What's wrong with pudding?
Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber- a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochakov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew's were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?- perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.
"I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried, panting (she had apparently been running), "and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrusha," she added, as if to explain such a question.
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be Andrusha- the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood.
"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a smile.
"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have," said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her."
Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into everyone's situation. Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.* Think it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left alone the country, in her condition! It's very hard."
*To understand all is to forgive all.
Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand.
"You live in the country and don't think the life terrible," he replied.
"I... that's different. Why speak of me? I don't want any other life, and can't, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone- for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne...."
"I don't like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all," said Prince Andrew.
"No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don't need her, and she's even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: 'We don't love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them.' Father took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads splendidly."
"To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince Andrew asked suddenly.
Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.
"For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.
"He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he's getting very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation- "and that's a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am."
Her brother shook his head incredulously.
"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth, Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects. I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with."
"Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.
"Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me. Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence, "I have a great favor to ask of you."
"What is it, dear?"
"No- promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was granted.
She looked timidly at her brother.
"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about.
"Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father's father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) "So you promise?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will never take it off. Do you promise?"
"If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won't break my neck... To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister's face, he repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad."
"Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace," said she in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.
She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.
"Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.
"Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
"As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly," she began. "She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one."
"I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Masha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"
Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was silent as if she felt guilty.
"I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And I am sorry for that," he went on.
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.
"Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached, and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this is so I don't know..."
As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.
"Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or- go and wake and I'll come in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet: "Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right."
Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said: "Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been answered."
"Well, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I'll come immediately."
On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.
"Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said, for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes.
Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his sister's room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time.
"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"
This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter.
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his father's study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out.
When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.
"Going?" And he went on writing.
"I've come to say good-by."
"Kiss me here," and he touched his cheek: "Thanks, thanks!"
"What do you thank me for?"
"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!" And he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. "If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together," he added.
"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands..."
"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."
"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let him be here...."
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son.
"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work," said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened."
"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. "I'll do it."
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh.
"It's a bad business, eh?"
"What is bad, Father?"
"The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.
"I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.
"No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince. "They're all like that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anyone, but you know it yourself."
He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.
The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity.
"What's to be done? She's pretty! I will do everything. Make your mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.
Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son.
"Listen!" said he; "don't worry about your wife: what can be done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilarionovich.* I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all right- serve him. Nicholas Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here."
*Kutuzov.
He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.
"I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvorov's wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful."
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.
"I will do it all, Father," he said.
"Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father..." he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: "but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"
"You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son with a smile.
The old man was silent.
"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "if I'm killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you- as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please."
"Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince's face.
"We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening his door.
"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.
And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying,: "Now go through your performance."
"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband.
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
"Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.
The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out.
"Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed the door.
Danny and Turkish sat at opposite sides of the meeting table, quietly observing each other.
They were in the building's large meeting room, waiting for the plane to arrive.
Danny's face was curious, and a little skeptical. He looked the tall bald man up and down, taking in every detail.
Stringfellow's face remained rather more stoic and impassive, although he was not without his share of curiosity.
"...you're not from the future, are you?" Danny said.
Stringfellow paused a moment, looking reflective.
"I cannot remember," He finally answered.
They both snapped to attention at the sudden arrival of a voice from above them.
"Attention all team members. The plane will be arriving in minutes. Get your stuff, change into uniform, and meet downstairs," came Kit Piper's voice from the recently installed PA system ("It'll let me talk to any of you, whenever I want!" He'd exclaimed when he bought it. He was more excited about that fact than anyone else was).
Danny excused himself from the table, and walked to the elevator.
I excuse myself from the table, and walk to the elevator.
This Stringfellow... fellow is a strange bastard, I'll give him that.
Is all this amnesia stuff for real?
And if it is... can we really help him? Finding out where he came from could be a hell of a task.
I press the button for the elevator.
Danny pressed the button for the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind him.
The doors slide shut behind me.
Elevators... twenty first century elevators. They're so... confined... and noisy...
The only thing worse than an elevator is stairs.
I hear a ding.
There's a ding, and the doors open.
This isn't my floor.
Danny looked down, and realised that he'd accidentally pressed the button for the eighth floor.
He'd never been on this floor before. And given Lance's story about the bar, he was a little hesitant.
