the table and then take it off again once the cutting’s done. Then I rough it up a little with a chisel and file so that it looks hand-cut. It takes virtually no talent whatsoever. But I don’t think there’s any mention of King Baldwin in that Templars book you’re talking about. How’d you hear his name? Al Lymon?”
Calvin nodded.
“Well, you know what they say about a little bit of learning: it can be a dangerous thing. You don’t have any idea what you might have been up against walking in here like that. If I
was
one of them, you’d have been in considerable trouble. Now it’s me who’s in trouble—that is if they’re watching you, which they probably are.”
“One of whom?”
“You really don’t know?”
“No. Calvin Bryson, by the way.” He put his hand out, and the man shook it.
“Lamar Morris. Let me give you a piece of advice. Get on the ferry, head back up to New Cyprus, have a nice chitchat with the folks, and go home. The sooner the better. And don’t come back in here, because I sure can’t afford it. Don’t mention any King Baldwin, either, unless you’re talking to your uncle. I say that for your own sake. That ‘king of beers’ thing won’t fly. Not around here, it won’t.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Calvin said. And then he pointed at the computer screen. “Hey,” he said. “That’s the old quarry.” From where he stood now he could clearly see the screen and the photographic image on it. It showed the rusted flatcar and the tracks running downhill through a cleft in the rocky hillside, with several standing stones in the foreground. The image was modified, so that the edges of things were softened, and there was enough added shadow to give it the look of a murky cemetery.
“Me and the computer are turning it into an illustration,” Morris said.
“For what? Another pamphlet? What’s the subject?”
He shrugged. “I’m narrowing that down. Something’s going on, though. Some people would call that earthquake a portent. Allegedly there’ve been a few over the past three weeks. Did it feel like a portent to you?”
“Felt like an earthquake.”
“Now why do you suppose you felt it and I didn’t?”
“You were on the river, I guess.”
“Could be, unless I was already across the river, in which case you’d think I’d have felt it.”
“I don’t know what I think,” Calvin said.
“Could be the quake has a localized effect. There’re a lot of mysteries over there in New Cyprus. If you happen to run into any, and you snap any good pictures, I can work out a trade for some Fourteen Carats stock that I’ve got in the archives. Take a look at this.”
Morris opened another drawer in the desk and took out an old pamphlet that was more crudely done than the Templars book. It had a buff-colored cover with black hatchet lettering that read
War in Heaven
. He took it carefully out of its plastic wrapper and opened it to the center, which was covered by a two-page etching of what was unmistakably New Cyprus with the Dead Mountains behind.
“This here’s the very first Fourteen Carats publication—nineteen forty-eight,” Morris said. “At least it’s the first one ever distributed. You can ask your uncle about the one that wasn’t distributed. Anyway, this is the only known copy. I used to think there must be more copies of it somewhere, although there was no way to find out. My father only printed fifty in the first place. I looked through every bookstore between San Bernardino and Yuma and came up empty-handed. Then I found this one by accident, at a desert museum out in Hesperia. It probably cost me a thousand dollars in gas money searching for it. But now with the Internet you can run down copies of nearly anything you want in an instant, and so I can tell you that there’s not another copy of
War in Heaven
listed on any relevant site—or at least not this
War in Heaven
. There’ve been a few of them over the years.”
“Heaven must
Calvin nodded.
“Well, you know what they say about a little bit of learning: it can be a dangerous thing. You don’t have any idea what you might have been up against walking in here like that. If I
was
one of them, you’d have been in considerable trouble. Now it’s me who’s in trouble—that is if they’re watching you, which they probably are.”
“One of whom?”
“You really don’t know?”
“No. Calvin Bryson, by the way.” He put his hand out, and the man shook it.
“Lamar Morris. Let me give you a piece of advice. Get on the ferry, head back up to New Cyprus, have a nice chitchat with the folks, and go home. The sooner the better. And don’t come back in here, because I sure can’t afford it. Don’t mention any King Baldwin, either, unless you’re talking to your uncle. I say that for your own sake. That ‘king of beers’ thing won’t fly. Not around here, it won’t.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Calvin said. And then he pointed at the computer screen. “Hey,” he said. “That’s the old quarry.” From where he stood now he could clearly see the screen and the photographic image on it. It showed the rusted flatcar and the tracks running downhill through a cleft in the rocky hillside, with several standing stones in the foreground. The image was modified, so that the edges of things were softened, and there was enough added shadow to give it the look of a murky cemetery.
“Me and the computer are turning it into an illustration,” Morris said.
“For what? Another pamphlet? What’s the subject?”
He shrugged. “I’m narrowing that down. Something’s going on, though. Some people would call that earthquake a portent. Allegedly there’ve been a few over the past three weeks. Did it feel like a portent to you?”
“Felt like an earthquake.”
“Now why do you suppose you felt it and I didn’t?”
“You were on the river, I guess.”
“Could be, unless I was already across the river, in which case you’d think I’d have felt it.”
“I don’t know what I think,” Calvin said.
“Could be the quake has a localized effect. There’re a lot of mysteries over there in New Cyprus. If you happen to run into any, and you snap any good pictures, I can work out a trade for some Fourteen Carats stock that I’ve got in the archives. Take a look at this.”
Morris opened another drawer in the desk and took out an old pamphlet that was more crudely done than the Templars book. It had a buff-colored cover with black hatchet lettering that read
War in Heaven
. He took it carefully out of its plastic wrapper and opened it to the center, which was covered by a two-page etching of what was unmistakably New Cyprus with the Dead Mountains behind.
“This here’s the very first Fourteen Carats publication—nineteen forty-eight,” Morris said. “At least it’s the first one ever distributed. You can ask your uncle about the one that wasn’t distributed. Anyway, this is the only known copy. I used to think there must be more copies of it somewhere, although there was no way to find out. My father only printed fifty in the first place. I looked through every bookstore between San Bernardino and Yuma and came up empty-handed. Then I found this one by accident, at a desert museum out in Hesperia. It probably cost me a thousand dollars in gas money searching for it. But now with the Internet you can run down copies of nearly anything you want in an instant, and so I can tell you that there’s not another copy of
War in Heaven
listed on any relevant site—or at least not this
War in Heaven
. There’ve been a few of them over the years.”
“Heaven must
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