Watson thought. There was a subconscious sound that still lingered in his memory; a sound full-toned, flooding, enveloping. Was there any connection—
“'The Temple of the Leaf,' you call it, sir. I seem to remember having heard a bell. Is there such a thing in that temple?”
The Rhamda Geos smiled, his eyes brightening. “It is sometimes called the Temple of the Bell.”
“Ah!” A pause, and Watson asked, “Where is this temple? And is this room a part of the building?”
“No. You are in the Sar-Amenive Hospital, an institution of the Rhamdas.”
The Rhamdas! So there were several of them. A sort of society, perhaps.
“In San Francisco?”
“No. San Francisco! Again I fail to understand. This locality is known as the Mahovisal.”
“The Mahovisal!” Watson thought in silence for a moment. He noted the extremely keen interest of the Rhamda, the ultra-intelligent flicker of the eyes, the light of query and critical analysis. “You call this the Mahovisal, sir? What is it: town, world or institution?”
The other smiled again. The lines about his sensitive mouth were susceptible of various interpretations: emotion, or condescension, or the satisfying feeling that comes from the simple vindication of some inner conviction. His whole manner was that of interest and respectful wonder.