Miss Ming wrinkled her nose and backed away from them. "I never liked this part of the castle. It's creepy. I don't know how —" She pulled herself together.
"Eh?" said Mr Bloom.
Doctor Volospion permitted himself a dark smile. "It is all that remains of Yawk, Saviour of Shakah, founder of a religion which spread through fourteen star-systems and eighty planets and lasted some seven thousand years until it became the subject of a jehad."
"Hm," said Mr Bloom non-committally.
"I had this," confided Doctor Volospion, "from the last living being to retain his faith in Yawk. He regarded himself as the only guardian of the relic, carried it across countless light-years, preaching the gospel of Yawk (and a fine, poetic tale it is), until he reached Earth."
"And then?" Bloom reverently replaced the piece of skin.
"He is now a guest of mine. You will meet him later."
A smile appeared momentarily on Miss Ming's lips. She believed that she had guessed what her host had in mind.
"Aha," murmured the Fireclown. "And what would this be?" He moved on through the hall, pausing beside a cabinet containing an oddly wrought artefact made of something resembling green marble.
"A weapon," said Volospion. "The very gun which slew Marchbanks, the Martyr of Mars, during the revival, in the 25th century (A.D., of course), of the famous Kangaroo Cult which had swept the solar system about a hundred years previously, before it was superseded by some atheistic political doctrine. You know how one is prone to follow the other. Nothing, Mr Bloom, changes very much, either in the fundamentals or the rhetoric of religions and political creeds. I hope I am not depressing you?"
Bloom snorted. "How could you? None of these others has experienced what I have experienced. None has had the knowledge I have gained and, admittedly, half-forgotten. Do not confuse me with these, I warn you, Doctor Volospion, if you wish to continue to converse with me. I could destroy all this in a moment, if I wished, and it would make no difference…"
"You threaten?"
"What?" The little man removed his clown's cap and ran his fingers through the tangles of his auburn hair. "Eh? Threaten? Don't be foolish. I gave my word. I was merely lending emphasis to my statement."
"Besides," said Doctor Volospion smoothly, "you could do little now, I suspect, for there are several force-fields lying between you and your ship now — they protect my museum — and I suspect that your ship is the main source of your power, for all you claim it derives entirely from your mind."
Emmanuel Bloom chuckled. "You have found me out, Doctor Volospion, I see." He seemed undisturbed. "Now, then, what other pathetic monuments to the nobility of the human spirit have you locked up here?"
Doctor Volospion extended his arms. "What would you see?" He pointed in one direction. "A wheel from Krishna's chariot?" He pointed in another. "A tooth said to belong to the Buddha? One of the original tablets of Moses? Bunter's bottle? The sacred crown of the Kennedys? Hitler's nail? There," he tapped a dome, "you'll find them all in that case. Or over here," a sweep of a green and black arm, "the finger-bones of Karl Marx, the knee-cap of Mao Tse-tung, a mummified testicle belonging to Heffner, the skeleton of Maluk Khan, the tongue of Suhulu. Or what of these? Filp's loin-cloth, Xiombarg's napkin, Teglardin's peach rag. Then there are the coins of Bibb-Nardrop, the silver wands of Er and Er, the towels of Ich — all the way from a world within the Crab Nebula. And most of these, in this section here, are only from the Dawn Age. Farther along are relics from all other ages of this world and the universe. Rags and bones, Mr Bloom. Rags and bones."
"I am moved," said Emmanuel Bloom.
"All that is left," said Doctor Volospion, "of a million mighty causes. And all, at core, that those causes ever were!"
The clown's face was grave as he moved among the cases.
Mavis Ming was shivering. "This place really does depress me," she whispered to her guardian. "I know it's my fault, but I've always hated places like this. They seem ghoulish. Not that I'm criticising, Doctor Volospion, but I've never been able to understand why a man like you could indulge in such a strange hobby. It's all research material, of course. We have to do research, don't we? Well, at least, you do. It's nice that someone does. I mean this is your area of research, isn't it, this particular aspect of the galaxy's past? It's why I'll never make a first-rank historian, I suppose. It's the same, you know, when I lived with Donny Stevens. It was the cold-blooded killing of those sweet little rabbits and monkeys at the lab. I'd simply refuse, you know, to let him or anyone else talk about it when I was around. And with the time machine, too, they sent so many to God knows where before they'd got it working properly. When can I stop this charade, Doctor…?"
Volospion raised a finger to his lips. Bloom was some distance away but had turned, detecting the voice, no doubt, of his loved one.
"Rags and bones," said Doctor Volospion, as if he had been reiterating his opinions to Miss Ming.
"No," called Bloom from where he stood beside a case containing many slightly differently shaped strips of metal, "these were merely the instruments used to focus faith. Witness their variety. Anything would do as a lens to harness the soul's fire. A bit of wood. A stone. A cup. A custard pie. Nothing here means anything without the presence of the beings who believed in their validity. Whether that piece of worm-eaten wood really did come from Christ's cross or not is immaterial. As a symbol…"
"You question the authenticity of my prizes?"
"It is not important…"
Doctor Volospion betrayed agitation. It was genuine. "It is to me, Mr Bloom. I will have nothing in my museum that is not authentic!"
"So you have a faith of your own, after all." Bloom's painted lips formed a smile.
He leaned, a tiny jester, a cockerel, against a force dome.
Doctor Volospion lost none of his composure. "If you mean that I pride myself on my ability to sniff out any fakes, any piece of doubtful origin, then you speak rightly. I have faith in my own taste and judgement. But come, let us move on. It is not the museum that I wish you to inspect, its the menagerie, which is of greater interest, for there…"
"Show me this cup you have. This Holy Grail. I was looking for it."
"Well, if you feel you have the leisure. Certainly. There it is. In the cabinet with Jissard's space-helmet and Panjit's belt."
Emmanuel Bloom trotted rapidly in the direction indicated by Doctor Volospion, weaving his way among the various displays, until he came to the far wall where, behind a slightly quivering energy screen, between the helmet and the belt, stood a pulsing, golden cup, semi-transparent, in which a red liquid swirled.
Bloom's glance at the cup was casual. He made no serious attempt to inspect it. He turned back to Doctor Volospion, who had followed behind.
"Well?" said Volospion.
Bloom laughed. "Your taste and judgement fail you, Doctor Volospion. It is a fake, that Grail."
"How could you know?"
"I assure you that I am right."
Bloom began to leave the case, but Doctor Volospion tugged at his arm. "You would argue that it is merely mythical, wouldn't you? That it never existed. Yet there is proof that it did."
"Oh, I need no proof of the Grail's existence. But if it were the true Grail how could you, of all people, keep it?"
Doctor Volospion frowned. "You are vaguer than usual, Mr Bloom. I keep the cup because it is mine."
"Yours?"
"I had it from a time traveller who had spent his entire life searching for it and who, as it happens, found it in one of our own cities. Unfortunately, the traveller destroyed himself soon after coming to stay with me. They are all mad, such people. But the thing itself is authentic. He had found many fakes before he found the true Grail. He vouched for this one. And he should have known, a man who had dedicated himself to his quest and who was willing to kill himself once that quest was over."