clog an honeste man's mouth and blinde an honest Puritan's eyes.
Anton looked up. 'Which means in plain English?'
'This is Harlan's way of describing the philosophy of the Puramists. To him, they were all about treating not only their civil life but their spiritual life, too, as a business. A business they controlled. This idea was blasphemy to Harlan and most of the other traditional Puritans. And this mention of the 'serpent of Commerce'…'
'Yes?' Anton prodded.
'It's a curious way to use the word 'serpent.' Usually, in Puritan writings, serpent is a synonym for Satan. But here… well, it's just that there was another reference, to 'Satan's trident,' in a letter written by Harlan. And in that letter, he linked it with the Puramists. Clearly he thought they were very bad people.'
Anton thought that over for a moment.
'Neveroyatno,' said Anton. 'Quite a story. But, how you get from these 'very bad people' to this… what is it… Newburgh guys?'
'Well,' Benjamin shook his head, 'it sounds incredible, but I think they're one and the same group.'
Anton's considerable eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'I thought Newburgh guys soldiers and politicians, not Puritans.'
'Actually,' said Benjamin, 'I think they were all three: soldiers, politicians, and religious fanatics. For two reasons.'
Anton leaned back, motioned for Benjamin to proceed.
'First, Harlan writes that there were seven major Puramist leaders, a kind of Inner Council. And the name of the leader of that council was one Elias Morriss.'
'And this name, is important?' asked Anton.
'Elias Morriss was one of the top aides to Joshia Winslow, and Winslow was one of the most zealous advocates for eliminating the Natives through any means necessary. And they both later became commanders in King Philip's War.'
'Okay,' nodded Anton, 'they don't like Indians. But how this connect to an almost-coup one hundred years later?'
'That's my second reason. Their symbol, this triangle with an eye at the apex? It's almost identical to a symbol I saw today in the Library of Congress, in an engraving of Major General Horatio Gates. Gates was Washington's rival during the Revolution, and probably one of the ringleaders in the Newburgh conspiracy.'
Anton shook his head. 'Little triangle maybe too tiny to balance big conspiracy.'
Benjamin smiled. ' And, another of those ringleaders was probably a Gouverneur Morris. Now, granted, that was Morris with one S, and the Puramist was a Morriss with two-but in those days variant spellings of the same last name were commonplace. I haven't done the genealogy, but there's a good chance they're related. So, as you would say, maybe…?'
'Ah,' said Anton. And now he looked interested. 'So you think these Puritan Bolsheviks, these, what you called them… Puramists? You think maybe these 'very bad guys' still around one hundred years later?'
Benjamin was about to tell Anton about his discovery in the mural at the manse and his suspicion they may have been around much longer than that; but once again, he hesitated. His only evidence was an indistinct little doodad in that immense painting. And once again, he decided it was simply too fantastic to get into now, and that he should stay focused on what he'd learned from the diary.
'At the very least,' Benjamin continued, 'it explains why the Morris family had this fake diary created and saw to it the real one was hidden. In 1929, the Morris family and the other benefactors were establishing the Heritage Institute for Good Government, something they hoped would help restore the world's shining hope for democracy. And this was at a time when that democracy was struggling to survive. There were demagogues like Father Coughlin on the right and radicals like the Wobblies on the left…' Benjamin thought for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, I can see how they would have considered it embarrassing to have it revealed that their ancestors had been fanatical racists and antidemocratic conspirators. How they might have even considered murder justified in keeping such a secret. And finally, isn't that symbol just a little too much of a… coincidence?'
Anton pursed his lips. 'Coincidence just low probability,' he said. 'Not proof.'
Benjamin saw the skepticism in Anton's eyes and began to doubt his own conclusions. Now not just the mural but the whole story began to sound like a paranoid fantasy.
'I don't know,' said Benjamin, rubbing his eyes. 'Perhaps you're right. How could they have kept it secret for so long, among so many people?'
'Don't give up so fast. Maybe, like in Party, most didn't know what Eye guys up to. Best conspiracy one you don't tell anyone they're part of.'
Benjamin looked up. 'Odd you should put it that way,' he said.
'What?'
'It's just, that sounds very much like something Samuel said… the last time we talked.'
'Sam smart guy,' he said, trying to sound reassuring. 'Maybe smartest thing he do, keep you at Foundation.'
'At least all this,' he waved at Benjamin's notes on the table, 'fill one big hole in TEACUP. If these Eye guys did sabotage plantation, maybe even get Indians to destroy it, then explains 'wobble' number one, yes?'
'You mean, they manipulated King Philip's War into happening? That's what the TEACUP program revealed to Jeremy?'
'Or would have,' Anton nodded, 'if he'd had Bainbridge diary. But still leaves other big hole. Which is Stzenariy 55. '
'Damn!' Benjamin said, standing up. He looked around for a clock. 'What time is it?'
'Oh yes,' said Anton, 'your date.' He looked Benjamin over. 'You can't go meet Bolshoi like that,' he said.
'Oh, god,' said Benjamin, looking at himself in a mirror. What he saw was a very rumpled suit, a wrinkled shirt, uncombed hair, and a dark five o'clock shadow.
He turned to Anton. 'Unfortunately, I didn't pack black tie for the Foundation. I'll have to go by my apartment, clean up, and at least put on a fresh suit.'
'Not such good idea,' Anton said. 'Apartment probably last place you want to go.'
'Then what the hell am I supposed to do?' Benjamin said angrily. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbed his neck. 'Sorry, I'm just tired and cranky.'
'Is okay,' said Anton. 'My son leave some clothes here. Big businessman. I think tuxedo in his closet.' He looked at Benjamin. 'Older and bigger than you, but fit okay.' He smiled. 'Maybe.'
CHAPTER 31
The taxi dropped Benjamin off in front of the Russian Cultural Center on Phelps Place. He climbed the steps, then stood at the back of a line of several people, all of them in elegant evening dress. He felt like something of a clown in Anton's son's tuxedo: the sleeves were too long, the jacket too big, and the pants had been hurriedly hemmed by Anton with pins and tape; Benjamin expected the hem to drop down over his too-large shiny black dress shoes at any moment.
After the guard checked his name on the invitation list, he walked into the building and its lavishly decorated foyer.
There was a large round table with a huge bouquet of red roses in the foyer's center, and red-and-gold banners were draped around its ceiling. On his right in a large dining room, each table had its own centerpiece of red roses and white baby's breath; to his left was an equally large reception hall, dotted everywhere with more bouquets of roses. Dozens of elegantly dressed people stood in groups while around them circulated waiters dressed in red-and-white uniforms and carrying golden trays of champagne.
My, thought Benjamin, the times of Soviet drabness certainly are over.
The reception hall had a polished parquet floor and stark white walls adorned with rectangular panels and fronted by grooved pillars. Panels and pillars alike were edged with gold gilt filigree. The overall effect was impressively imperial. At one end of the room hung an enormous red banner, with writing in huge gold letters: Большой amp; Aмерика-1776-Bolshoi amp; America
