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The climax of the party was the ignition of a store of gasoline in an underground tank near the airstrip. As he listened, first to the megaphones shouting his name, the echoes receding among the dunes like the forlorn calls of dying birds, then to the boom of the explosion and the laughter as the landing craft left, Traven felt a premonition that these were the last sounds he would hear. "Well?" I asked after a moment. Fast murmured, "It is an oversize reproduction of Harry Clarkes pen-and-ink drawing, the end-piece of Bayard Taylors translation of Goethe." "Stogumber." Id expected this. I handed him the pound. As I put the goods in a paper bag I said, "I took the number of that quid, mate. If the cops call on me about this deal Ill be able to tell them you're taking cash off the customers. They may not nick you, of course— but they may soak you hard." Penrose was not as clear as he had been.Be sure my message gets through, he said. There was a wet sound now. A waterfall it sounded like. And soft organ music began to fill the room. "Well, what the hell are you shambling around starving in London for?" Words can express nothing, answered Yechida. Senator Phil McGivern was no coward. He glowered at Warren Casey.Youve broken into my home—criminal, he said. “You’ve assaulted my secretary and threatened me with, a deadly weapon. You will be fortunate to be awarded no more than twenty years.” Tom swallowed and looked steadily at the other man.Im thinking of leaving—next week. It was three-quarters full and almost too bright to look upon. Here was a cosmic mirror made not of dull rocks and dusty plains, but of snow and cloud and sea. Indeed, it was almost all sea, for the Pacific was turned toward him, and the blinding reflection of the Sun covered the Hawaiian Islands. The haze of the atmosphere—that soft blanket that should have cushioned his descent in a few hours time— obliterated all geographical details; perhaps that darker patch emerging from night was New Guinea, but he could not be sure. The word-craftsman, the writer, is both the sorcerer and spellbound victim of word enchantment. Every serious writer I have ever known is a word-gamer/tamer. It may not be visible in the published work: some of the best prose is apparently artless. But its author is probably a secret crossword-puzzler or cryptographer— or it might be Scrabble or Anagrams, formal verse (if only for the desk drawer), foreign languages, Finnegans Wakeexplications, or simple refreshing plunges into atlas or dictionary reading. The more I thought about it, the more I thought Id better call him back and tell him to take his postprandial strolls somewhere else, because teachers have to bevery nervy, but just then the bell rang—and you can’t imagine how many problems are solved, or never get solved, because bells ring. Ambush shrugged.Hokay, hokay, he said. “Who cares?” He slapped J. G. on the back with the hand that had the sandwich in it and splashed Russian Dressing in his ear. “You smott feller. Pipola is good girl, you bet. Feller who get Pipola is locky feller. She good cook. Stay home. Not like girls who all time think about nothing but feller and making monkeys business. She got no bad thoughts, you bet.” He turned and scowled ferociously at his daughter, who rushed from behind the counter and took J. G.’s arm. I looked at her horrible hat, her draggled blonde hair, her filthy mac and scuffed shoes. My mouth tightened. Transcendent religion. "Didnt realise you followed the sports page, Con," said Alec Cord. The cyclone was twisting around those eyes, its still center. Her head was thrown back, but I knew there was no ceiling between her gaze, passive as Buddhas, and the unchanging skies. Only the two moons, perhaps, interrupted their slumber in that elemental Nirvana of uninhabited turquoise..
