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Stendahl
turned
.
"
Now
,
Pikes
,
we
send
the
remainder
of
the
invitations
for
tonight
.
I
think
we
’
ll
have
a
jolly
time
,
don
’
t
you
?
"
"
Considering
we
waited
twenty
years
,
quite
jolly
!
"
They
winked
at
each
other
.
Seven
o
’
clock
.
Stendahl
studied
his
watch
.
Almost
time
.
He
twirled
the
sherry
glass
in
his
hand
.
He
sat
quietly
.
Above
him
,
among
the
oaken
beams
,
the
bats
,
their
delicate
copper
bodies
hidden
under
rubber
flesh
,
blinked
at
him
and
shrieked
.
He
raised
his
glass
to
them
.
"
To
our
success
.
"
Then
he
leaned
back
,
closed
his
eyes
,
and
considered
the
entire
affair
.
How
he
would
savor
this
in
his
old
age
.
This
paying
back
of
the
antiseptic
government
for
its
literary
terrors
and
conflagrations
.
Oh
,
how
the
anger
and
hatred
had
grown
in
him
through
the
years
.
Oh
,
how
the
plan
had
taken
a
slow
shape
in
his
numbed
mind
,
until
that
day
three
years
ago
when
he
had
met
Pikes
.
Ah
yes
,
Pikes
.
Pikes
with
the
bitterness
in
him
as
deep
as
a
black
,
charred
well
of
green
acid
.
Who
was
Pikes
?
Only
the
greatest
of
them
all
!
Pikes
,
the
man
of
ten
thousand
faces
,
a
fury
,
a
smoke
,
a
blue
fog
,
a
white
rain
,
a
bat
,
a
gargoyle
,
a
monster
,
that
was
Pikes
!
Better
than
Lon
Chaney
,
the
father
?
Stendabi
ruminated
.
Night
after
night
he
had
watched
Chaney
in
the
old
,
old
films
.
Yes
,
better
than
Chaney
.
Better
than
that
other
ancient
mummer
?
What
was
his
name
?
Karloff
?
Far
better
!
Lugosi
?
The
comparison
was
odious
!
No
,
there
was
only
one
Pikes
,
and
he
was
a
man
stripped
of
his
fantasies
now
,
no
place
on
Earth
to
go
,
no
one
to
show
off
to
.
Forbidden
even
to
perform
for
himself
before
a
mirror
!
Poor
impossible
,
defeated
Pikes
!
How
must
it
have
felt
,
Pikes
,
the
night
they
seized
your
films
,
like
entrails
yanked
from
the
camera
,
out
of
your
guts
,
dutching
them
in
coils
and
wads
to
stuff
them
up
a
stove
to
burn
away
!
Did
it
feel
as
bad
as
having
some
fifty
thousand
books
annihilated
with
no
recompense
?
Yes
.
Yes
.
Stendahl
felt
his
hands
grow
cold
with
the
senseless
anger
.
So
what
more
natural
than
they
would
one
day
talk
over
endless
coffeepots
into
innumerable
midnights
,
and
out
of
all
the
talk
and
the
bitter
brewings
would
come
—
the
House
of
Usher
.
A
great
church
bell
rang
.
The
guests
were
arriving
.
Smiling
he
went
to
greet
them
.
Full
grown
without
memory
,
the
robots
waited
.
In
green
silks
the
color
of
forest
pools
,
in
silks
the
color
of
frog
and
fern
,
they
waited
.
In
yellow
hair
the
color
of
the
sun
and
sand
,
the
robots
waited
.
Oiled
,
with
tube
bones
cut
from
bronze
and
sunk
in
gelatin
,
the
robots
lay
.
