They stepped out into the corridor. By the indicator
of a vertical clock, Chick noted that it was nine. He did not know
the day of the year other than from the Thomahlian calendar; but
he knew that it was close to sunset. He did not ask where they
were going; there was no need. The very solemnity of his
companions told him more than their answers would have. In a
moment they were in the streets.
Watson had thought that they would be taken by aircraft, or that
they would pass through the building. He did not know that it was
a concession to the Bar Senestro; that the Senestro was but
playing a bit of psychology that is often practised by lesser
champions. If Watson's nerve was not broken it was simply because
of the iron indifference of confident health. Chick had never been
defeated. He had no fear. He was far more curious as to the scenes
and events about him than he was of the outcome. He was hoping for
some incident that would link itself up into explanation.
At the door a curious car of graceful lines was waiting, an odd
affair that might be classed as a cross between a bird and a
gondola, streaming with colours and of magnificent workmanship and
design. On the deck of this the three men took their places; on
the one side the Rhamda Geos, tall, sombre, immaculate; on the
other, the magnificent Jan Lucar in the gorgeous crimson uniform,
gold-braided and studded with jewels; on his head he wore the
shako of purple down, and by his side a peculiar black weapon
which he wore much in the manner of a sword.
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