The Carnelian Cube

Two:

Bongg. Bongg.

Finch rolled over and pulled the blanket up between his head and shoulder. That damned Armenian music was really getting out of hand.

Bongg. Bongg. Bongggg.

No, that wasn't Armenian music His eyes assured him that the sound came from a large circular gong over the door of his room. A rod, projecting through a hole in the wall, was connected by a simple lever mechanism to a hammer. As the rod slid in and out of the wall, it forced the hammer against the gong, against which it snapped back, with a harsh, resonant noise. It was much lighter than it should be.

There was no such gong in Ismet Toghrul's house on the shore of Lake Van. As Finch looked around the bare little room which his eyes encompassed, he realized that this was not Ismet Toghrul's house at all.

Finch chuckled comfortably under the blanket.

This was how Tiridat Ariminian's carnelian cube worked! Or perhaps it hadn't worked at all, and this was just an ordinary dream. In any case it was nothing to get excited about. Finch pulled the blanket one inch higher and closed'his eyes to wait for the next phase.

Bongggg! Bonggggg!

The contraption gave out a note of impatience, as nearly as an impersonal mechanism could transmit such an idea. It was certainly determined not to grant him any more—sleep? What would you call it if, in a dream, you experienced the illusion of waking from sleep? But there was no question that he would no longer be allowed to sleep in his dream. He got up and opened the door.

"Tir—" he began, then stopped. No, the man confronting him from the sill was not Tiridat Ariminian. He looked like him in feature and figure, but was younger, clean-shaven, and dressed in a clean pale-green suit cut like pajamas instead of wearing the foreman's dirty sheepskins and kalpak.

"Come awn, Arthur," cried the apparition in a natural if hurried manner. "Mah goodness sakes, you'll make us both late for patron call!" The hillbilly accent reminded Finch of his home state.

"But—"

"Hurra up! You ought to be right down grateful to me. Hain't nobody else in Strawberry House would wake you up like this."

The urgency of the visitor's delivery overbore Finch's impulse to argue. He pulled on the clothes that lay across a chair, fumbling a bit with unfamiliar buttons and ties, and followed the pseudo-Tiridat at almost a trot down the corridor.

There was a carpet on the floor and numbered doors along both sides. Clearly a dream of some kind of hotel. There were a few other passengers, also hurrying; some of them nodded in an abstracted manner. All wore the pajama suits in different pastel shades.

The hurrying throng went up one flight of stairs, then another, with Finch comparing this to "Alice in Wonderland" and speculating on when he would begin changing size. At the second landing the crowd sorted itself into groups which streamed away through doorways on halls that led off the landing. Instead of numbers these doors bore names: "Wilkinsn," "Kouts," "Banistr," and so on, in big metal letters. Phonetic spelling, apparently. Pseudo-Tiridat plunged into a door marked "Orindj."

Finch found himself in a large room with a cushioned bench running clear around the wall. On this bench sat a miscellaneous collection of men, eating breakfast from small tables in front of them. At the far side was another door, with a cue of men extending through it. Finch's companion promptly took his place at the end of the line, and Finch himself, seeing nothing better to do, followed suit. A few of the eaters called out: "Hi!" "Morning, Arthur." "'Lo, Terry," "Late again? Must have been a big night."

More to test the impression than anything else, Finch remarked: "That dream-stone of yours is certainly a hard worker. I never dreamed that the smell of bacon made me hungry before."

Pseudo-Tiridat—Terry, to judge from the greetings— turned a blank face toward him. "Huh? What dream-stone? Lord have mercy, Arthur, you do say the unreasonablest things. I s'pose that's the way it is with honest-to-goodness poets."

"What—why—" Finch began, wondering how poetry had mingled with Tiridat in his dreams. He tried a new tack: "Say, the service in this cafeteria is about as snappy as life in Ogygia."

Another blank look. "For a client," observed Terry, "you sure have nerve enough to do a ski-jump blindfolded. And ef you put that there crack in a limerick, I want a commission."

No sale. The line shortened slowly. Presently he followed Terry into a smaller room, smelling strongly of food. At one side, breakfasts on trays were being handed across a counter, but before receiving them, each of the men waiting in line went into another door at the far side and then came out. Terry preceded him and reappeared almost immediately.

