"How do you do, Mr. Randall."
"How do you do," Randall answered mechanically. "Look here, this has gone far—"
"Then Mr. Gravesby, Mr. Wells, Mr. Yoakum, Mr. Printemps, Mr. Jones. Mr. Phipps you have et. He is our secretary. Beyond him is seated Mr. Reifsnider and Mr. Snyder—no relation. And finally Mr. Parker and Mr. Crewes. Mr. Potiphar, I am sorry to say, could not attend, but we have a quorum."
Randall tried to get up again, but the table top seemed unbelievably slippery. "I don’t care," he said bitterly, "whether you have a quorum or a gang fight. Let me out of here."
"Tut, Mr. Randall. Tut. Don’t you want your questions answered?"
"Not that bad. Damn it, let me—"
"But they really must be answered. This is a business session and you are the business at hand."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. You are, shall we say, a minor item on the agenda, but one which must be cleared up. We do not like your activity, Mr. Randall. You really must cease it."
Before Randall could answer, Stoles shoved a palm in his direction. "Don’t be hasty, Mr. Randall. Let me explain. Not all of your activities. We do not care how many blondes you plant in hotel rooms to act as complacent correspondents in divorce cases, nor how many wires you tap, nor letters you open. There is only one activity of yours we are concerned with. I refer to Mr. Hoag." He spat out the last word.
Randall could feel a stir of uneasiness run through the room.
"What about Mr. Hoag?" he demanded. There was the stir again. Stoles’ face no longer even pretended to smile.
"Let us refer to him hereafter," he said, "as ‘your client.’ It comes to this, Mr. Randall. We have other plans for Mr... . for your client. You must leave him alone. You must forget him, you must never see him again."
Randall stared back, uncowed. "I’ve never welshed on a client yet. I’ll see you in hell first."
"That," admitted Stoles, shoving out his lips, "is a distinct possibility, I grant you, but one that neither you nor I would care to contemplate, save as a bombastic metaphor. Let us be reasonable. You are a reasonable man, I know, and my confreres and I, we are reasonable creatures, too. Instead of trying to coerce or cajole you I want to tell you a story, so that you may understand why."
"I don’t care to listen to any stories. I’m leaving."
"Are you really? I think not. And you will listen!"
He pointed a finger at Randall; Randall attempted to reply, found that he could not. "This," he thought, "is the damnedest no-pants dream I ever had. Shouldn’t eat before going to bed—knew better."
"In the Beginning," Stoles stated, "there was the Bird." He suddenly covered his face with his hands; all the others gathered around the table did likewise.
The Bird—Randall felt a sudden vision of what those two simple words meant when mouthed by this repulsive fat man; no soft and downy chick, but a bird of prey, strong-winged and rapacious— unwinking eyes, whey-colored and staring—purple wattles—but most especially he saw its feet, bird feet, covered with yellow scales, fleshless and taloned and foul from use. Obscene and terrible—
Stoles uncovered his face. "The Bird was alone. Its great wings beat the empty depths of space where there was none to see. But deep within It was the Power and the Power was Life. It looked to the north when there was no north; It looked to the south when there was no south; east and west It looked, and up and down. Then out of the nothingness and out of Its Will It wove the nest.
"The nest was broad and deep and strong. In the nest It laid one hundred eggs. It stayed on the nest and brooded the eggs, thinking Its thoughts, for ten thousand thousand years. When the time was ripe It left the nest and hung it about with lights that the fledglings might see. It watched and aited.
"From each of the hundred eggs a hundred Sons of the Bird were hatched—ten thousand strong. Yet so wide and deep was the nest there was room and to spare for each of them—a kingdom apiece and each was a king—king over the things that creep and crawl and swim and fly and go on all fours, things that had been born from the crevices of the nest, out of the warmth and the waiting.
"Wise and cruel was the Bird, and wise and cruel were the Sons of the Bird. For twice ten thousand thousand years they fought and ruled and the Bird was pleased. Then there were some who decided that they were as wise and strong as the Bird Itself. Out of the stuff of the nest they created creatures like unto themselves and breathed in their nostrils, that they might have sons to serve them and fight for them. But the sons of the Sons were not wise and strong and cruel, but weak and soft and stupid. The Bird was not pleased.
"Down It cast Its Own Sons and let them be chained by the softly stupid— Stop fidgeting, Mr. Randall! I know this is difficult for your little mind, but for once you really must think about something longer than your nose and wider than your mouth, believe me!
"The stupid and the weak could not hold the Sons of the Bird; therefore, the Bird placed among them, here and there, others more powerful, more cruel, and more shrewd, who by craft and cruelty and deceit could circumvent the attempts of the Sons to break free. Then the Bird sat back, well content, and waited for the game to play itself out.
"The game is being played. Therefore, we cannot permit you to interfere with your client, nor to assist him in any way. You see that, don’t you?"
"I don’t see," shouted Randall, suddenly able to speak, "a damn thing! To hell with the bunch of you! This joke has gone far enough."
"Silly and weak and stupid," Stoles sighed. "Show him, Mr. Phipps."
Phipps got up, placed a brief case on the table, opened it, and drew something from it, which he shoved under Randall’s nose—a mirror.
"Please look this way, Mr. Randall," he said politely.
Randall looked at himself in the mirror.
"What are you thinking of, Mr. Randall?"
The image faded, he found himself staring into his own bedroom, as if from a slight height. The room was dark, but he could plainly see his wife’s head on her pillow. His own pillow was vacant.
She stirred, and half turned over, sighing softly. Her lips were parted a trifle and smiling faintly, as if what she dreamed were pleasant.
"See, Mr. Randall?" said Stoles. "You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, now, would you?"
"Why, you dirty, low-down—"
"Softly, Mr. Randall, softly. And that will be enough from you. Remember your own interests— and hers." Stoles turned away from him. "Remove him, Mr. Phipps."
"Come, Mr. Randall." He felt again that undignified shove from behind, then he was flying through the air with the scene tumbling to pieces around him.
He was wide-awake in his own bed, flat on his back and covered with cold sweat.
Cynthia sat up. "What’s the matter, Teddy?" she said sleepily. "I heard you cry out."
"Nothing. Bad dream, I guess. Sorry I woke you."
" ‘S all right. Stomach upset?"
"A little, maybe."
"Take some bicarb."
"I will." He got up, went to the kitchen and fixed himself a small dose. His mouth was a little sour, e realized, now that he was awake; the soda helped matters.
Cynthia was already asleep when he got back; he slid into bed quietly. She snuggled up to him without waking, her body warming his. Quickly he was asleep, too.
" ‘Never mind trouble! Fiddle-de-dee!’ " He broke off singing suddenly, turned the shower down sufficiently to permit ordinary conversation, and said, "Good morning, beautiful!"
Cynthia was standing in the door of the bathroom, rubbing one eye and looking blearily at him with the other. "People who sing before breakfast—good morning."
"Why shouldn’t I sing? It’s a beautiful day and I’ve had a beautiful sleep. I’ve got a new shower song. Listen."
"Don’t bother."