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

One guard said, “Is the circus in town? I didn’t know the circus was in town.” Another kept saying, “So solly, no can do,” as Popper protested the treatment.
    Next they were turned away from the State Department. Then on to the War Department, where the note did get them past the duty officer in the lobby. They wandered about in that labyrinth for hours. The Battle of Midway was taking place at this time and anxious military men were racing up and down the corridors shouting bulletins at one another. The two Gnomons were bounced from office to office. No one had time to hear them out or look at the victory plan or even allow them to sit down for a moment. Mr. Jimmerson’s gown became soaked with sweat. The peak of his Poma wilted and toppled over. Popper finally cornered a young army captain who agreed to give them a few minutes of his time. But he seemed to think they were astrologers and that their plan had to do with the stars and he sent them on to the Naval Observatory.
    It was there, on Observatory Hill, that the two became separated. Mr. Jimmerson found a bench under a big tree and stopped there to rest while Popper went inside the main building to reconnoiter and to confer with such pipe-smoking men of science as he might find there. They would be receptive to new ideas, unlike the military blockheads downtown.
    Mr. Jimmerson dozed off. When he woke, with a start, he was hungry and thirsty. There was no sign of Popper, no sign of life at the Observatory. He heard a bell. It was the bell that had wakened him. He looked about and saw a man pedaling along on an ice-cream cart down on the broad avenue. He called out to the man and stumbled down the hill after him, only to realize on arrival that he had no money. His gown was pocketless. He asked the man where the nearest water fountain and public toilet might be. Probably at the zoo, said the ice-cream man, over that way. Over yonder. Out over in there.
    At the zoo a bum called Mr. Jimmerson a “schmo.” The bum was reclining on the grass with a friend and said, “I wonder who that schmo is.” The other bum ventured no guess. Mr. Jimmerson passed the rest of the day there admiring the great cats and looking into the queer dark eyes of the higher apes. There was reckoning behind those eyes but the elegance of the triangle would forever escape them. In the lion house he found a dime. His corset would not allow him to bend over far enough to pick it up. He pushed it along with his foot while trying to form a recovery plan, and then a boy came along and grabbed it.
    By the most direct route it was about three miles from the zoo to the Borger Hotel, but Mr. Jimmerson, confused by the radial street pattern, hiked the better part of five miles before he reached his room that evening, gasping and barefooted, his golden sandals having disintegrated along the way.
    â€œHere he is now,” said Popper, jumping up from the bed. There was another man in the room. “Come in, sir, you’re just in time. Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you. I was telling Cezar all about you. Here, I want you to meet Cezar. I want you to meet the most interesting man in Washington, D.C.”
    He made no reference to the aborted mission. He said nothing about compressed air or the victory plan or the bedraggled appearance of the Master, whose bloody feet, if nothing else, certainly invited comment. The stranger was a neat little package of a man, well finished, in a belted European suit. He had a spade beard and curly black hair. Popper introduced him as Professor Cezar Golescu, assistant custodian of almanacs and star catalogues at the Naval Observatory.
    â€œCezar is like you, sir, a great seeker of truth. I’ve been telling him a bit about Pletho Pappus. He wants very much to read the Codex and have a look at our archives. And let me tell you something. This fellow has some very exciting ideas about the reclamation of gold.