Once more that expression, rapid and enigmatic, flashed across the face of Shamsuabi. But he hid with a bow, and said: "The thanks of her slave to the Great Lady under Ishtar."
"It is permitted to withdraw; and to the scribe Nintudunadin also, who has all our counsel"
She wasn't overlooking a single bet, thought Finch, as he made his way toward the tent of the trap-door and his relief by Hilprecht The geo-politician was already in costume, pacing to and fro in the narrow room and shaking his head as Finch came down the ladder.
"What gives?" he greeted Finch. "I hear those shoutings."
"I think Zilidu's army must have come in," said Finch, "but I was held up by Queen Ishtaramat and didn't get to see the show."
"Ach! My friend, you are a phenomenon. I do not understand; the great events come, a parade of victorious armies, and you miss it to make attendance to this fat old woman."
Finch grinned: "The fat old woman was worth a little attendance this time. She's up to tricks." And he recounted the queen's interviews with Nabuzaradan and the astrologer.
"So!" said Hilprecht. "She is useful, that queen; she makes things happen. You see what comes? Zilidu cannot give up this wench; she is his trophy. Doch, things will now occur. But do such details matter? No, they are of the purest sentimental interest which is not significant in the chain of historical events. Your approach is too personal ..." He stopped and jagged one thick eyebrow upward. "I remind myself. What troubles have you been making, my friend?"
"I don't know. What do you mean?"
"Ah! I hear a word here and there, and Papa Hilprecht is not so foolish. A word to the wise men is not barking against the wrong boat, according to your English proverb. I tell it because you are saving my theory, in friendship. Beware yourself! They discuss in the general board that you should be declared unscientific because you lose your judgment over a woman, a nanny-goat. There is also a black, who claims to be an astrologer, by the gate waiting."
The weight of the world came down on Finch's shoulders. "Oh, good heavens!" he said. "Do you mind if I don't type out these notes till I've seen him?"
Hilprecht assumed the expression of a disapproving but indulgent father, and held up one finger. "It is not right, but for once, go. I will omit to report."
The visitor was Beauregard, all right, looking very large and rather menacing in the red rays of a setting sun, just outside the wooden tunnel. The guard on duty, a burly individual with a red beard and an inexplicable odor of perfume, was looking at the visitor suspiciously. But Beauregard was smilingly polite:
"Dr. Finch, sir, indeed I am delighted to encounter you. I hope and trust your project is proceedifying in a magnificent manner."
"It's going along all right. What can I do for you?"
"For me in person? Nothing, nothing at all, Dr. Finch." He waved large hands and seemed for the moment a trifle nonplused.
"Oh. I was under the impression that you would hardly have come out here merely to say good-evening."
"As a matter of factuality, you are correct, perfectly correct. I came because of my reading of the stars which demonstrates that as a pronounced Saggitarius type, you have the ideal of the promotion of justice."
"Naturally. How does that affect your visit here, my sable sibyl?"
"Sir!" There was enormous dignity in the face presented to him. "I am victimated by dense injustice." He lowered his voice and with a glance at the guard, added in a stage whisper: "A certain doctor has brought impeachment proceedings on the ground of casting a false horoscope. Yes sir."
"Was the horoscope false?" he asked.
"No sir! That is the point. The whole signification of it according to varitudinous systems is that you and Miss Bow is in distinctivized danger."
Finch frowned, looking away toward one of the service buses that was just drawing up near the entrance, acutely conscious of a sense of responsibility for this pathetic and ridiculous creature. And yet, in that last stormy interview with Chase, Beauregard had certainly shown every indication of ratting, placing all the blame for the incident on him.
"What do you want me to do?" he temporized.
"Sir, the situation is almost indefeasible. But we have a resource. We can apply to the Numerological Institute, which has seniorization even above Dr. Chase's department, due to its newness. I observe that you and Miss Bow are both Nines, while Dr. Chase, as a Seven, entertains a naturalized antipathetic polarity—"
"The inhabitants of Skye," Finch interrupted him gravely, "take in each other's washing, and I am delighted to hear that astrologers patronize numerologists."
Beauregard's features withered. "If you don't, by gollies, I'm gonna have to tell the board you put me up to it, tha's all. Dr. Chase, he'll—"
He came to a stop suddenly, gazing at two men in gray uniforms who had separated themselves from the little group getting off the bus, and were talking to the guard. The latter was pointing toward Beauregard. "Thanks," said the two, and came over.
One of them addressed the astrologer. "Are you Washington Beauregard? ... Assignment Division, Department of Psychology. You have been chosen for an assignment in the reconstruction project on Assyrian history. Sorry to rush you, but I'm afraid you'll have to come over to the conditioning laboratory right away."
Twenty-Three:
The telephone was ringing. Finch came back to consciousness like a swimmer, from fathomless black depths down, feeling toward the light. It seemed that in the few seconds between impulse and waking, he had flashed through a dozen existences, in which were mingled figures bright with color, but who had no time to speak, so rapidly did they flow past. Yet he knew them through some inner process; the young one with the sardonic smile was named Lloyd Owens, and the little man who gibbered and held up two hairs between thumb and forefinger was Orford Max, a cigarmaker, and the tall one with the gold-covered uniform would be a dream-creature bearing the name of Hyperion Weems ...
He switched on the bed light and picked up the phone. "Finch speaking."
"I have an urgent teletype message for you. Dated from Historical Project 442. It reads as follows: 'Reception of General Zil—Zilidu will be held in first watch tonight. If you wish to see event should come-at once.' Message ends. Signed Hilprecht."
"Thank you," said Finch and pulled himself out of bed, sleepily cursing the Assyrian habit of conducting important state receptions after the midnight meal, then sleeping all day. A knotted shoestring delayed him; he plucked at it impatiently and broke a fingernail with a little sharp stab of pain that brought him fully awake, the thought of Thera tearing inextinguishably at his mind. If there were only some escape into those bright corridors of dream, where problems solved themselves without an aftertaste of regret ... !
As he was changing his clothes in the directors room beneath the tent of the arrows, he could already hear a roar of many voices above, excited and triumphant The tent-flap had not been so tightly drawn as to exclude light.; tall red gleams and shadows danced across the interior, as from a burning town. There was a rush of feet and an excited babble of words outside.
He stepped out into a plaza crowded with soldiers and camp-followers, at least half of them carrying torches which reflected redly on bronze fish-scale armor and weapons, all milling around arid shouting confusedly. New heads had been added to the ghastly collection before the royal tent; Finch had to push and cry, "Way for the king's scribe!" to get through the cheerful press milling around the structure. Off at one side was the tent of worship, and from it there rose into the gaps of sound the mournful, repeated iteration of a hymn to Nergaclass="underline" "Oh, Lord of Death, the sad path lieth dreary, Evil encompasseth us, and we grow weary—" Finch caught himself humming the melancholy minors of the air as he made his way past the guard into the royal tent. Within and beyond the entrance-chamber, several of the hanging walls had been looped back, so that much of the interior area was thrown together into one big hall. Torch-bearers in a double row lined the sides, and in front of them, officers and court dignitaries were conversing energetically. But the central space was clear in a long lane down to the end, where Shalmanesar sat on his throne. Finch saw him in profile as his head cocked a little to one side, and his expression sullen, he was conversing with someone just behind him. Shamsuabi, the astrologer.