few golden threads interwoven in the cloth to catch the light. Just below the right shoulder, in gold leaf, there was the figure of a gnomon, enclosing a staring all-seeing eyeball.
    Popper assured him that the wrinkles would go away after he had walked about some; gravity and the steamy Washington air would do the trick.
    â€œBut where is my Rod? My Rod is not here, Austin.”
    â€œYou can’t find your Rod of Correction?”
    â€œI know I packed it. I saw it yesterday.”
    â€œThat slug Pharris White. He must have taken it.”
    â€œSurely not.”
    â€œYes, I saw him pawing over your things with his nimble, mail-sorting fingers. He probably thought it was gold. I should have searched him.”
    â€œDo you know, he pulled my necktie.”
    â€œI wish you had spoken up, sir.”
    A hasty inventory showed that White had made off not only with the Rod, in its rosewood box with silver fittings, but also with Mr. Jimmerson’s knotted rope, for escape from burning hotels, and some miscellaneous papers and a complete suit of the Master’s cambric underwear. The strange clerk had apparently stuffed away in his satchel whatever fell to hand.
    The missing Rod of Correction was a bronze bar about as long as a new pencil and just a bit thicker. Better suited perhaps for poking than for administering any sort of serious beating, it had nonetheless great symbolic power, the power of the Magisterium, and Mr. Jimmerson had only to raise it a fraction of an inch to silence even a roaring speaker like Austin Popper.
    â€œWell, if it’s gone, it’s gone,” said Popper. “Anyway, good riddance to Pharris the white rat and much good may it do him. We need to shake a leg, sir. Here, let me help you with your Poma.”
    He pulled the cap down snugly against the ears and fastened the chin strap. The strap was a recent innovation strictly for street wear, a protective measure against the Poma’s being blown away or snatched in broad daylight by one of Hen’s men. He walked around the listless figure, tugging here and there at the gown, then stepped back to appraise the effect. “Behold! The Master of Gnomons! Ready to go forth! Come on, sir, chin up. Take it from me, things will look much brighter after some coffee and scrambled eggs.”
    But Mr. Jimmerson did not feel much better after breakfast. The sidewalk was already hot at nine o’clock and the soles of his ceremonial sandals were very thin. People looked at him. Children stopped to stare openly at his feet, great spreading white organs that were coated with hair like the feet of some arctic bird. He danced about on the hot concrete, alternately placing one foot atop the other, as Popper tried to hail a cab.
    It was a long day, full of disappointments, and in later years Mr. Jimmerson’s memory mercifully failed him as to the sequence of events. His congressman was kind enough to pose with him on the Capitol steps for a photograph but after that he met with nothing but indignities.
    For all his telephoning, Popper had come up with nothing more than a brief note from the congressman, which asked in guarded language that courtesy be shown to his two constituents, Mr. Jimmerson and Mr. Popper. There were no appointments. The note availed them nothing at the White House gates. There they were stopped by guards, suspicious of the Master’s unusual attire, and were not even permitted to enter the grounds with the tourists, much less see the President.