"Very interesting, astronomy," reproved Jammy.
"Not astronomy. Astrology." The boy was turning from the shade of the entrance into the sunlit street. "Woman called Pope or something."
"Pope!" Jammy stood arrested halfway to the lift door. "You don't mean Keats, do you?"
"Is it Keats?" Musker looked at the card again. "Yes, so it is. I knew it was a poet. Hey, what's the matter?" as Jammy caught him by the arm and dragged him back into the hall.
"Matter is you're not going to any astrology lecture," said Jammy, propeling him into the lift.
"Well!" said the astonished Musker. "For this relief much thanks, but why? You got a 'thing' about astrology?"
Jammy dragged him into an office and assaulted with his rapid speech the placid pink man behind the desk.
"But, Jammy," said the placid one when he could get a word in edgeways, "it was Blake's assignment. He was the obvious person for it: doesn't he tell the world every week on Page 6 what is going to happen to it for the next seven days? It's his subject: astrology. What he didn't foresee was that his wife would have a baby this week instead of next. So I let him off and sent Musker instead."
"Musker!" said Jammy. "Say, don't you know that this is the woman who foretold Clay's death? The woman the Courier is running to give horoscopes at a shilling a time?"
"What of it?"