But ultimately, he sacrificed the life of a perfectly innocent cat and let curiosity overwhelm him.
He walked on into the main hallway of the eighth floor.
I walk into the hallway of the eighth floor.
The first thing I notice is the cold. This place is colder than the rest of the building. Must be a breeze or something. Someone probably left a window open. It might be pretty windy outside, after all.
The second thing I notice is the surprising neatness of the place. It looks so... untouched.
"...you do not belong here..."
What the hell was that?
"...Outsider..."
Great. Just when I got used to an invisible stranger's voice inside my head, I get them outside...
"...Stranger..."
...Stop it. Please.
"...Not your time. Not your place..."
Fuck that.
"...not your world..."
No.
"...not your friends..."
I'm not listening.
"...not you."
I run back to the elevator and go back down to the seventh floor.
Danny ran back to the elevator and went back down to the seventh floor. He rushed into his room, and slammed the door shut behind him.
What the fuck was that?
He quickly packed his bag with a few clothes, and put on his uniform.
Danny and Turkish sat at opposite sides of the meeting table, quietly observing each other.
They were in the building's large meeting room, waiting for the plane to arrive.
Danny's face was curious, and a little skeptical. He looked the tall bald man up and down, taking in every detail.
Stringfellow's face remained rather more stoic and impassive, although he was not without his share of curiosity.
"...you're not from the future, are you?" Danny said.
Stringfellow paused a moment, looking reflective.
"I cannot remember," He finally answered.
They both snapped to attention at the sudden arrival of a voice from above them.
"Attention all team members. The plane will be arriving in minutes. Get your stuff, change into uniform, and meet downstairs," came Kit Piper's voice from the recently installed PA system ("It'll let me talk to any of you, whenever I want!" He'd exclaimed when he bought it. He was more excited about that fact than anyone else was).
Danny excused himself from the table, and walked to the elevator.
I excuse myself from the table, and walk to the elevator.
This Stringfellow... fellow is a strange bastard, I'll give him that.
Is all this amnesia stuff for real?
And if it is... can we really help him? Finding out where he came from could be a hell of a task.
I press the button for the elevator.
Danny pressed the button for the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind him.
The doors slide shut behind me.
Elevators... twenty first century elevators. They're so... confined... and noisy...
The only thing worse than an elevator is stairs.
I hear a ding.
There's a ding, and the doors open.
This isn't my floor.
Danny looked down, and realised that he'd accidentally pressed the button for the eighth floor.
He'd never been on this floor before. And given Lance's story about the bar, he was a little hesitant.
But ultimately, he sacrificed the life of a perfectly innocent cat and let curiosity overwhelm him.
He walked on into the main hallway of the eighth floor.
I walk into the hallway of the eighth floor.
The first thing I notice is the cold. This place is colder than the rest of the building. Must be a breeze or something. Someone probably left a window open. It might be pretty windy outside, after all.
The second thing I notice is the surprising neatness of the place. It looks so... untouched.
"...you do not belong here..."
What the hell was that?
"...Outsider..."
Great. Just when I got used to an invisible stranger's voice inside my head, I get them outside...
"...Stranger..."
...Stop it. Please.
"...Not your time. Not your place..."
Fuck that.
"...not your world..."
No.
"...not your friends..."
I'm not listening.
"...not you."
I run back to the elevator and go back down to the seventh floor.
Danny ran back to the elevator and went back down to the seventh floor. He rushed into his room, and slammed the door shut behind him.
What the fuck was that?
He quickly packed his bag with a few clothes, and put on his uniform.
