"Hideous." "Dreadful." "Odious." "Detestable." The logomachy between the two men regarding the repellent object before their scrutiny fluttered like a birdie across a badminton court. "Where ever did you get such a grotesque thing?" the severe man in the green-black frock coat asked. "The Viceroy of PerĂº made a gift of it," the man in the flamboyant verdigris frock coat answered. The object under examination was a golden statue, only six inches high, representing a woman in childbirth: her mouth was a grimace of teeth; her tits lumped atop her thighs, as she squatted and her young enthusiastically erupted from her cunt.

"Whatever shall you do with it?" "Add it to my collection, naturally, my private collection." "It is curious that the Spaniard did not melt it down." "Curious? Perhaps. He told me it was some goddess the natives worshiped. There may yet be power in this idol." "Truly, if you feel that way, then out of deference for the old girl you should pass her along to someone else and let them worry about her power." "Mercer, your superstition is showing again." "Good sense is not superstition, Sir; need I remind you of the old god, the evil god of Cissbury?" "The English still rule the west of Sussex; the natives of PerĂº were crushed under the heel of Pizarro."

Mercer continued to look dubiously at him, no doubt his next bathetic expression would increase to incredulity, but he was cut short. "Off with you now, my dear Mr. Mercer: you have work to do." "As you wish, Lord Beckett," and Mercer bowed out of the room. Lord Beckett gave the golden idol a conspiratorial appraising glance, "We shan't let dour, old Mercer ruin all our fun, hmm?" Beckett laughed and carried the statue into his private quarters. The centerpiece of his mantel, a French bracket clock, was set down and in its place the fertility goddess gazed out with her contorted countenance over the expanse of Cutler Beckett's bed.