Finch was evidently next. He pushed the door open and entered what seemed to be an office, with a bald, turtle-beaked man of about Finch's own age sitting behind a dark wood desk Without greeting, this person said: "Last again, Finch. Do youse want to be hauled up before the Politician for laziness?" When Finch did not reply, Turtle-beak tossed a bill on the desk. "I'll pass it this time. Youse will have a sonnet in honor of Orange Amaranth Mrs. in time for the orgy tonight. Here's your advance."

Finch chuckled. "Did you say you wanted me to compose a sonnet, for this?" He picked up the bill.

The man's reaction was curious; his lips tightened red ran right up his wattles. He seemed to have some difficulty in getting out the next sentence: "Really, Finch, I must say, that's carrying professional license a little too far. Youse had better not do it in public,"

"What is?"

"Why, talking as though Finch Arthur Poet had the same status as Orange William Banker."

"What do you mean? I never said a word about anybody's status."

"Youse did! Don't give me that! Now youse are doing it again—inflecting for equality. I don't care if youse are a poet; I'm not going to have it get around that my clients don't know elementary etiquette."

"You'd better go back to the beginning and explain, Mr. Banker," said Finch. "When I get to dreaming things, I sometimes forget."

The man's eyes seemed about to pop from their sockets. "Youse fool! Do youse want me to send youse up before the Psychologic Board for irrational behavior? My name is Orange. Do youse want me to call youse Mr. Poet?"

"Oh," said Finch, humbly, and with the back of his mind remembering that in dreams an outburst like this was usually a prelude to a pursuit. "Excuse me. It's like being Chinese; but if you'll just explain, Mr. Orange, or Orange Mr.—"

"If thou will explain, youse irrational half-wit!"

Pursuit or no pursuit, the adrenal glands began to deliver their product into Finch's blood-stream. "My dear sir," he said: "I have endeavored to be courteous to you —or thou, even if thou are a figment of my subconscious imagination, but since it doesn't produce the smallest approach to common courtesy, I've had enough. I'm going to get out of this dream."

He reached over to the desk, picked up the stone paper-weight on it, and banged himself on the top of the head—hard. Nothing happened except that he saw stars.

Orange's face had lost its fury and the banker was watching with a kind of horrified fascination. In a changed voice, he asked: "How are youse feeling, Finch?"

Finch staggered one step and smiled wryly. "About as well as could be expected of a man who's just had a tap on the head, and rather hungry."

"Can youse still make rhymes? What rhymes with 'plague'?"

"Haig and Haig," said Finch briskly. "I could do with some right now, even if it is before breakfast. This is getting me down."

"What rhymes with 'fugue?'"

"That's a wicked one. Let's see—'toug.'"

"What's that? Don't believe there is such a word."

"Oh, yes there is. They've got a flock of them on display in the museum in Istanbul. If you doubt it, go take a look."

"How do youse know?"

"I saw them there a couple of months ago," said Finch.

Orange narrowed his eyes and his face became a trifle grim. "A couple of months ago youse were right here in Strawberry House, Kentucky, grinding out lousy poems to justify your existence. I don't think youse are dangerous, but youse have a seizure all right,"

Finch shrugged. "Okay, then say I journeyed to Istanbul in my imagination. But I still say they have tougs in the museum there."

The banker eyed him coldly. "All right. Youse are still acting erratic, but if youse can rhyme, I'll forget it and call it creative temperament, I want that sonnet for the orgy."

"Very well," said Finch. "Let's assume I'm just a little eccentric, eh? Now if thou will just tell me whattest thou wantest, so I can get some breakfast, I'll be much obliged."

"I have told youse about four times already, I want the usual eulogistic sonnet, to be given by me at the orgy. Last word is the name of the person honored; in this case my wife Amaranth. That's all been settled long ago."

"How the devil am I to rhyme anything with Orange? It's the one word in English that won't rhyme."

The banker shrugged. "That's your problem, Finch. You're the poet, not me. Use 'Amaranth' if you wish, but no more dopey rhymes on it like 'gum tragacanth.' One of those was enough. Dismiss."

The breakfast was somewhat chilled but not half bad, Finch decided, as he took his place beside the man called Terry, who was dawdling over his second cup of coffee. This custom of early-morning calls on a patron—hmm, the early Roman Empire, or perhaps the late republic .. .

"Gee, you were in there a long time. What commission did you get?" asked Terry.

