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The office door opened and the gangly black-clad figure of Nathaniel Dobbs stepped into the room.Why are you shouting, Josiah? he demanded. Then, seeing Sabina, “Oh, ah, Mrs. Carpenter. What is going on out here?” Judith Merril Giddily, he pushed himself to his feet. Whatever it was, delusion or nightmare reality, he had to get away. Rideout still unconscious, is he? No, said the first Althean. Hell be all right. It’s taken a long time to build the tower, and I’ve had ample opportunity to study the creature. We’ve made his habitat as ideal for him as possible.” When Filmore woke up the next morning, he felt an icy winter draft on his face. The window at the head of his bed was open. I heard a helicopter fly over as I reached the building and unlocked the door. I closed the door behind me, standing in a wide, cold foyer unlighted and silent. Outside the sound of the helicopter died and was replaced by the roar of about a dozen motorbikes heading in the general direction of Buckingham Palace where Field Marshal Wilmot had his court. Wilmot wasnt the most popular man in Britain, but his efficiency was much admired in certain quarters. I crossed the foyer to the broad staircase. It was marble, but uncarpeted. The bannister rocked beneath my hand as I climbed the stairs. Bleeker studied the other man carefully. "What was the name of your little girl?" Clarice said,Have another potato, at regular intervals. Perhaps none of these are weapons, Lieberman said. The scene in brief: dirty dishes filled a table. Bottles of half-eaten baby food sat on the sink. Boxes of cereal, a bowl of fruit, wet towels, drippy Brillo pads, pans, a pile of chicken bones, and other testimonials to life lived covered every surface. I cant believe it! cried Tyburn. You mean you went up there, knowing Kenebuck was going to pump you full of slugs and maybe kill you—all just to square things for thirty-two enlisted soldiers under the command of a man you didn’t even like? I don’t believe it—you can’t be thatcold-blooded! I don’t care how much of a man of the military you are!” For a moment I just stood there in the drugstore with my mouth hanging open; then I turned the little book in my hands. On the back cover was a photograph of Mark Twain; the familiar shock of white hair, the mustache, that wise old face. But underneath this the brief familiar account of his life ended with saying that he had died in 1918 in Mill Valley, California. Mark Twain had lived eight years longer in this alternate world, and had written-well, I didnt yet know how many more books he had written in this wonderful world, but I knew I was going to find out. And my hand was trembling as I walked up to the cashier and gave her two bits for my priceless copy of South From Cairo. by Elizabeth Emmett The World Is My Country (Putnam, 1961), is World Citizen Garry Daviss autobiographical account of ten years of living out his own private political science-fiction farce-satire-adventure.* * * * Sounds carried far in the delta, particularly on days such as this one; even before he reached the ferry landing he could hear, strangely enough, loud music rolling out over the swampland from Kennetts Crossing — a rusty-piped calliope playing an off-key rendition of The Girl I Left Behind Me. —my child! I continued, wondering what my father would have thought of this sermon..