Sedate chamber music wafted from somewhere in the house below. Two men rose from chairs in the hallway as Doyle exited the bedroom. Both appeared in their early fifties and were similarly attired in evening wear. Each held a drink; the shorter of the two, a dapper, fastidious man with thinning hair and a trim black beard, smoked a blunt cigar. The taller one bore the broad shoulders and upright carriage of a mili-
tary man, his white hair trimmed to a rough bristle, a full, white walrus mustache cutting across the length of his square, uncompromising face. He hung back a step as the shorter man moved immediately to Doyle with an extended hand.
"We were just discussing something—perhaps you can settle the question for us, Doctor," said the shorter man gregariously, in a flat, nearly American accent, beaming a gap-toothed smile. "My friend Drummond here insists that if the proper circulatory equipment were to be made available, a man's head could indefinitely be kept alive and functioning after separation from the body."
"Depends entirely upon which latitude the separation were to be effected," said Drummond, his upper-class voice as stiff with reserve as his spine. His eyes, drawn slightly too far apart for symmetry in the broad box of his face, stared perpetually down his nose.
"Whereas I continue to maintain that the body provides far too many essential elements that the brain requires in order to carry on," said the shorter man, as casually as if they were discussing the delivery of mail. "And leaving the issue of maintenance aside, it's my decided opinion that the trauma of cleaving head from torso to begin with proves far too injurious for any portion of the brain to survive."
"I will go one step further, John," said the General. "I submit that if the cut were made at a sufficiently low intersection, it would be possible for the head to retain the power of speech."
"You see, we disagree there as welclass="underline" Where would the wind come from, Marcus?" argued Sir John Chandros, the owner of Ravenscar. "Even with the neck in all its unfettered glory, there's no bellows to move the air through the vocal cords. Come on, man! What expertise can you offer us, Doctor? From a purely medical perspective?"
"I'm afraid I've never given the matter much thought," said Doyle.
"But it is a most provocative subject, don't you agree?" asked Chandros, who apparently felt no further introductions necessary.
"A heady matter indeed," said Doyle.
Chandros laughed genuinely. "Yes. Heady. Very good. Heady: Do you like that, Marcus?"
Drummond snorted, Doyle assumed disapprovingly.
"Marcus has been in violent need of a good, solid belly laugh for the last thirty years," said Chandros. "And he needs it still."
Drummond snorted again, seeming to confirm the opinion.
"For an accredited cynic and somewhat notorious man of the world, my friend the General manages to retain a remarkable naivete." Chandros took Doyle's arm in his before he could respond and directed him down the corridor. "However, Doctor, apropos our prior discussion, regardless of its particular unlikelihood, I strongly believe that as a race of people we are on the verge of such a vast sea change of scientific discovery that it will transform forever life as we have known it."
Another snort from Drummond: There were apparently shadings and nuances to the man's use of the exclamation that would require months to interpret.
"Drummond will warn you that I am an inveterate disciple of the future. Guilty as charged. I happen to believe that if man is in need of hope, he need look no further for it than tomorrow. Yes, I've been to America, spent many years there: New York, Boston, Chicago, there's a city for you, powerful, tough, raw as the wind. Done a lot of business with them— they understand business, the Americans, second nature to them—and perhaps they've infected me with their optimism, but I still say if a man with the right idea meets a man with the right money, together they can change the world. Change it, helclass="underline" transform it. God gave man dominion over the earth; it's high time we took the bit between our teeth and pulled the plow with which the Lord provided us. Tried politics. Not for me. Too damn dependent on consensus to get anything done. Committees didn't build the Great Pyramids; Pharaoh did. My point is: The business of living is a business. Let me give you an example."
As they passed a banister looking down on the entrance hall, Doyle saw the long table was set for dinner. Well-attired guests mingled before the fire. With the baleful shadow of General Drummond trailing them, Chandros took Doyle past the overlook and through a door, out onto a high balcony. A vast panorama to the west, where the sun balanced perfectly on the lip of the horizon.
"What's man's greatest obstacle in life?" asked Chandros, puffing away on his cigar. "Himself. That's the rub. His own damn animal nature. Perpetually at war with the higher power inside. Can't surrender. There's a genius living cheek by jowl in the same bag of bones with this lower man, and let me tell you, sir, that lower man is nothing but a troglodyte, a half-wit chucklehead without the common sense to live. Worse still, this dumb clot thinks he's the long-lost son of a god; it's only a matter of time before the world puts him back on the throne where he belongs. In the meantime, he works like a dull ox and he drinks and he gambles and he whores and he pisses his life away and he dies crying out for this god that deserted him to save his pathetic, penny-ante soul. Let me ask you this: What everloving deity in its right mind would waste a moment's precious thought on a worthless wretch like that?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Doyle, recoiling at the man's frigid assurance.
"I will tell you: no deity worth a tinker's dam." He folded his arms, leaned against the wall, and looked out over the land. "Now the Christians have had a good run. No question about it. One dead Jew with some neat tricks up his sleeve, promoted like hair tonic by a few fanatical followers, and one converted emperor later they've got themselves a Holy Empire to shame any in history. Going on two thousand years. How did they manage it? The secret of their success was simplicity: Concentrate your power. Wrap it in mystery. Hide it inside the biggest building in town. Lay down a few commandments to keep the peasants in line, get a regulatory grip on birth, death, and marriage, throw in the fear of damnation, some smoke, a little music—there's your first commandment: Put on a good show—and customers will come crawling on their knees for the stale crumbs of that Feast of Saints. Now that ... that was a business."
Drummond snorted again. Doyle wasn't certain if it was meant as affirmation or rebuttal.
Chandros puffed and chomped his cigar. His dazzling blue eyes sparkled with inspirational zeal. "So: How do you change man from a dim-witted, randy farm animal to a domesticated, productive tool ready to roll up his sleeves and pitch in for the greater good? There's the puzzle anybody that aspires to rule has to crack, be it religion, government, busi-
ness, what have you. And here was the plain genius of the Christians' solution: Convince your constituents of one big lie. We hold the key to the gates of heaven. You want to make the trip, brother, you'll have to do it through our aus-pices. Sure, advertising how dodgy the Other Place is helped
close the deaclass="underline" Fear puts those poor ignorant sods down on t.heir knees lighting candles like there's no tomorrow. And let's be straight, Old Nick's always been their real matinee idol—the man you love to hate, he'll scare you so bad you piss in your union suit, but you still can't take your eyes off him. He's the one puts the ladies in a lather, not that simpering, doe-eyed Messiah. Throw the Devil in to spice up the soup, and you've got yourself a flawless formula for religion hegemony. Worked like a Swiss watch. Nothing came close.