Somber, serious men, dedicated to the principles of the Light, but, lacking the voice of half of the planet. Until then, the faces in this room would all have been male. It had been the death of the Slav's predecessor, shortly after he himself had been inducted into the Forty, that had precipitated the Change. That chair had been filled until a few weeks ago, when she had disappeared, right around the time the imbecile media had begun fluttering about rockets in Africa. Their world remained out of balance, or, had been further unbalanced by the death of the woman beside him.īut, there were forty chairs. There were thirty-eight of them, he knew, twenty men and eighteen women. The speaker lit a single white taper, then with a sigh, turned to the rest to query, "Who shall replace the Riata? Whom can we find that is her equal?" He checked one somber face in the room after another until he had met the gaze of each in turn. What little light had been entering the Suola through windows of diamond panes, small and high above dark oak panels, was now extinguished. His words echoed back from the others assembled in the room, but were damped, almost immediately, by the thick black curtains being drawn tightly closed in reverence. "We are many, we are one." The salutation was unvoiced. Instead, he gazed downward, propping both hands on a column of alder, letting one of his thumbs stroke a Celtic lion carved there. He knew there were forty here, as there were on every other depiction on the chairs, walls, and doors of the Suola. He did not note that the waves alternated in length, one long and one short, repeated endlessly around the circle, nor did he bother to count the rays. He had seen this artifact many times, in many places, over his long life. He paid no attention to either disk, but not from lack of respect for its craftsmanship and significance. The metal form was only slightly larger than the gold outline of the same shape embroidered into the dark blanket now being slid up over the woman's slack face. His eyes passed unseeing over the sculpture mounted above the bed, a bronze circle with wavy rays emanating from it. The length of his years seemed to draw him down beside her as he bent to place a brief, tender kiss on her forehead, then he straightened, as if forcing eternity away from him and the others gathered around. The speaker, his reddish-blond curls long since bleached and thinned, bent to lower the sallow eyelids of the slight woman, now still under linen and black wool. No one stirred in the darkened room, not the turbaned Pakistani, nor the weathered Inuit elder with hair as white and long as that of the delicate Mandarin seer who sat beside him. The pronouncement was benediction and warning, all at once. Suola di Atene Cambridge, England Monday, J11:59 pm Number Two: Six of one, half a dozen of another. For official purposes, everyone has a number. The Prisoner: Number what? Number Two: Six. If you don't give them to me, I'll take them. Your only chance to get out of here is to give them to me. Is that it? Change of loyalty? The Prisoner: Not mine. (stops reading) Is this a man who suddenly walks out? The Prisoner: I didn't walk out. Number Two: (reads from report) Subject shows great enthusiasm for his work. Number Two: But we have to know where your sympathies lie. The Prisoner: Imprison people? Steal their minds? Destroy them? Number Two: It depends on whose side you're on, doesn't it? The Prisoner: I'm on our side. What can I do for you? The Prisoner: Cobb! Number Two: What we do here has to be done. Number Two: As far as you're concerned, I'm in charge. The Prisoner: Get him! Number Two: I have taken his place.
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