"A poem," said Finch. "Specifically, a panegyric sonnet. But it calls for the damndest piece of rhyming since Apollo got a concupiscient itch for Daphne. Oh, well, I used to be a fairish poet one time."

"What d'you mean, you used to?" said Terry. "My goodness gracious, anybody'd think you'd forgot you was the prize poet of the whole Louisville district. Ain't you feelin' rational this morning, Arthur?"

So the imagined scene was laid in Finch's home town —or at least its suburbs. He waved compliment and inquiry aside. "What commission did you get?"

"Me, heh, heh. Seems as how Sullivan Michael Politician has done challenged Harrison Joe Politician from down at Highland Falls to a tennis match. So I got to git me some practice and take on Harrison's athalete. He's older'n I am, so I figger to lick him, but gittin' the practice, that's the Hell of it. You poets, all you-all got to do is sit down with a pencil and paper, and blam, out comes your poem Me, I got to sweat."

"Like to play a couple of sets?" suggested Finch.

"Shore," said Terry. Then he looked suspicious. "I cain't pay you nothing, though. Have to take it out in trade."

"Good lord, I don't expect pay for playing a friendly game of tennis!" cried Finch slightly aghast.

"Okay, Arthur, ef you're going to be that irrational. I'll meet you out on the court in an hour."

"Oh, by the way, do I own a racket?"

"Why—come to think of it, you don't. But that's okay; I'll lend you one of mine."

It occurred to Finch as he made his way back to his room that he had asked a very peculiar question. But that would probably be set down as part of his general irrational behavior this morning. The only odd thing was that Terry had not treated the question as unusual.

He gave a few moments' inspection to his quarters, half expecting the room to dissolve into a windy plain beneath his feet, but it seemed substantial enough, and was arranged with the same cold rationality which—now that he thought of it—characterized the rest of the morning's experience. There was an easy chair, a reading lamp, a supply of foolscap paper, several pens.

A bookcase held books, most of their titles and authors unfamiliar, the list appearing to contain several novels, one or two works on politics, and various volumes of verse. Finch took down one of the latter, the lettering on whose back announced it as "Odes and Threnodes—-Sullivan." Finch remembered Terry mentioning Sullivan Michael Politician who would, he supposed, be some kind of local Gauleiter. It seemed a little odd that Sullivan should be a poet as well as Finch if functions around here were all as specialized as they seemed to be. He took out the volume.

The title-page furnished enlightenment. At the top appeared in large letters:

ODES AND TRENODES

Then, in slightly smaller letters:

SPONSOR: SULLIVAN MICHAEL POLITICIAN

In medium-sized letters: \

PUBLISHED BY STRAWBERRY HOUSE

And at the bottom, in extremely small letters:

Author: Finch Arthur Poet

They seemed to have extremely comprehensive ideas about status in this projected cosmos, he thought, wondering how far this reflected from the depths of his own imagination. Yet there was certainly a smooth rationality about it—a civilization in which everyone knew and found his place without difficulty or the torments of useless ambition. He knew enough of history to be aware of how many races had flourished contentedly and even successfully under a caste system; and it certainly offered to all the security which was the goal of most ambition in the world he knew. As for himself, could he not adapt himself to such an arrangement, with his practice in buttering college presidents and rich men intent on buying their way through the needle's eye by financing expeditions to Asia Minor?

All he had to remember was to speak to superiors as "thou," equals as "you" and inferiors as "youse." Fortunately the inflection system did not appear to run through the entire language, as among some of the Eastern tongues he knew.

He hunted through belongings till he found a pair of rubber-soled shoes and went below to find the tennis-court, half expecting to find the building a unit in a crowded metropolis. It was a pleasant surprise to discover that, although large, the structure stood by itself, surrounded by parklike grounds. The top of another apartment house was visible a quarter-mile off, through a break in the trees, and around the corner of Strawberry House itself a low structure that looked like a stable.

The building was a comfortable looking place despite a vast horizontal reach; four storeys with ivy crawling over blonde brick. People came and went in leisurely fashion. The whirr of industry came from some invisible wing of the building, and the chatter of schoolchildren at recess from another.

Beside a slightly weedy clay tennis-court, Terry was stretched out on his back with a white canvas hat over his face. As Finch approached he yawned, crawled erect, and handed over a racket-Finch had not played since leaving the United States for Pushman's dig. He said: "Let's volley a bit till I get my hand in, shall we?"

