The Return
Public Domain
Chapter VII
Tenant Mycroft Jones, Reader Stamford Rawson, Toon Sarge Verner Hughes, and his son, Murray Hughes, sat around the bare-topped table in the room on the second floor of the Aitch-Cue House. A lighted candle flickered in the cool breeze that came in through the open window, throwing their shadows back and forth on the walls.
“Pass the tantalus, Murray,” the Tenant said, and the youngest of the four handed the corncob-corked bottle to the eldest. Tenant Jones filled his cup and then sat staring at it, while Verner Hughes thrust his pipe into the toe of the moccasin and filled it. Finally, the Tenant drank about half the clear, wild-plum brandy.
“Gentlemen, I am baffled,” he confessed. “We have three alternate possibilities here and we dare not disregard any of them.
“Either this man who calls himself Altamont is truly He, or his is merely what we are asked to believe, one of a community of men like ours, with more of the old knowledge than we possess.”
“You know my views,” Verner Hughes said. “I cannot believe that He was more than a man, as we are. A great, a good, a wise man, but a man and mortal.”
“Let’s not go into that, now.” The Reader emptied his cup and took the bottle, filling it again. “You know my views, too. I hold that He is no longer upon earth in the flesh, but lives in the spirit and is only with us in the spirit.
“But you said there were three possibilities, none of which can be eliminated. What was your third possibility, Tenant?”
“That they are creatures of the Enemy, perhaps that one or the other of them is the Enemy.”
Reader Rawson, lifting his cup to his lips, almost strangled. The Hugheses, father and son stared at Tenant Jones in horror.
“The Enemy--with such weapons and resources!” Murray Hughes gasped. Then he emptied his cup and refilled it. “No! I can’t believe that: he would have struck before this and wiped us all out!”
“Not necessarily, Murray,” the Tenant replied. “Until he became convinced that his agents, the Scowrers, could do nothing against us, he would bide his time. He sits motionless, like a spider, at the center of the web; he does little himself; his agents are numerous.
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