Free The Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis Page B

their grandiose claims and paltry secrets. Still, one could not give up the quest. Much ancient wisdom lay hidden, even from Golescu—the arts of Mu, the Alkahest formula, the elixir vitae —and it was his mission to search it out.
    Perhaps the Gnomons did know something. In any case, the hand of fate was evident in that first encounter with Popper at the Observatory. It was a day on which the moon was in crescent, signifying increase. Popper had loomed up before him quite suddenly, like some figure in an oriental tale, identifying himself not only as a Gnomon but as Cupbearer Royal to the Master himself. He had spoken well, saying, “I don’t know your name, sir, or what your work is, but I can see that you are a man of exceptional powers. I saw it from thirty yards away.”
    And Popper had quickly proven himself worthy of the professor’s confidence, seizing on the bagweed discovery to show how it might be turned to account. If the weed produced a little gold out of indifferent soil, he reasoned, then why should it not produce a great deal of gold when planted in soil known to be auriferous? The idea had somehow not occurred to Golescu and he was stunned by what he saw as a brilliant leap. Two heads were indeed better than one, if the other one was Popper’s.
    Their plan took form. Popper called it Banco Plan. They would go to abandoned gold mines in the West and surreptitiously test the soil. When they had located the most productive property they would lease it as cheap grazing land and plant it in bagweed. Entire mountain ranges would be covered with a carpet of creeping bagweed. Nature would do most of their work and no stamping mills or monstrous smelters would be needed—only a leaf chopper, a few vats and some cheap chemicals. Within a year or two they would be sitting atop tons of gold, which they would sell off in measured driblets, in the way of the South African diamond kings, so as not to swamp the market.
    By way of a cover story, Popper introduced himself to the citizens of Hogandale as Commander DeWitt Farnsworth of Naval Intelligence, lately wounded in the Philippines. He affected a limp and wore a soft black hat and Lincolnesque shawl. He had come to the mountains to convalesce in the sparkling air, as well as to help his refugee friend, Dr. Omar Baroody, with his sticky experiments in weed saps, from which he hoped to develop a new kind of rubber, so desperately needed in the war effort. Herr Hitler and General Tojo would give a good deal to know Dr. Baroody’s location.
    As it turned out, no one in Hogandale cared. The fifty or so inhabitants were a dispirited lot of nesters and stragglers who had been beaten down by life. Brooding as they were, constantly, over their own humiliations, defeats, wrecked hopes, withered crops, thoughtless children and lost opportunities, they had no curiosity at all about the two strange men who had rented the old Taggert house at the bottom of the hill.
    After a few weeks Popper no longer bothered with the false names or the limp, though he did continue to use the walking stick. He felt safe. They were not likely to be found out here, marooned in pelagic America, far from any shipping lanes and with no smudge of smoke on the horizon.
    For security reasons Golescu would allow no strangers in the house, not even a cleaning lady. Most of the housekeeping chores fell to Popper. He found the work and the reclusive life disagreeable and often had to remind himself of the great reward that lay at the end of the ordeal. Eating as they were on one ration card, Golescu’s, they had to stint on coffee, sugar and fresh meat. Their food ran largely to canned soup, potted meat, boiled eggs, crackers, white bread and dark molasses.
    The house was cold. The only insulation was newspaper sheets pasted to the rough plank walls, and the paper was now in tatters, with the long black columns of Colorado news crumbling away. The one warm room downstairs was