Had—she seen something?
The moon was all there, the famous, well-known Biscuit moon, lighting the room riotously.
Yet she saw nothing. She took a sharp peek around. As her state of consciousness emerged from the nebulous condition of soft pitch and congealed to the concrete of a highway, Verbeena said softly to herself:
“I could kick myself for a goal if I didn’t see somp’n. Mystic it was, white, thrilling, strange——”
“Meow!”
Verbeena rushed for the balcony but the cat took the rail in a streak.
“Bally thing!”
Again on the still white night she heard that weird song with its slurred but insistent staccato expressione, ancient as the days of the Pharaohs, the melancholy, passionate Katsbemerri.
But there would be no cats in the desert. Only nice, gentle, cute little, wriggly sandworms. No big boob brother, Tawdry. No Knitting Needle Hussars.