Soon after this there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not the Rhetor but Pierre's sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his voice. To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre replied: "Yes, yes, I agree," and with a beaming, childlike smile, his fat chest uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered and one booted foot, he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his bare chest. He was conducted from that room along passages that turned backwards and forwards and was at last brought to the doors of the Lodge. Willarski coughed, he was answered by the Masonic knock with mallets, the doors opened before them. A bass voice (Pierre was still blindfold) questioned him as to who he was, when and where he was born, and so on. Then he was again led somewhere still blindfold, and as they went along he was told allegories of the toils of his pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal Architect of the universe, and of the courage with which he should endure toils and dangers. During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken of now as the "Seeker," now as the "Sufferer," and now as the "Postulant," to the accompaniment of various knockings with mallets and swords. As he was being led up to some object he noticed a hesitation and uncertainty among his conductors. He heard those around him disputing in whispers and one of them insisting that he should be led along a certain carpet. After that they took his right hand, placed it on something, and told him to hold a pair of compasses to his left breast with the other hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud an oath of fidelity to the laws of the Order. The candles were then extinguished and some spirit lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and he was told that he would now see the lesser light. The bandage was taken off his eyes and, by the faint light of the burning spirit, Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men standing before him, wearing aprons like the Rhetor's and holding swords in their hands pointed at his breast. Among them stood a man whose white shirt was stained with blood. On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with his breast toward the swords, meaning them to pierce it. But the swords were drawn back from him and he was at once blindfolded again.
"Now thou hast seen the lesser light," uttered a voice. Then the candles were relit and he was told that he would see the full light; the bandage was again removed and more than ten voices said together: "Sic transit gloria mundi."
Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room and at the people in it. Round a long table covered with black sat some twelve men in garments like those he had already seen. Some of them Pierre had met in Petersburg society. In the President's chair sat a young man he did not know, with a peculiar cross hanging from his neck. On his right sat the Italian abbe whom Pierre had met at Anna Pavlovna's two years before. There were also present a very distinguished dignitary and a Swiss who had formerly been tutor at the Kuragins'. All maintained a solemn silence, listening to the words of the President, who held a mallet in his hand. Let into the wall was a star-shaped light. At one side of the table was a small carpet with various figures worked upon it, at the other was something resembling an altar on which lay a Testament and a skull. Round it stood seven large candlesticks like those used in churches. Two of the brothers led Pierre up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles, and bade him lie down, saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of the Temple.
"He must first receive the trowel," whispered one of the brothers.
"Oh, hush, please!" said another.
Pierre, perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without obeying, and suddenly doubts arose in his mind. "Where am I? What am I doing? Aren't they laughing at me? Shan't I be ashamed to remember this?" But these doubts only lasted a moment. Pierre glanced at the serious faces of those around, remembered all he had already gone through, and realized that he could not stop halfway. He was aghast at his hesitation and, trying to arouse his former devotional feeling, prostrated himself before the Gates of the Temple. And really, the feeling of devotion returned to him even more strongly than before. When he had lain there some time, he was told to get up, and a white leather apron, such as the others wore, was put on him: he was given a trowel and three pairs of gloves, and then the Grand Master addressed him. He told him that he should try to do nothing to stain the whiteness of that apron, which symbolized strength and purity; then of the unexplained trowel, he told him to toil with it to cleanse his own heart from vice, and indulgently to smooth with it the heart of his neighbor. As to the first pair of gloves, a man's, he said that Pierre could not know their meaning but must keep them. The second pair of man's gloves he was to wear at the meetings, and finally of the third, a pair of women's gloves, he said: "Dear brother, these woman's gloves are intended for you too. Give them to the woman whom you shall honor most of all. This gift will be a pledge of your purity of heart to her whom you select to be your worthy helpmeet in Masonry." And after a pause, he added: "But beware, dear brother, that these gloves do not deck hands that are unclean." While the Grand Master said these last words it seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed. Pierre himself grew still more confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began looking about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed.
This silence was broken by one of the brethren, who led Pierre up to the rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of all the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a trowel, a rough stone and a squared stone, a pillar, three windows, and so on. Then a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of the Lodge, told the password, and at last was permitted to sit down. The Grand Master began reading the statutes. They were very long, and Pierre, from joy, agitation, and embarrassment, was not in a state to understand what was being read. He managed to follow only the last words of the statutes and these remained in his mind.
"In our temples we recognize no other distinctions," read the Grand Master, "but those between virtue and vice. Beware of making any distinctions which may infringe equality. Fly to a brother's aid whoever he may be, exhort him who goeth astray, raise him that falleth, never bear malice or enmity toward thy brother. Be kindly and courteous. Kindle in all hearts the flame of virtue. Share thy happiness with thy neighbor, and may envy never dim the purity of that bliss. Forgive thy enemy, do not avenge thyself except by doing him good. Thus fulfilling the highest law thou shalt regain traces of the ancient dignity which thou hast lost."
