Cassius shook his head.
“Concern? It would threaten a way of life for you to leave now. If you go, you will doubtless become an artist or a teacher of art—and sooner or later, by word or by gesture, by sign of by unconscious indication, you will communicate what you have suspected all along. I have listened to your conversations over the past weeks. You know, for certain now, that this is where all art critics finally come, to spend their remaining days mocking the things they have hated. It accounts for the increase of Roman Senators in recent years.”
“I have often suspected it, but never was certain.”
“The suspicion is enough. It is lethal. You must be judged.”
He clapped his hands.
“Judgment!” he called.
Other ancient Romans entered slowly, a procession of bent candles. They encircled the two lovers. Smelling of dust and yellow newsprint and bile and time, the old reviewers hovered.
“They wish to return to humanity,” announced Cassius. “They wish to leave and take their knowledge with them.”
“We would not tell,” said Gloria, tearfully.
“It is too late,” replied one dark figure. “You are already entered into the Catalog. See here!” He produced a copy and read: “‘Number 28, Hecuba Lamenting. Number 32, The Beaten Gladiator.’ No! It is too late. There would be an investigation.”
“Judgment!” repeated Cassius.
Slowly, the Senators turned their thumbs down.
“You cannot leave.”
Smith chuckled and seized Cassius’ tunic in a powerful sculptor’s grip.
“Little man,” he said, “how do you propose stopping us? One scream by Gloria would bring the watchman, who would sound an alarm. One blow by me would render you unconscious for a week.”
“We shut off the guard’s hearing aid as he slept,” smiled Cassius. “Critics are not without imagination, I assure you. Release me, or you will suffer.”
Smith tightened his grip.
“Try anything.”
“Judgment,” smiled Cassius.
“He is modern,” said one.
“Therefore, his tastes are catholic,” said another.
“To the lions with the Christians!” announced a third, clapping his hands.
And Smith sprang back in panic at what he thought he saw moving in the shadows. Cassius pulled free.
“You cannot do this!” cried Gloria, covering her face. “We are from the Greek Period!”
“When in Greece, do as the Romans do,” chuckled Cassius.
The odor of cats came to their nostrils.
“How could you—here…? A lion?” asked Smith.
“A form of hypnosis privy to the profession,” observed Cassius. “We keep the beast paralyzed most of the time. Have you not wondered why there has never been a theft from this museum? Oh, it has been tried, all right! We protect our interests.”
The lean, albino lion which generally slept beside the main entrance padded slowly from the shadows and growled—once, and loudly.
Smith pushed Gloria behind him as the cat began its stalking. He glanced towards the Forum, which proved to be vacant. A sound, like the flapping of wings by a flock of leather pigeons, diminished in the distance.
“We are alone,” noted Gloria.
“Run,” ordered Smith, “and I’ll try to delay him. Get out, if you can.”
“And desert you? Never, my dear! Together! Now, and always!”
“Gloria!”
“Jay Smith!”
At that moment the beast conceived the notion to launch into a spring, which it promptly did.
“Good-bye, my lovely.”
“Farewell. One kiss before dying, pray.”
The lion was high in the air, uttering healthy coughs, eyes greenly aglow.
“Very well.”
They embraced.
Moon hacked in the shape of cat, that palest of beasts hung overhead—hung high, hung menacingly, hung long…
It began to writhe and claw about wildly in that middle space between floor and ceiling for which architecture possesses no specific noun.
“Mm! Another kiss?”
“Why not? Life is sweet.”
A minute ran by on noiseless feet; another pursued it.
“I say, what’s holding up that lion?”
“I am,” answered the mobile. “You humans aren’t the only ones to seek umbrage amidst the relics of your dead past.”
The voice was thin, fragile, like that of a particularly busy Aeolian Harp.
“I do not wish to seem inquisitive,” said Smith, “but who are you?”
“I am an alien life form,” it tinkled back, digesting the lion. “My ship suffered an accident on the way to Arcturus. I soon discovered that my appearance was against me on your planet, except in the museums, where I am greatly admired. Being a member of a rather delicate and, if I do say it, somewhat narcissistic race—” He paused to belch daintily, and continued, “—I rather enjoy it here—‘among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder [belch], lost’”