Ptolemy's Gate

Nathaniel and Kitty out of the car, along the carpet and through the theater doors. The harsh light of the foyer made them blink; they fended off bowing attendants, proffered cushions, trays of sparkling wine. The walls were covered with posters advertising the play: most featured Quentin Makepeace, grinning, winking or looking profound from a variety of angles. The man himself stopped at a narrow staircase.
    "Up there! My private box. I will join you presently. Wish me luck! "Then he was gone, a diminutive whirlwind of oiled hair, gleaming teeth, bright and sparkling eyes.
    Nathaniel and Kitty ascended the stairs. At the top was a drawn curtain. They pushed it aside and ducked through into a small enclosure hung with satin drapes. Three ornamental chairs faced a low balustrade; beyond and below lay the stage— half concealed behind thick curtains—the orchestra pit and a sea of stalls, filled with minutely moving heads. The lights had been turned low; the crowd murmured like the wind in a forest; in the depths the orchestra emitted discordant sounds.
    They sat, Kitty in the farthest chair, Nathaniel beside her. He leaned over, whispered in her ear. "This is quite an honor for you, Ms. Jones. You are without doubt the only commoner present. See in that box opposite? That fellow leaning forward with the uncouth eagerness of a schoolboy? That is our Prime Minister. Beside him sits Mr. Mortensen, the beloved War Minister. The one with the paunch is Collins, of the Home Office. In the box below, with a scowl upon his face, sits Sholto Finn, the famous retailer. To the left, yawning like a cat, is Whitwell, of Security. Ms. Farrar, of the Police, is in the box beyond—"
    He broke off—as if sensing his scrutiny, Jane Farrar had glanced at him across the great dark gulf. Nathaniel gave her an ironic salute, a little wave. His feeling of reckless excitement had grown with the passing minutes—if all went well, Ascobol and the others would soon have Hopkins under guard. He would see how dear Ms. Farrar handled that tomorrow. With a certain ostentation, he bent his head close to Kitty Jones's again. "What a pity your Resistance is no longer active," he whispered. "A well-directed bomb here 'would decapitate the government."
    It was true. The stalls below were filled with all the secondary ministers, their wives, their assistants, deputies, and special advisers. He saw the obsessive craning of heads as each person compared their position with those of their rivals; he saw the flash of binoculars, heard the rustling of sweetmeat wrappers, sensed the excitement radiating from the crowd. On the second and third planes a number of small imps were visible hopping and jigging upon the shoulders of their masters, busily inflating their chests and biceps to improbable sizes and exchanging insults with their neighbors.
    The noises from the orchestra dwindled. A violin shrieked once; all was still.
    Lights faded in the auditorium. A spotlight illuminated the curtains at the center of the stage.
    Silence.
    A drumroll; an ecstatic fanfare from the trumpet section. The curtain twitched and was flung aside.
    Out strode Makepeace, resplendent in a frock coat of crushed green velvet. He spread his arms like a mother to her babes and welcomed the audience's applause. Two bows to the balconies, one to the stalls. He raised his hands.
    "Ladies and gentlemen, you are too kind, too kind. Please!" The cheering died away. "Thank you. Before the show begins, a special announcement. It is a privilege—nay, an honor!—to present my latest little trifle to such a distinguished audience. I see we have a full complement of the great, led by our wonderful arbiter of good taste, Mr. Rupert Devereaux." A judicious pause for enthusiastic cheering. "Quite so. And it is because of the affection that we all feel for dear Rupert that I have penned From Wapping to Westminster, a small diversion based on his inspiring life. As you will see from the program notes, only the scene in the nuns' dormitory is fictitious; the rest of the marvels, sensations, wonderments, and prodigies are firmly based on fact. I hope you are educated and entertained!" A brief bow, a broad smile. "As usual with my productions, may I request that no flash photography takes place. It can put off the performers. In addition, several of the special effects used onstage tonight are magical in origin, created by a crew of willing demons. These illusions will be most satisfactory if you