He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all sides. He acknowledged no acquaintances but saw in all these men only brothers, and burned with impatience to set to work with them.
The Grand Master rapped with his mallet. All the Masons sat down in their places, and one of them read an exhortation on the necessity of humility.
The Grand Master proposed that the last duty should be performed, and the distinguished dignitary who bore the title of "Collector of Alms" went round to all the brothers. Pierre would have liked to subscribe all he had, but fearing that it might look like pride subscribed the same amount as the others.
The meeting was at an end, and on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits and way of life.
Hard Rock Cafe, Chicago
Kristogar walked into the restaurant, an overcoat failing to conceal his massive frame. He calmly walked to a table where an old friend was sitting.
"Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on..." the friend muttered. "And damned are the living that the rain falls on...what brings you here, Velo?" He asked the question with a taste of bitterness.
Kristogar sat down and sighed. "Apologies for missing the fight, Ron. Apparently I just got in to bear witness that it's finally ending. Sorry to see that."
Ron smiled, but his usual lightheartedness was not present. "You shouldn't be. You weren't there. The shit that was going on... Being attacked back in September from an outside party turned part of this country against the other. What the hell do you think this will do?" Kristogar couldn't offer an answer. "And you...just what the hell are you still doing here? At any time you could just fly away. Leave us behind to nuke ourselves and forget about it. Why do you stick around?"
Kristogar contemplated. When he spoke, it was slow, and barely above a whisper. "I have seen worlds closer to the edge of destruction reach utopias...the battle is not yet lost. I think you can get it right before the end comes." Ron shook his head. After a moment, a new conversation began as if the old one never happened. "In your report of the world's metahumans to me, why did you leave Charles Walker off the list?"
Ron searched his memory banks. "The Tri-Vex scientist? He's a meta?"
"It would most definitely appear so, yes. One that I can't believe you missed. Where is he now?"
Ron guffawed. "Charles Walker would be more difficult to locate than Vern Keith at the moment..."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that Walker has disappeared off historical records. I don't know when it happened and I didn't think anything of it when I noticed, but he's gone. My guess would be that he really pissed off the wrong people...similar to you, I'd suppose. The MCCA destroyed, Tri-Vex destroyed, Malvan-X destroyed...I know you had a part in at least one of those, if not all three."
"I suppose somebody's looking for me?" Velo mused.
"You could say that. They actually tapped me to capture you. I plan on doing it, too, if for nothing else than to figure out just what the hell it was that you were doing in your lab in Keith's mansion. I mean, you didn't even take notes..."
Kristogar ignored the comments. "Anything else you want to ask me?"
"Yeah. Where's the limp?"
"Hm...in my visit to the...erstwhile future, someone took the time to operate on me. Another thing I'll have to ask Walker when I catch up to him. If there's anything else, speak up now. I plan on being on my way soon..."
"Oh, there's definitely another thing or two," Ron smiled, a little more animated than he was earlier in the discussions. "It might interest you to know that Doctor Klone isn't dead..."
Kristogar froze. "How do you know?"
Ron whispered to himself that he knew Velo was involved in Tri-Vex's building, partly Kristogar's own creation, being destroyed. "You know me, I tend to know things..."
Kristogar gritted his teeth. "Don't give me your usual bullshit, Ron. Do you know, as in you've actually seen the proof yourself, that Knell is alive?"
"Jesus, calm down. Yeah. I was going through the rubble of your favorite design and his body wasn't there." Kristogar thought deeply for a bit. When it became apparent that Velo wouldn't give a response, Ron smiled and began again. "Speaking of not being completely there, you wouldn't believe who popped up right in the middle of this Chicago mess..."
Kristogar immediately guessed at the truth. "The Gold Baron."
"What, you knew?"
"No," Kristogar replied softly. "I hadn't even thought of the Baron in a long time...where is he?"
"I knew you'd ask. In London last I checked. Don't know what he was up to, since I felt Chicago was more important at the time..."
"Understood. London. I'll have to get going then."
"You know, someday, you'll have to let me in on what exactly happened in the dark city..."
"Deal," Kristogar agreed. As soon as I figure it all out myself...
Kristogar walked out again, into the shattered streets and a city that has come almost to a complete halt.
FUCKING RAWKS!
