Friday, August 21, 2020

The Lost Symbol Chapter 1-3

Part 1 The Otis lift climbing the south mainstay of the Eiffel Tower was flooding with vacationers. Inside the confined lift, a severe businessperson in a squeezed suit looked down at the kid next to him. â€Å"You look pale, child. You ought to have remained on the ground.† â€Å"I'm OK . . .† the kid replied, battling to control his nervousness. â€Å"I'll get out on the following level.† I can't relax. The man inclined nearer. â€Å"I thought at this point you would have gotten over this.† He brushed the youngster's cheek lovingly. The kid felt embarrassed to disillusion his dad, yet he could scarcely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't relax. I must escape this container! The lift administrator was saying something consoling regarding the lift's enunciated cylinders and puddled-iron development. Far underneath them, the roads of Paris loosened up every which way. Nearly there, the kid let himself know, extending his neck and gazing toward the emptying stage. Simply hang on. As the lift calculated steeply toward the upper survey deck, the pole started to limit, its gigantic swaggers contracting into a tight, vertical passage. â€Å"Dad, I don't thinkâ€â€Å" Out of nowhere a staccato split resounded overhead. The carriage yanked, influencing unadroitly to the other side. Frayed links started whipping around the carriage, whipping like snakes. The kid connected for his dad. â€Å"Dad!† Their eyes bolted for one unnerving second. At that point the base dropped out. Robert Langdon shocked upstanding in his delicate cowhide seat, surprising out of the drowsy fantasy. He was sitting in solitude in the gigantic lodge of a Falcon 2000EX corporate fly as it ricocheted its way through choppiness. Out of sight, the double Pratt and Whitney motors murmured uniformly. â€Å"Mr. Langdon?† The radio popped overhead. â€Å"We're on last approach.† Langdon sat upright and slid his talk notes once more into his cowhide daybag. He'd been part of the way through checking on Masonic symbology when his brain had floated. The fantasy about his late dad, Langdon suspected, had been mixed by this current morning's surprising greeting from Langdon's long-lasting tutor, Peter Solomon. The other man I never need to baffle. The fifty-eight-year-old donor, antiquarian, and researcher had encouraged Langdon about thirty years prior, from multiple points of view filling the void left by Langdon's dad's demise. In spite of the man's powerful family tradition and monstrous riches, Langdon had discovered quietude and warmth in Solomon's delicate dark eyes. Outside the window the sun had set, however Langdon could in any case make out the slim outline of the world's biggest pillar, ascending not too far off like the tower of an old gnomon. The 555-foot marble-confronted pillar denoted this current country's heart. All around the tower, the careful geometry of avenues and landmarks transmitted outward. Indeed, even from the air, Washington, D.C., oozed a practically mysterious force. Langdon adored this city, and as the fly contacted down, he felt a rising energy about what lay ahead. The stream maneuvered to a private terminal some place in the huge territory of Dulles International Airport and ground to a halt. Langdon accumulated his things, said thanks to the pilots, and ventured out of the stream's extravagant inside onto the foldout flight of stairs. The cool January air felt freeing. Inhale, Robert, he thought, valuing the all the way open spaces. A cover of white mist crawled over the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was venturing into a swamp as he plummeted onto the foggy landing area. â€Å"Hello! Hello!† a tiresome British voice yelled from over the landing area. â€Å"Professor Langdon?† Langdon admired see a moderately aged lady with an identification and clipboard hustling toward him, waving cheerfully as he drew closer. Wavy light hair projected from under a sharp sew fleece cap. â€Å"Welcome to Washington, sir!† Langdon grinned. â€Å"Thank you.† â€Å"My name is Pam, from traveler services.† The lady talked with an extravagance that was nearly disrupting. â€Å"If you'll accompany me, sir, your vehicle is waiting.† Langdon followed her over the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was encircled by sparkling personal jets. A taxi represent the rich and well known. â€Å"I hate to humiliate you, Professor,† the lady stated, sounding timid, â€Å"but you are the Robert Langdon who composes books about images and religion, aren't you?† Langdon faltered and afterward gestured. â€Å"I thought so!† she stated, radiating. â€Å"My book bunch read your book about the sacrosanct female and the congregation! What a delightful outrage that one caused! You do appreciate placing the fox in the henhouse!† Langdon grinned. â€Å"Scandal wasn't generally my intention.† The lady appeared to detect Langdon was not in the state of mind to talk about his work. â€Å"I'm sorry. Hear me out shaking on. I realize you most likely become weary of being perceived . . . in any case, it's your own fault.† She energetically motioned to his attire. â€Å"Your uniform gave you away.