The Seekers, the Pointers, the Pursuers, all were present.  The Choosing could go ahead.

The ceremony was in the apartment of a rich member of the sect.  One of the elegant rooms had been converted into a temple.  The altar, containing the representation of the Impossible Shape (an abstract of warped planes, said to echo the form of Hulmu), was lit by shaded cressets.

All knelt, the ceremonial black cloths draped over their heads, save the vicar, who stood facing the assembly, wearing the Medallion of Projection, which showed a gold miniature of a holocast projector.  On his head was a low flat-topped hat.  Upon this hat he placed the black Book of Hulmu to allow the vibrations of its words to flow down into him.

The orisons began.  "Lord of all the deep, perceive us and know that we thy servants act out our parts..."

The chanting grew louder.  The vicar feverishly muttered the incantation, known only to sect members of his own rank, which acted on a hypnotically planted subconscious command.  Almost immediately he went into a trance.

He spoke with the voice of Hulmu.

It was a harsh, twanging voice, quite unlike his own or that of any other human being.

"Are my Seekers present?"

"We are present, Lord!" cried one section of the congregation.

"Are my Pointers present?"

"We are present, Lord!" chanted another group.

"Are my Pursuers present?"

The remainder of the gathering spoke up.  "We are present, Lord!"

"Then let my Pointers choose."

Abruptly the glazed, empty look went out of the vicar's eyes.  He removed the black book from his head.

"All right, let's get on with it," he said conversationally his normal tone.

The tension went out of the meeting.  They removed their black headcloths.  The gathering was suddenly informal.

The Pointers huddled together.  One of them pulled a cord.  A curtain swished aside, revealing a complete set of Chronopolis' massive street directory.

A sect member with a self-absorbed face thoughtfully selected a volume.

Another snatched it from him, bent back the covers, and flung the book to the floor so that it splayed its leaves on the tiles.

Yet another picked it up and smoothed out the page that fortune, through this procedure, had selected.  He stared at e ceiling while allowing his fingers to roam at random over the paper.

Everyone watched in silence as his fingers slowed to a stop.

"Eighty-nine Kell Street," he read out.  "Precinct E-Fourteen.  Inpriss Sorce, female."

"Inpriss Sorce," someone said, savoring the name.  They started wondering what she was like: young or old, pretty or plain; what her fear index was.

"The Pursuer team will begin operations tomorrow at nine," the vicar intoned.

"Inpriss Sorce."  All the Pursuers began murmuring the name to themselves with a growing sense of pleasure.

They were glad the victim was a woman.