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explained, Mr. Jimmerson listened and became thoughtful. He had no qualms over releasing sharp blasts of air against such vicious enemies as the Jap and the Hun and sending them tumbling across the battlefield, but surely it would be wrong to allow the Hermetical Secrets to be used in the bloody business of warfare. He expressed his misgivings.
    Popper said, “Remember, sir, we’re talking about barbarians here. One of our early Masters wasn’t so squeamish in dealing with them. One of the very greatest of Masters.”
    â€œWho was that?”
    â€œArchimedes. Don’t you recall how he jumped into the battle with all his scientific tricks to help defend Syracuse against, who was it, Tamerlane, I believe, yes, and won the day? Or no, wait, they surrendered, and when it was all over Tamerlane found our man drawing triangles in the dust with his finger.”
    â€œDidn’t he ask Tamerlane to get out of his light?”
    â€œHow right you are, sir. So he could finish working out his geometry problem.”
    â€œHe couldn’t see to work for the shadow.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œThe fellow was blocking off his light.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œStanding in the doorway, don’t you see, with the sun behind him so that his shadow made it hard for Archimedes to see what he was doing down there in the dust.”
    â€œWith his figures, yes, sir.”
    â€œDown there on some kind of dusty floor.”
    â€œYes, sir, I understand.”
    Mr. Jimmerson fell into another thoughtful silence. Presently he said, “We talk of light. Pletho Pappus tells us we must labor in darkness in order to bring light. I’m sure you know the passage, Austin, and yet you seem to think it is our business to attract attention and make a public spectacle of ourselves. How do you reconcile the two positions?”
    Popper finessed the question by not answering it. By way of reply he said that a news photograph of Lamar Jimmerson wearing his Poma and his Master’s gown and having a chat with President Roosevelt in the White House would cut the ground from under Sydney Hen. Such a picture would be of more value than a million pamphlets in showing to the world just who the true leader of Gnomonry was. Hen would seethe with rage and stamp his little feet like Rumpelstiltskin when he saw that picture in Life magazine.
    â€œA wonderful scene, don’t you agree, sir? Hen furioso. What I wouldn’t give to see that little dance.”
    Mr. Jimmerson agreed that Sydney’s fit would make an amusing show, and he had to agree too that in these dark days the President certainly had a call on his best advice. “I suppose you’re right, Austin. We must do what we can.”
    The ten-point victory plan was prepared and in early June of 1942 the two Gnomons took it to Washington in a locked briefcase. Some thought was given to having Maceo drive them in the black Buick, but then there was the problem with gasoline ration stamps—and Mr. Jimmerson would countenance no dealings with the black market—and so in the end they went by rail. They traveled by day coach, no Pullman space being available, and had to stand part of the way. Fanny had wanted to go but she was five months along in a surprise, mid-life pregnancy and her husband would not allow it. Hotel rooms were all but impossible to get. At the last minute their congressman was able to secure them one small room at an older downtown hotel called the Borger. It was a threadbare place near the bus station. The trip was hot and tiring. At the Borger a midget bellboy called Mr. Jimmerson a “guy.”
    â€œIs that guy with you?” he said, in his quacking midget voice, as Mr. Jimmerson, a little dizzy from his long train ride, veered off course in crossing the lobby.
    â€œYes, he is,” said Popper.
    â€œHey! Hey! Hey! Yeah, you! Where do you think you’re going? The elevator’s over here!”
    Their