† My uniform? Langdon looked down at his clothing. He was wearing his standard charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed coat, khakis, and university cordovan loafers . . . his standard clothing for the study hall, address circuit, creator photographs, and get-togethers. The lady giggled. â€Å"Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You'd look a lot more keen in a tie!† Zero chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses. Ties had been required six days every week when Langdon went to Phillips Exeter Academy, and in spite of the director's sentimental cases that the starting point of the cravat returned to the silk fascalia worn by Roman speakers to warm their vocal lines, Langdon realized that, etymologically, cravat really got from a heartless band of â€Å"Croat† hired fighters who wore hitched neckerchiefs before they raged into fight. Right up 'til the present time, this old fight clothing was wore by current office warriors planning to threaten their adversaries in day by day meeting room fights. â€Å"Thanks for the advice,† Langdon said with a laugh. â€Å"I'll consider a tie in the future.† Kindly, an expert glancing man in a dim suit escaped a smooth Lincoln Town Car left close to the terminal and held up his finger. â€Å"Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with Beltway Limousine.† He opened the traveler entryway. â€Å"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington.† Langdon tipped Pam for her neighborliness and afterward moved into the extravagant inside of the Town Car. The driver demonstrated him the temperature controls, the filtered water, and the bin of hot biscuits. Seconds after the fact, Langdon was dashing ceaselessly on a private access street. So this is the way the other half lives. As the driver gunned the vehicle up Windsock Drive, he counseled his traveler show and put a snappy call. â€Å"This is Beltway Limousine,† the driver said with proficient effectiveness. â€Å"I was approached to affirm once my traveler had landed.† He stopped. â€Å"Yes, sir. Your visitor, Mr. Langdon, has shown up, and I will convey him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. My pleasure, sir.† He hung up. Langdon needed to grin. No stone left unturned. Subside Solomon's tender loving care was one of his most intense resources, permitting him to deal with his generous force without hardly lifting a finger. A couple billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt either. Langdon subsided into the extravagant calfskin seat and shut his eyes as the commotion of the air terminal blurred behind him. The U.S. Legislative hall was a half hour away, and he valued the time alone to assemble his contemplations. Everything had occurred so rapidly today that Langdon just presently had started to contemplate the mind blowing evening that lay ahead. Showing up under a smoke screen, Langdon thought, entertained by the possibility. Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a solitary figure was anxiously planning for Robert Langdon's appearance. Part 2 The person who called himself Mal'akh squeezed the tip of the needle against his shaved head, murmuring with delight as the sharp apparatus plunged all through his tissue. The delicate murmur of the electric gadget was addictive . . . similar to the chomp of the needle sliding profound into his dermis and keeping its color. I am a showstopper. The objective of inking was never excellence. The objective was change. From the scarified Nubian clerics of 2000 B.C., to the inked acolytes of the Cybele clique of old Rome, to the moko scars of the cutting edge Maori, people have inked themselves as a method of presenting their bodies in halfway penance, persevering through the physical agony of frivolity and rising changed creatures. Notwithstanding the unpropitious reprimands of Leviticus 19:28, which restricted the checking of one's tissue, tattoos had become a soul changing experience shared by a large number of individuals in the cutting edge ageâ€everyone from clean-slice young people to in-your-face medicate clients to rural housewives. The demonstration of inking one's skin was a transformative statement of intensity, a declaration to the world: I am in charge of my own substance. The inebriating sentiment of control got from physical change had dependent millions to tissue adjusting rehearses . . . restorative medical procedure, body puncturing, lifting weights, and steroids . . . indeed, even bulimia and transgendering. The human soul needs authority over its fleshly shell. A solitary ringer tolled on Mal'akh's pendulum clock, and he turned upward. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his devices, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his stripped, six-foot-three body and walked a few doors down. The air inside this rambling manor was overwhelming with the sharp scent of his skin colors and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to clean his needles. The transcending youngster descended the hallway past precious Italian antiquesâ€a Piranesi drawing, a Savonarola seat, a silver Bugarini oil light. He looked through a story to-roof window as he passed, appreciating the traditional skyli

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