“The magnificence of the sun shines full upon you,” he intoned in a deep, solemn voice. “I accept that as an omen of good fortune.”
Kaplan fumbled with the lock, trying to keep his bulk between the store and the tramp. How he could keep out his unwelcome guest who seemed intent on entering, he had no idea. The tramp, however, folded his arms in dignity and waited without speaking further.
Unable to fumble convincingly any longer, Kaplan opened the door. It violated his entire conditioning, but he tried to close it on the tramp. Extremely agile, his visitor slipped through the narrow opening and stood quietly inside the store.
“All right, so you’re in!” Kaplan cried in a shrill voice. “So now what?”
The unattractively fringed mouth opened. “I acknowledge your superior science,” a low rumble stated.
“Hah?” was all Kaplan could extract from his flat vocal cords.
The tramp gazed longingly at the bandbox machine before he turned, slowly and enviously, to Kaplan.
“I have solved the mystery of the automobile, the train, the ship— yea, even the airplane. These do not befuddle me. They operate because of their imprisoned atoms, those infinitely small entities whom man has contrived to enslave. That one day they will revolt, I shall not argue.”
Kaplan searched, but he could find no answer. How could he? The tramp spoke English of a sort. Individually most of the words made sense; together, they defied interpretation.
“Electric lights,” the tramp went on, “are obviously dismembered parts of astral sheaths, which men torment in some manner to force them to assume an even more brilliant glow. This sacrilegious use of the holy aura I shall not denounce now. It is with your remarkably specialized bit of science that I am concerned.”
“For science, it don’t pay so good,” Kaplan replied with a nervous attempt at humor.
“Your science is the most baffling, least useful in this accursed materialistic world. What is the point of deliberately cleansing one’s outer garments while leaving one’s soul clad in filth?”
To Kaplan, that gave away the game. Before that, the tramp had been mouthing gibberish. This was something Kaplan could understand.
“You wouldn’t like to clean garments for people, I suppose?” he taunted slyly.
Evidently the tramp didn’t hear Kaplan. He kept his eyes fixed on the bandbox and began walking toward it in a dazed way. Kaplan couldn’t drive him away; despite his thinness, the tramp looked strong. Besides, he was within his legal rights.
“I have constructed many such devices in the year since I returned to the depraved land of my birth. In Tibet, the holy land of wisdom, I was known to men as Salindrinath, an earnest student. My American name I have forgotten.”
“What are you getting at?” Kaplan demanded.
Salindrinath spoke almost to himself: “Within the maws of these machines, I placed such rags as I possess. I besought the atoms to cleanse for me as they cleanse for you. Lo! My rags came to me with dirt intact, and a bit of machinery grime to boot.”
He wheeled on Kaplan.
“And why should they not?” he roared savagely. “What man does not know that atoms have powerful arms, but not fingers with which to pluck dirt from garments?”
As one actor judging the skill of another, Kaplan had to admit the tramp’s superiority. How a man could so effectively hide the simple urge to make a profit, Kaplan envied without understanding. The tramp wore a look of incredibly painful yearning.
“Pity me! Long ago should I have gone to my next manifestation. I have accomplished all possible in this miserable skin; another life will bestow Nirvana upon me. Alone of all the occult, this senseless wizardry torments me. Give me your secret—”
Kaplan recoiled before the fury of the plea. But he was able to conceal his confusion by pretending to walk backward politely to the workshop.
“Give it to you? I got to make a living, too.”
Beneath his outwardly cool exterior, Kaplan was desperately scared. What sort of strategy was this? When one man wants to buy out another, or drive him to the wall, he beats around the bush, of course. But he is also careful to drop hints and polite threats. This kind of idiocy, though! It didn’t make sense. And that worried Kaplan more than if it had, for he knew the tramp was far from insane.
“Do you aspire to learn of me? Eagerly shall I teach you in return for your bit of useless knowledge! What say you?”
“Nuts,” Kaplan informed him.
Salindrinath pondered this reply. “Then let my scientific training prove itself. Since you seem unwilling to explain—”
“Unwilling! Hah, if you only knew!”
“Mayhap you will consent to cleanse my sacred garments in my presence. Then shall I observe, without explanation. With a modicum of introspection, I can discover its principle. Yes?”
Kaplan picked up the heavy flat bat with which he banged creases into clothing. Its weight and utilitarian shape tempted him; the lawlessness of the crime appalled his kindly soul.
“What you got in mind?”
“Why, simply this—let me watch your machine cleanse my vestments.”
Regretfully Kaplan put down his weapon. His soft red lips, he felt sure, were a thin white line of controlled rage.
“Ain’t it enough you want to put me out of business? Must I give you a free dry cleaning too? Cleaning fluid costs money. If I cleaned your clothes, I couldn’t clean a pair of overalls with it. Maybe you want me to speak plainer?”
“It was but a simple request.”
“Some simple request! Listen to him— Even for ten dollars, I wouldn’t put your rags in my bandbox!”
“What, pray, is your objection?” Salindrinath asked humbly.
“You can ask? Such filth I have never seen. Shame on you!”
Salindrinath gazed down at his tatters. “Filth? Nay, it is but honest earth. What holy man fears the embrace of sacred atoms?”
“Listen to him,” Kaplan cried. “Jokes! You got atoms on you, you shameless slob, the same kind like on a pig—”
Now the ragged one recoiled. This he did with one grimy hand clutching at his heart.
“You dare!” he howled. “You compare my indifference to mere external cleanliness with SWINE? Oh, profaner of all things sacred, dabbler in satanic arts—” He strangled into silence and goggled fiercely at Kaplan, who shrank back. “You think perhaps I am unclean?”
“Well, you ain’t exactly spotless,” Kaplan jabbered in fright.
“But that you should compare me with the swine, the gross materialist of the mire!” Salindrinath stood trembling. “If you believe my vestments to be unclean, wait, bedraggler of my dignity. Wait! You shall discover the vestments of your cleanly, externally white and shining trade to be loathsome—loathsome and vile beyond words!”
“Some ain’t so clean,” Kaplan granted diplomatically.
The shabby one turned on his run-down heel and strode to the door.
“The garments of your respected customers will show you the real meaning of filth. And I shall return soon, when you are duly humbled!”
Kaplan shrugged at the furiously slammed door.
“A nut,” he told himself reassuringly. “A regular lunatic.”
But even that judicious pronouncement did not comfort him. He was too skilled in bargaining not to recognize the gambits that Salindrinath had shrewdly used—disparagement of the business, the attempt to wheedle information, the final threat. All were unusually cock-eyed, and thus a bit difficult for the amateur to discern, but Kaplan was not fooled so easily.
He sorted his work on the long receiving table. While waiting for the pressing machine to heat up, he began brushing trouser cuffs and sewing on loose or missing buttons.