'Is that a good joke, Decuman?'
'No. Hubert, did your new friend come to the Chapel just to seek you out?'
'I don't know.'
'Of course he did,' said Thomas. 'You forget that we're used to Hubert's voice. A stranger would—would hear it differently.'
'Perhaps. I grant Hubert can sometimes sing in the right key, but it still seems to me out of the common, this visit. But then, a New Englander...'
As they talked, the four boys had been undressing and putting on their nightshirts. The two candles (one the housekeeper's issue, the other illegally introduced by Decuman), the low ceiling and the proximity of other bodies kept each of them warm enough. Hubert hung up his jacket and breeches in his part of the closet and stretched his stockings over the rail at the foot of his bed. In the distance, a hand-bell sounded and a high, monotonous calling came slowly nearer.
'Down on your knees, unhappy children. Pray to God to remit some small part of your dreadful punishment. Ask His divine mercy for the grievous sins you have wrought this day. Limbs of Satan, deprecate the just wrath of God. While there is yet time, beg His indulgence with a contrite heart.'
The Prefect of Devotions (who thought he was being funny) passed along the corridor outside the room, and silence fell, broken only by small mutters and murmurs. Hubert knelt on a strip of matting worn threadbare by generations of such use.
'... that I made no mistakes and that everybody sang well and that the band played well, for all this I heartily and humbly thank Thee. And I thank Thee too that Thou didst bring the gentleman from New England today, and I pray Thee that his daughter will like me. And I petition Thee not to let me become proud of anything I do or puffed-up when men praise me, because I know that everything I do is Thy work. And I ask Thy favour and protection for all men in this house, and for all the children too, especially Thomas... and Decuman and Mark, and for my father and mother and Anthony, and, oh, I pray for the peace of the soul of Thy servant King Stephen III, and I ask Thy favour and protection for myself and for my soul, through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.'
There was a sigh that seemed to come from everywhere at once, a deeper silence than before, and then again the Prefect's bell.
'Into your beds, miserable sinners. Dowse your lights, and if after one minute I see the smallest gleam the offender will receive a foretaste of the pains of Hell. Into your beds... Dowse your lights...'
Hubert lay under the rough blankets and waited in the dark. What happened next, whether anything happened next, was up to Decuman. Perhaps he was tired after the day's events, which had necessitated a good deal of standing and waiting about. Hubert hoped not: he himself was still too elated to think of sleep. Minutes went by before Decuman spoke.
'Hubert.'
It was enough; he got out of bed, rummaged sightlessly in the closet, hung the kerchief on its inconspicuous nail so that it covered the squint in the door, and prodded the rolled bolster-cover into position along the sill.
'Done.'
He was back in bed before Decuman had relit one of the candles with a phosphorus and the other two boys had sat up.
'Now let's see what we have here.' Decuman brought a small canvas bag out from somewhere under his blankets, and successively from the bag four slices of bread and four pieces of cheese. With gestures of conscious lordliness he tossed one of each to his three companions. There was a minute of eating noises. Then, still eating, he said, 'Well, Thomas?'
In the same theatrical spirit as Decuman, Thomas looked warily over at the door, then produced from his bedding a small, battered, coverless book, which he held in the air like a trophy.
'How did you come by it?'
'Ned, the brewer's boy. Of course he can't read, so he must act as a go-between, but he refuses to say where his goods come from.'
'Hit him,' suggested Decuman.
'You hit him. He's fourteen.'
'So. How much did you pay?'
'Sixpence.'
'By St George's sacred balls! We expect something hot for that.'
'We have it—this is as hot as shit.'
'Read us some,' said Hubert.
'Think what you do,' said Mark.
Decuman slowly clenched his fist and glared at Mark. 'You may remain as you are and listen, or you may lie and pretend to sleep and listen, but listen you will. Read, Tom.'
'I think it would be best if I told you the first part in short. It's not easy and I had to go slow.'
'Very well,' said Decuman. 'First let us know what it's called.'
'The Man in the High Castle, by Philip K. Dick.'
'A strange name. It is TR, I suppose?'
'If you count CW as TR.'
'CW, is it? Yes, indeed I do. Say, then.'
