"Why, yes indeed," I said.
Owen disappeared and returned with three small glasses arid a bottle of sherry. "Ordinarily we do not indulge in alcoholic beverages in the Anthropophili, but we make exceptions for eminent visitors. 'Moderation is the noblest gift of heaven'."
He poured me, Bellamy, and himself each a thimbleful. It was good stuff as far as it went. While we sipped, Owens talked a monologue about the ideals of his organization. I was ready for a second when the dinner gong sounded and Owens put his bottle away.
There were about thirty members of the cult at the long table. The members, including those who had been working on the house, were mostly young and casually dressed. Several were black. Since this was in the early days of civil rights agitation in the South, I wondered if the racial integration of Owens's cult had barred him from local financing. That subject, however, never came up.
The food was plain but excellent. The conversation was mostly over my head, dealing with local politics and personalities: When dinner was over, Owens said:
"Mr. Newbury, I should like to show you our products."
He led me to one end of the house, down steps, and into a storage room. There were heaps of wrought-iron grilles, railings, gates, wall brackets, planters, outdoor furniture, and other examples of the modern blacksmith's art. While I am no judge of such matters, these artifacts seemed well-made.
"It's a matter of price," said Owens. "With the unusual personnel of my crew, I can undersell any other maker of such products. If I can expand, there won't be the slightest difficulty about repaying the loan, with a handsome profit to our organization. This profit-will be used to further the aims of our movement."
"Do you use the members of your society as workers?"
"Oh, dear, no! They are seekers of truth, fully occupied with our crusade to bring peace and prosperity to the world. My workers are persons of quite a different sort."
He steered me gently to the door. Then he and Bellamy whisked me off to my motel.
"We'll see you first thing in the morning," said Bellamy. "What time do y'all like to get up?"
In the morning, they drove me to Stone Mountain. We parked and took one of the new cable cars to the top. The car soared up over the colossal statues of Davis, Lee, and Jackson on horseback, which were carved in the west face. I understand that the sculptors meant, when the project began, to add a mile-long parade of Confederate soldiers as well. They ran out of money, however, before the project got that far.
Holding a stanchion in the crowded cable car, Bellamy said: "Every year, some young numbskull tries to show off to his girl by climbing all the way down one of the steep sides. Then he gets to where it's too steep to hold on, and that's the end of him."
On top, we strolled about admiring the view. Bellamy told me of their further plans for my entertainment—the river-boat ride, the restored ante-bellum plantation—until I said:
"I certainly appreciate your hospitality, gentlemen. But, before we do business, I simply must see your plant and these extraordinary workers."
Owens said: "Well—ah—you saw the quality of our ironwork last night. I can show you lists of the prevailing prices for such products and what we sell ours for. I can explain our system of advertising and distribution—"
"Please. I am merely a trustee for our depositors' money; I have to know what I'm putting it into. So I must see your facilities with my own eyes."
Owens coughed. "There are—ah—some practical difficulties to that. You see, sir, there is some question of the title to the site of our factory. If the precise location should become generally known, it might cause us great inconvenience. We might have to relocate. Furthermore, our personnel are averse to letting outsiders see them at their tasks."
I shook my head. "Sorry, fellows. No factory tour, no money."
Owens and Bellamy exchanged looks. Bellamy scowled, glared, and took a step towards me, as if his temper were about to explode in violence. A slight movement from Owens caused Bellamy to step back and make his face blank. Owens said:
"Put your ear down against the granite, Mr. Newbury, and tell me what you hear."
The prospect did not look promising for my pants; but, I thought, I could bill the bank for a new pair. I got down and put my ear to the elephant-gray rock. A couple of other tourists, fifty feet away, stared at me.
"I hear a faint rumble," I said. "A vibration almost below the lower limit of audibility. I suppose it's the machinery that runs the cable cars."
Owens shook his head. "We are too far from that machinery, as you can ascertain by repeating the test in other parts of the rock."
"What then?" I said, getting up and dusting off my clothes.
"Are you familiar with the lines from Spenser:
" 'Fraid not," I said. "The Faerie Queene is one of those things I'm always promising myself to read but never getting around to. What's the point?"
"The story, as Spenser tells it, is that Merlin once summoned up a host of spirits and compelled them to set about prefabricating a brazen wall for his native city of Carmarthen. Then he went off and got himself entombed by Vivien, or whatever her name was. But nobody told the poor devils to stop, so they are still at work. Or at least, they were before I got in touch with them."
"Yes?" I said. "You mean you've got Spenser's spirits hammering out wrought-iron grilles in a cave beneath Stone Mountain?"
"Quite. Some might question the propriety of the term 'spirits' for my workers, who are very solid, substantial creatures."
"You mean gnomes or dwarves?"
"They are called by various names. I shan't try to explain how I secured their service, because that would take us into the complexities of magical theory."
"But how did you get them to this country? Did you smuggle them aboard a ship, or did they tunnel under the Atlantic?"
Owens smiled. "Such beings have their own resources, their own—ah—mysterious ways."
"If the demons of Carmarthen were brass workers, did they have to learn how to handle iron?"
"Be assured, they can handle any metal. Now, since you insist, we shall descend the mountain and visit our manufactory—at least, to the extent that it is safe to show it to you."
We drove back to the Oecus. Owens and Bellamy took me around the house to the rear. Here I found a curious structure: a large sunken area bounded by stone walls, which rose to waist height above the outer ground surface but extended down fifteen or twenty feet below ground level on the inner side. It was as if someone had begun to build a big house but had gotten no further than the cellar. A couple of honeylocust trees shaded the area with their feathery leaves.
A ramp between two curving stone walls provided access to the lower level. There were also a couple of other down-sloping passageways, but these came to blind ends. The thing conveyed the impression of being the product of a very strange mind.
In the middle of the lower level was another, narrower depression, perhaps six feet deep, ten wide, and thirty long, and brick-paved. Owens and Bellamy led me down steps to this sub-basement. At one end, I saw a heavy iron door, which Owens unlocked and opened with a screech of hinges.
"Watch your head," he said.
I ducked under the lintel and followed the little magus, while Bellamy brought up the rear. The down-sloping tunnel was lined with planks and dimly lit by an occasional electric light bulb. We hiked for some minutes in silence. The planks gave way to solid granite, and the passageway became level. Owens paused to indicate a series of side chambers.