presence to the otherwise scientific surroundings. At this moment the station was broadcasting Emil Waldteufel’s
Les Patineurs
.
A woman sat on a tall stool. Her fingers were long and graceful. As the hands of a great cellist draw music from the bow and strings of her musical instrument, hers sped with unerring accuracy and ultimate sensitivityacross a panel of knobs and switches. Needles flickered and dials glowed before her sharp eyes.
Behind her a pair of doors slid back, their sound a soft hiss that most would have missed, but the woman perched atop the tall stool whirled. The figure she beheld was a humble one. A man with stooped shoulders and downcast eyes, his clothing clean but plain, clearly the veteran of countless washingsand numerous patchings, his feet encased in shoes that were scuffed and worn.
As the doors hissed shut behind him the man concealed himself behind a screen. Moments later there emerged a figure who would hardly have been taken for the same individual, yet it was he.
“Wizard,” the woman perched atop the stool whispered in greeting. She nodded her head. Her blue-black hair was braided in an exoticfashion, her features astonishingly like those of the famed bust of Cleopatra, her skin the color of ebony.
“Nzambi.”
The speaker was tall. One might even think that he was the same person as the humble figure who had disappeared behind the screen, drawn to his full height, his muscular shoulders and slim waist merely suggested by the shimmering red material of his costume. By some oddity ofthe lighting in the room, perhaps, or perhaps by some clever device of the weaver’s art, the eye could hardly focus on his closely cut tunic and trousers.
Strange as was the effect of his costume, even stranger was that of an attempt to focus on his face. He wore no mask, nor would anobserver say that his features were invisible, yet the eye would fix itself involuntarily to the left or to theright of his face. A group of observers attempting to agree upon a description of him would discover to their embarrassment that they were uncertain as to the length of his hair, the slope of his nose, the height of his forehead or the color of his eyes.
“Are you aware of today’s events at the Municipal Museum of Art and History, Nzambi?”
“The Jewels of Lemuria were stolen. Our agent at policeheadquarters notified me, Wizard.”
“This is a serious matter.”
“Cannot the police handle it?”
“If it were a simple jewel robbery I would leave it in their hands. They bumble but they are no less competent than most officialdom. But I am concerned that this matter goes far deeper than the theft of a crown and a scepter. What do gold and emeralds and sapphires mean? Very little, my dear, verylittle.”
“Why, then? Why does this matter warrant the attention of the Crimson Wizard?”
“Have you heard of the Society of the Deep Ones?”
“Vaguely. There is a lodge with a similar name, I’ve heard mention of them on a radio show. They are the butt of humor.”
The Wizard laughed without mirth. His was a bitter laugh, the laughter of one who responds to irony rather than humor.
“The Societyof Deep Ones is no object for amusement. Their tentacles reach high and low, they reach deep into society. That radio show you mention—I know it well, everyone knows it well—it is part of their campaign of disinformation, designed to fool us into thinking that they are not serious. But they are. They are very serious. And very dangerous.”
The lovely Nzambi slid from her perch atop the tall stool.“Their reputation is that of a silly group of people who get together and playact. They wear vainglorious costumes and give themselves titles like ‘Lord High Octopus’ and ‘Mistress of the Mystic Seabed.’ They exchange secret passwords and practice mock-religious rituals, like a group of schoolchildren playing at grown-up ceremonials.”
“Indeed.” The Wizard brushed past Nzambi and studied an
Les Patineurs
.
A woman sat on a tall stool. Her fingers were long and graceful. As the hands of a great cellist draw music from the bow and strings of her musical instrument, hers sped with unerring accuracy and ultimate sensitivityacross a panel of knobs and switches. Needles flickered and dials glowed before her sharp eyes.
Behind her a pair of doors slid back, their sound a soft hiss that most would have missed, but the woman perched atop the tall stool whirled. The figure she beheld was a humble one. A man with stooped shoulders and downcast eyes, his clothing clean but plain, clearly the veteran of countless washingsand numerous patchings, his feet encased in shoes that were scuffed and worn.
As the doors hissed shut behind him the man concealed himself behind a screen. Moments later there emerged a figure who would hardly have been taken for the same individual, yet it was he.
“Wizard,” the woman perched atop the stool whispered in greeting. She nodded her head. Her blue-black hair was braided in an exoticfashion, her features astonishingly like those of the famed bust of Cleopatra, her skin the color of ebony.
“Nzambi.”
The speaker was tall. One might even think that he was the same person as the humble figure who had disappeared behind the screen, drawn to his full height, his muscular shoulders and slim waist merely suggested by the shimmering red material of his costume. By some oddity ofthe lighting in the room, perhaps, or perhaps by some clever device of the weaver’s art, the eye could hardly focus on his closely cut tunic and trousers.
Strange as was the effect of his costume, even stranger was that of an attempt to focus on his face. He wore no mask, nor would anobserver say that his features were invisible, yet the eye would fix itself involuntarily to the left or to theright of his face. A group of observers attempting to agree upon a description of him would discover to their embarrassment that they were uncertain as to the length of his hair, the slope of his nose, the height of his forehead or the color of his eyes.
“Are you aware of today’s events at the Municipal Museum of Art and History, Nzambi?”
“The Jewels of Lemuria were stolen. Our agent at policeheadquarters notified me, Wizard.”
“This is a serious matter.”
“Cannot the police handle it?”
“If it were a simple jewel robbery I would leave it in their hands. They bumble but they are no less competent than most officialdom. But I am concerned that this matter goes far deeper than the theft of a crown and a scepter. What do gold and emeralds and sapphires mean? Very little, my dear, verylittle.”
“Why, then? Why does this matter warrant the attention of the Crimson Wizard?”
“Have you heard of the Society of the Deep Ones?”
“Vaguely. There is a lodge with a similar name, I’ve heard mention of them on a radio show. They are the butt of humor.”
The Wizard laughed without mirth. His was a bitter laugh, the laughter of one who responds to irony rather than humor.
“The Societyof Deep Ones is no object for amusement. Their tentacles reach high and low, they reach deep into society. That radio show you mention—I know it well, everyone knows it well—it is part of their campaign of disinformation, designed to fool us into thinking that they are not serious. But they are. They are very serious. And very dangerous.”
The lovely Nzambi slid from her perch atop the tall stool.“Their reputation is that of a silly group of people who get together and playact. They wear vainglorious costumes and give themselves titles like ‘Lord High Octopus’ and ‘Mistress of the Mystic Seabed.’ They exchange secret passwords and practice mock-religious rituals, like a group of schoolchildren playing at grown-up ceremonials.”
“Indeed.” The Wizard brushed past Nzambi and studied an
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