Only hurried, almost unwilling glances after that, with a
growing uneasiness manifested in clumsy handling of the dishes and
glassware. Then a too-pleasant smile and a hasty departure. Only once Norman interfered--to place the knives and forks so they lay
at right angles to their usual position. The meal was a very simple one, almost ascetic. He did not look across
the table as he ate. There was something worse than animal greediness
about that methodical feeding. After the meal he put the left-overs
into a small cardboard box, covered them with a napkin he had used to
wipe all the dishes clean, and placed the box in his suitcase beside
an envelope containing clippings from his own fingernails. The sight
of the clean breakfast dishes had been one of the things which had
helped to disturb the first waiter, but Norman was determined to adhere
strictly to a complete set of taboos. They were an odd assortment,
gleaned from his memories of Negro, Polynesian, and Indian practices. Of course, there might be no protection gained by observing taboos. But then again there might be. So he collected food fragments, saw to
it that no knives or other sharp instruments pointed toward them, had
them sleep with their heads nearest the engine and their destination,
and enforced a number of other minor regulations. Eating in private
satisfied still another taboo, but there was more than one reason for
that. He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until Hempnell. He had
not realized they were quite so close. There was the faint sense of
an almost physical resistance from that region, as if the air were
thickening. And his mind was tossing with a multitude of problems yet
to be considered. *       *       *       *       *

Deliberately turning his back, he said, "According to the myths, souls
may be imprisoned in all sorts of ways--in boxes, in knots, in animals,
in stones. Have you any ideas on this subject?" As he feared, this particular question brought the usual irrelevant
response. The answering words had the same dull persistence. "I want my soul." His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened. This was why he had
avoided the question until now. Yet he had to know more, if that were
possible. "But where exactly should we look for it?" "I want my soul." "Yes." It was hard for him to control his voice. "But how, precisely,
might it be hidden? It will help if I know." There was a rather long pause. Then, "The environment of the soul
is the human brain. If it is free, it immediately seeks such an
environment. It may be said that soul and body are two separate
creatures, living together in a symbiotic relationship so intimate and
tight that they normally seem to be only one creature. The closeness of
this contact appears to have increased with the centuries. Indeed, when
the body it is occupying dies, the soul is usually unable to escape and
appears to die, too, or to migrate to another level of being--I have
no clear knowledge of that matter. But by supernatural means the soul
may sometimes be divorced from the body it is occupying. Then, if it is
prevented from re-entering its own body, it is irresistibly drawn to
another, whether or not that other body possesses a soul. And so the
captive soul is usually imprisoned in the brain of its captor, unable
either to escape from or to control that brain, in immediate contact
with the soul of the captor and forced to view and feel, in complete
intimacy, the workings of that soul. Therein lies perhaps its chief
torment." Beads of sweat prickled his scalp and forehead. His voice did not shake, but it was unnaturally heavy and sibilant as
he asked, "What is Evelyn Sawtelle like?" The answer sounded as if it were being read verbatim from the summary
of a political dossier. "She is dominated by a desire for social prestige. She spends most
of her time in unsuccessfully attempting to be snobbish. She has
romantic ideas about herself, but since they are too high-flown to
find satisfaction, she is prim and moralistic, with rigid standards of
conduct. She believes she was cheated in her husband, and is always
apprehensive that he will lose what ground she has gained for him. Being unsure of herself, she is given to acts of maliciousness and
sudden cruelty. At present she is very frightened and constantly on
guard. That is why she had her magic all ready when she received the
telephone call." "I can't wait until tomorrow," he told himself. "I must begin with her
this very afternoon." Aloud, he asked, "Mrs. Gunnison--what do you think of her?" "She is a woman of abundant vigor and appetites. She is a good
housewife and hostess, but those activities hardly take the edge off
her energies. She should have been mistress of a feudal domain. She
is a born tyrant, and grows fat on it. Her appetites, many of them
incapable of open satisfaction in our present society, nevertheless
find devious outlets. Servant girls of the Gunnisons have told stories,
but not often and then guardedly, for she is ruthless against those who
oppose her or threaten her security." "And Mrs. Carr? That is, if she comes in this category." "Little can be said of her. She is conventional, an indulgent ruler
of her husband, and enjoys being thought sweet and saintly. But I am
uncertain of her deeper motivations." "It may be then, that she is not hostile?" He was remembering the
telephone call from Mrs. Carr just before he left for the East, when
she had seemed to be trying to check on the activities of Evelyn
Sawtelle. "It may be. Yet at times I have been aware of her looking at me long
and strangely." There was a knock. It was the porter come for the bags. "Be in Hempnell in five minutes, sir. Shall I brush you in the
corridor?" But Norman tipped him and declined the service. He also told him they
would carry their own bags. The porter smiled jerkily and backed out. Norman crossed to the forward window. There was only the gravel wall
of a gully, and, above it, dark trees flashing indistinctly past. But
almost immediately the gravel wall gave way to a wide panorama, as the
tracks swung around and down the hillside. There was more woodland than field in the valley. The trees seemed
to encroach on the town, dwarfing it. From this particular point it
looked quite tiny. But the college buildings stood out with a cold
distinctness. He fancied he could make out the window of his office. Those cold gray towers and darker roofs were like an intrusion from
some other, older world, and his heart began to pound, as if he had
suddenly sighted the fortress of the enemy. XIII. Norman looked briefly across the campus before he went into Morton. The
thing that startled him most was something he had not expected--the air
of normality. True, he had not looked forward--at least consciously--to
any outwardly demoniac manifestations, any physical stench of evil.