Mr. Adam by Pat Frank Page A

on a stone bench, her tawny hair barely brushing his shoulder, staring steadfastly at what appeared to be a large and ornately carved stone altar.Behind them, glaring from the wall, was a horrid wooden mask, with tusks, which could frighten large adults.
    I will say this for The Frame. She not only had a shape on which to hang clothes, but apparently she possessed an instinct for what clothes to hang on the shape. Now she looked as if she had just been voted the Best Dressed Senior in her college. I don’t recall exactly what she wore, except that it was something with a wide belt and a flaring skirt, and it gave her that collegiate look which blends so well with an interest in archeology.
    â€œHello, people,” I greeted them. “If you want to be alone I can think of more comfy places, without goons like that.” I nodded at the mask.
    They didn’t appear particularly happy to see us. “I hope you don’t mind, Steve,” Homer protested. “You’re not going to be a Phelps-Smythe, are you? You said I could do whatever I wanted, you know.”
    â€œOf course, Homer,” I soothed him, “but just let me know what’s going on. If you start wandering off, and I don’t know where you are, people might not understand. First thing you know you’ll find yourself being tailed by the FBI and the Secret Service and Army G-2, and maybe Abel Pumphrey himself—it would frighten him so.”
    â€œWe were followed,” said The Frame. “I’m sure of it.”
    â€œHonest?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Homer.
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œI don’t know. Kathy noticed him first. I never got a good look at him. But he’s somewhere in the building now.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “I’ll find out about it. So long as you don’t get in a jam, what the hell? People can’t object to you taking an interest in some old stones or mummy cases.”
    Jane Zitter looked worried. “That might depend,” she observed, “as to who’s acting as guide.” I noticed that Jane and The Frame were eyeing each other like a pair of strange tabbies, and remembered the introductions. Then I asked, casually:
    â€œAnd how is archeology today?”
    â€œWe were just discussing the legend of Tezcatlipoca,” The Frame remarked coolly. “Although one cannot really call it a legend, since it has been so well authenticated.”
    â€œIt must be fascinating.”
    â€œIt is for poor Homer,” said The Frame, “because he can see himself in it.”
    Homer’s lips smiled, but his eyes were sad as a spaniel’s. “That is quite true,” he said, and explained.
    It seems that one of the most bizarre Aztec rites was in honor of the god Tezcatlipoca, the god of fertility and creation. He was depicted as a young man, and handsome. Once each year the Aztecs picked a young man to represent the god. For a year he lived in splendor, and led the most exotic kind of life. His clothes were the finest, he was sprinkled daily with perfume, and flowers were thrown in his path when he went abroad. He was attended by the royal pages, and the people prostrated themselves when they saw him.
    Four beautiful girls, each bearing the name of a goddess—or more if he wanted them—were his.
    Things went along like this for a year, but at the end of a year they took him to the top of their highest pyramid, and stretched him naked on a sacrificial stone of jasper. “Just like this one,” Homer said.
    Then a red-robed priest zipped open his chest and cut out his heart with a volcanic stone knife, holding it aloft towards the sun. The corpse was thrown to the foot of the pyramid. “And then,” Homer continued, shuddering, “they ate him!”
    â€œI would not worry too much about that last part,” I told him. “They might find some soup bones on you, but I don’t see any