“Yes, sir. Thomas Aquinas.”
“It is actually a female. In here, Thomasina!” The kitten had been climbing enthusiastically up his leg; now, as he held a pocket invitingly open, she sprang into it, settled down, and began to purr blissfully. While the barbers and Kinnison stared pop-eyed Samms went on:
“She is determined to adopt me, and it would be a shame not to requite such affection. Would you part with her—for, say, ten credits?”
“Ten credits! I’ll be glad to give her to you for nothing!”
“Ten it is, then. One more thing. Rod, you always carry a pocket rule. Measure this scratch, will you? You’ll find it’s mighty close to three millimeters long.”
“Not ‘close’, Virgo—it’s exactly three millimeters, as near as this vernier can scale it.”
“And just above and parallel to the cheek-bone.”
“Check. Just above and as parallel as though it had been ruled there by a draftsman.”
“Well, that’s that. Let’s get finished with the haircuts, before you’re late for your speech,” and the barbers, with thoughts which will be left to the imagination, resumed their interrupted tasks.
“Spill it, Virge!” Kinnison Leased the pent-up thought. If Carbonero, who did not know Samms at all, had been amazed at what had been happening, Kinnison, who had known him so long and so well, had been literally and completely dumbfounded. “What in hell’s behind this? What’s the story? GIVE!”
Samms told him, and a mental silence fell; a silence too deep for intelligible thought. Each was beginning to realize that he never would and never could know what Mentor of Arisia really was.