And for the first time I saw that her feet were bare. No wonder she
moved so silently. I thought of hundreds of people padding throughout
the building on silent, naked feet. The idea was more comical than
frightening.
"And where is here?" I asked.
Her tone was lower, almost reverent. "You are in the Temple of the
Western Sun," she said. "You have been granted an audience with the
Exalted One. He has already seen you and laid his hand upon you."
I frowned. Phrases came back to me from the previous night, and from
somewhere came an image of a very brown man with luminous black eyes
staring at me, bending close. And I remembered why I had been brought
here. I looked sharply at the woman. Her husband had saved my life. And
they had said something about the alien voices.
"I owe you my life," I said. "Your husband pulled me out of the car."
She smiled. "We saw it happen. Henry swam out and got you. Then when
you said you had heard a voice, that an evil voice had forced you to
turn off the road--"
"There's someone else here who has heard the voices?" I asked eagerly.
"You said--"
"The Exalted One hears," she said calmly. "It's strange that you should
have heard them when so many of us have tried so hard and failed. But
the waters of God's purpose are deep and hard to fathom."
The last words dropped incongruously from the woman's lips, spoken
with a kind of mechanical precision that was very familiar to me: the
recitation by rote of an approved answer by a student who does not
understand. The curiosity growing in me was checked by some misgivings.
I was eager to meet the man she called the Exalted One. I had heard of
mystical religious cults, of course--their numbers had grown rapidly
in recent years--and it was probable that I had stumbled upon one of
these. But I grasped at the straw of fact that was offered to me: the
man had heard bodiless voices. However he might have interpreted them,
wasn't it possible that he might have heard the aliens?
"When can I see him? I'd like to talk to him now."
"He is in contemplation," the woman said. "But it won't be long now."
She nodded toward the window, through which one could perceive only a
sliver of blue sky. "When the sun is overhead he will call you."
Her expression became grave. "You will want to prepare yourself. I will
come for you then."
Before I could stop her, she bustled out, her naked feet making almost
inaudible slaps on the bare tile floor.
* * * * *
She came for me at noon. I had dozed and woke refreshed. My arm was
painful when I moved it, but my head was clearer and my vision sharp.
The woman led me along a wide arched corridor with a great number of
doors similar to the one to my room. We came out onto a balcony. Stairs
led down into a high-ceilinged lobby. To my surprise, the huge room was
almost empty. One white-robed figure hurried out of sight. The place as
silent as my room had been. Here, however, sunlight streamed through a
huge triangle of stained glass, splashing a pool of many colors across
the tile floor and the bare white walls.
We walked across the lobby and through another door. Here I stopped
abruptly. The room was crowded, all of the people wearing white togas
like the woman wore. They were all sitting cross-legged on the floor
in various attitudes of concentration. Many did not even look up as I
entered. Those who did showed neither surprise nor particular interest.
They went back to their contemplations. No one spoke.
The woman had crossed the room. Now she beckoned me forward
impatiently. I walked slowly toward her. She opened the door at the end
of the room and stepped aside to let me pass. I heard the door shut
gently behind me.
At first I thought I was alone. The room was heavily curtained and very
dark. There was a strong smell of incense. The room seemed bare except
for a single cushion in the center. Then I realized that a thin, filmy
curtain hung like a veil across the room. Behind it a light began
to glow, starting at the bottom corners of the room and brightening
gradually like a sunrise. Behind the veil, thrown into relief by the
soft glow of blue light behind him, was an almost naked man. He wore a
thick white turban wrapped around his head. In the center of the crown
was set a fiery red stone. The man's features were touched only with
highlights--a straight line defining a strongly-bridged nose, other
strokes suggesting high cheek-bones, sensuously full lips, a firm
jawline--creating the overall impression of a face that was startlingly
handsome without being weak or pretty. The skin of his body looked
almost black. A slash of white cloth covered his loins.
"You are Paul Cameron," the man said, an impressively rich and resonant
voice lending importance to the statement.
"That's right." It was disconcerting to hear my own voice, thin and
colorless in contrast.
"The cushion has been provided for you," he said. "You are not
accustomed to our more austere habits."
The tone was faintly deprecating, suggested a softness and civilized
weakness in me for which I couldn't be blamed. I sat on the cushion
with a feeling of defiance. When I was seated on the floor I found that
I had to look up toward the man and I realized that he sat on a raised
platform. It occurred to me that the relative positions were carefully
calculated.
"I must thank you for treating me," I said, feeling vaguely
disappointed. I don't know what I had expected but it was not this
elaborately staged piece of theater. I was rapidly concluding that I
was simply in the temple of one of those popular and phony cults that
dupe the credulous.