Astron. He’s a nature boy from the Dardanelles who just
concluded a very successful season in Holly wood. He wears a
beard to cover a receding chin, and long hair to cover a hole in the head.
He purifies his soul with a diet of boiled grass and prune juice.
Whenever this diet lets him off the pot, he meditates. After he
was brought to the attention of the Western world by some engineers
of the Anglo-Mongolian Oil Company, whom he cures of stomach
ulcers by persuading them not to spike their ration of sacramental wine with
rubbing al cohol, he began to meditate about the evils of earthly riches.”
“Another member of our club?”
Simon prompted in nocuously.
“Astron maintains,” Vosper said,
leaning against the pillar and giving out as oracularly as if the object of his dissertation were not sitting on it at all, “That the only way for
the holders of worldly wealth to purify them selves is to get rid
of as much of it as they can spare. Being himself so pure that it hurts, he is unselfishly ready to become the custodian of as much
corrupting cabbage as they would like
to get rid of. Of course, he would
have no part of it himself, but he will take the responsibility of parking it in a shrine in the Sea of Marmora which he
plans to build as soon as there is enough
kraut in the kitty.”
The figure on the column finally moved.
Without any waste motion, it simply expanded its crossed legs like a lazy
tongs until it towered at its full height over them.
“You have heard the blasphemer,” it
said. “But I say to you that his words are dust in the winds,
as he himself is dust among the stars that I see.”
“I’m a blasphemer,” Vosper repeated
to the Saint, with a sort of derisive pride combined with the pon derous
bonhomie of a vaudeville old-timer in a routine with a talking dog.
He looked back up at the figure of the white-robed mystic towering above him, and
said: “So if you have this direct pipeline to the Almighty, why don’t you
strike me dead?”
“Life and death are not in my
hands,” Astron said, in a calm and confident voice. “Death can
only come from the hands of the Giver of all Life. In His own good time He will
strike you down, and the arrow of God will si lence your mockeries. This I have seen in
the stars.”
“Quaint, isn’t he?” Vosper said,
and opened the gate between the wall and the beach.
Beyond the wall a few steps led down to a
kind of Grecian courtyard open on the seaward side, where the paving
merged directly into the white sand of the beach. The courtyard was
furnished with gaily colored loung ing chairs and a well-stocked pushcart
bar, to which Vosper immediately directed himself.
“You have visitors, Lucy,” he said,
without letting it interfere with the important work of reviving his high ball.
Out on the sand, on a towel spread under an enormous
beach umbrella, Mrs. Herbert Wexall rolled over and said:
“Oh, Mr. Templar.”
Simon went over and shook hands with her as
she stood up. It was hard to think of her as Janet Blaise’s sister,
for there were at least twenty years between them and hardly any physical
resemblances. She was a big woman with an open homely face and patchily
sun-bleached hair and a sloppy figure, but she made a virtue of those
disadvantages by the cheerfulness with which she ignored them. She was what is
rather inadequately known as “a person,” which means that she had
the per sonality to dispense with appearances and the money to back it
up.
“Good to see you,” she said, and
turned to the man who had been sitting beside her, as he struggled to his feet.
“Do you know Arthur Gresson?”
Mr. Gresson was a full head shorter than the
Saint’s six foot two, but he weighed a good deal more. Unlike anyone
else that Simon had encountered on the premises so far, his skin
looked as if it was unaccustomed to ex posure. His round
body and his round balding brow, under a liberal sheen of oil, had the hot
rosy blush which the kiss of the sun
concluded a very successful season in Holly wood. He wears a
beard to cover a receding chin, and long hair to cover a hole in the head.
He purifies his soul with a diet of boiled grass and prune juice.
Whenever this diet lets him off the pot, he meditates. After he
was brought to the attention of the Western world by some engineers
of the Anglo-Mongolian Oil Company, whom he cures of stomach
ulcers by persuading them not to spike their ration of sacramental wine with
rubbing al cohol, he began to meditate about the evils of earthly riches.”
“Another member of our club?”
Simon prompted in nocuously.
“Astron maintains,” Vosper said,
leaning against the pillar and giving out as oracularly as if the object of his dissertation were not sitting on it at all, “That the only way for
the holders of worldly wealth to purify them selves is to get rid
of as much of it as they can spare. Being himself so pure that it hurts, he is unselfishly ready to become the custodian of as much
corrupting cabbage as they would like
to get rid of. Of course, he would
have no part of it himself, but he will take the responsibility of parking it in a shrine in the Sea of Marmora which he
plans to build as soon as there is enough
kraut in the kitty.”
The figure on the column finally moved.
Without any waste motion, it simply expanded its crossed legs like a lazy
tongs until it towered at its full height over them.
“You have heard the blasphemer,” it
said. “But I say to you that his words are dust in the winds,
as he himself is dust among the stars that I see.”
“I’m a blasphemer,” Vosper repeated
to the Saint, with a sort of derisive pride combined with the pon derous
bonhomie of a vaudeville old-timer in a routine with a talking dog.
He looked back up at the figure of the white-robed mystic towering above him, and
said: “So if you have this direct pipeline to the Almighty, why don’t you
strike me dead?”
“Life and death are not in my
hands,” Astron said, in a calm and confident voice. “Death can
only come from the hands of the Giver of all Life. In His own good time He will
strike you down, and the arrow of God will si lence your mockeries. This I have seen in
the stars.”
“Quaint, isn’t he?” Vosper said,
and opened the gate between the wall and the beach.
Beyond the wall a few steps led down to a
kind of Grecian courtyard open on the seaward side, where the paving
merged directly into the white sand of the beach. The courtyard was
furnished with gaily colored loung ing chairs and a well-stocked pushcart
bar, to which Vosper immediately directed himself.
“You have visitors, Lucy,” he said,
without letting it interfere with the important work of reviving his high ball.
Out on the sand, on a towel spread under an enormous
beach umbrella, Mrs. Herbert Wexall rolled over and said:
“Oh, Mr. Templar.”
Simon went over and shook hands with her as
she stood up. It was hard to think of her as Janet Blaise’s sister,
for there were at least twenty years between them and hardly any physical
resemblances. She was a big woman with an open homely face and patchily
sun-bleached hair and a sloppy figure, but she made a virtue of those
disadvantages by the cheerfulness with which she ignored them. She was what is
rather inadequately known as “a person,” which means that she had
the per sonality to dispense with appearances and the money to back it
up.
“Good to see you,” she said, and
turned to the man who had been sitting beside her, as he struggled to his feet.
“Do you know Arthur Gresson?”
Mr. Gresson was a full head shorter than the
Saint’s six foot two, but he weighed a good deal more. Unlike anyone
else that Simon had encountered on the premises so far, his skin
looked as if it was unaccustomed to ex posure. His round
body and his round balding brow, under a liberal sheen of oil, had the hot
rosy blush which the kiss of the sun
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