His footsteps echo in the cavernous empty space and then soften to the slap of Italian leather on stone as he climbs the stairs at the base of the cathedral’s dome. Behind him the verger secures the twisted gold-and-red rope across the entrance. He is aware of two figures ahead of him. One has Maurice Loxton’s bulk and is making the ascent slowly and with not a little wheezing. Loxton, a stockbroker with a reputation for ruthlessness and a bank balance to prove it, has been a senior Sentinel for almost as many years as Stricklend himself. Almost. It still causes a certain friction between the two that Stricklend’s opinion always carried the greater weight. And now that Stricklend’s superiority is unquestioned and unassailable, his fellow Sentinel’s jealousy has hardened into a leaden loathing. Loxton’s loyalty to the group and to the cause is beyond question. He is sharply clever, a likable enough quality to Stricklend’s mind. Even so, there is a self-serving independence about him that niggles at the permanent private secretary. Of course, all men who worship power are themselves likely to be powerful and egotistical. But such self-interest must be checked by a greater love of the cause. If it is not, well, that way lies megalomania. Stricklend has seen it before. More than one great man, during his own time as an Elect, has let his belief in himself override the greater cause. And all have paid the ultimate price for their pride. Loxton needs watching, and Stricklend is the man to do it.

Stricklend slows his pace. Even though the Sentinels will be the only people permitted entry to the area, the practice of secrecy must be maintained. There are two hundred and fifty-nine steps to the gallery, so that the chill of the night has been driven from his bones by the warmth of exertion by the time he reaches the gallery. He walks briskly around the circular walkway, glancing down over the balustrade at the giddying drop to the marble floor below. He affects interest in an inscription on the wall and pauses to read it. Two more figures slip past him. He checks his watch. The appointed hour has arrived. He moves a little closer to the smooth stone of the wall and turns to stand facing outward and upward, as if contemplating the splendid architecture of the dome above or perhaps, inspired by his surroundings, offering up an exultant prayer. But the god Nicholas Stricklend serves cannot cross the portals of the cathedral.