"Shore tiling, partner," said Terry, and began to bat over a few easy ones. Finch dubbed the first shots horribly, but Terry politely refrained from comment. Presently the latter suggested play.

As soon as the ball began to come over the net in earnest, Finch realized that Terry was better than he, but that was to be expected from a pro. Nevertheless the first set was by no means a walkover; Finch carried several points to quite long and honorable rallies before losing at 6-2. On the second set his first serve began to drop in, and the games seesawed back and forth: 5-5, 5-6, 6-6, 6-7.

Finch was puffing now and becoming a little impatient against an opponent who played a good basic game, concentrating on returning everything, without cuts or other fancy work. All his life Finch had been warned by college pros against cuts: "Not the right way to play—" "You'll never work up a reasonable game if you depend on cuts—"

But this couldn't go on. Finch cut, outrageously; and Terry, set for a forehand drive, was left standing foolishly as the ball zipped past his left cheek.

"That was right smart," he confessed. Finch cut again; cut through to win the set, and began on the next one, still cutting and still taking points. Terry's face took on a comical expression of bewildered despair. "How under the canopy do you do that, Arthur?" he asked, as the game score reached love-three, and Finch was about to reply when a sudden twinge made him drop his racket and sit down.

His heart was racing and his face tingling; the same old tachycardia which had not attacked him for so many years that he had forgotten to watch out for it.

"What's the matter, Arthur?" said Terry, coming over. "You look kinda peaked."

"Heart," said Finch. "I—I think I'll stretch out a bit." The world around him began doing odd, fuzzy things.

"Massage me under here," he managed to articulate, pointing to the places below the angles of the jaw, where the vagus nerve comes near the surface.

Terry was fumbling uncertainly about it when a feminine voice said: "Here, let me, stupid!"

"Aw, Eulalie, thou ain't got the heft in your fingers ..."

Nevertheless, the fingers that took over the task more competently were clearly a woman's. As Finch's vision cleared he became aware of a blonde object of considerable pulchritude and greenish eyes. He struggled to sit up.

"A man of your age ought to know better than to overdo," she said, and without waiting for thanks turned her back, pushed through the little group of half a dozen or more who had gathered round, and disappeared.

Terry offered him a hand up, and the spectators, without comment or curiosity, went about their business. As Finch started for his room, he asked: "Who was that?"

"Why," said Terry, "that was Eulalie."

"I gathered that from what you said. Eulalie—I mean which Eulalie?"

"Orange Eulalie Mrs. His second-class wife, o' corse. Hope he's makin' out better handlin' her than what I did. She shore was one active armful when she was married to me,"

"Sorry; I didn't mean—"

"Tha's all right, Wudden nothing I could do 'bout it. She was only my second-class wife anyway, an' she just got ambitious for some more status, not gettin' tired of me a-tall. Done toP me so herself when she deevorced me. Corse I told her Orange wouldn't get nowhere, on account of he is a lousy poor banker, and all the status she'd get out of him, second class, would put her level with his cook. But Eulalie, once she gits an i-dea ..." Armstrong Terry finished the sentence with a wave of the hand to indicate his helplessness in such a situation. "Real mistake I made was not givin' her a first-class marriage with contract and everything. She couldn't have got shet of me so easy. But as 'twas she jest put me in a picklernent."

"I'm in something of a picklement about Amaranth, Mrs. myself," said Finch, as they reached the door. "I've been trying to figure out a rhyme for her name all morning, but just when I think I have something approaching it, it's gone like Sisyphus' boulder."

"Shore is too bad," said Terry. "I'd swap off for your tennis practice, except I ain't no poet, and besides ef they found out I'd been a-helpin' you, they might think I was gettin' plumb irrational, and reclassify me."

"Have to be reclassified some time won't you? You can't go on being a professional athlete forever."

"Oh, Lord have mercy, I s'pose not. There's Hogarth Jack Athalete up in Cincinnati, he must be fifty-two and still rollin' right along. Once you git them examiners after you ... Eulalie, she had some trouble like that once, fore we was married, and lost a lot of status. Ef you don't find no rhyme for Amaranth, why don't you put Eulalie in your poem?"

"After that crack she made about my age?"

"Aw, that wudden nothing. Jest Eulalie's way. Any-hoo it'd make ol' Orange just wiggle."

"I might do it at that," mused Finch.