"Holy God," Spotwood breathed. He went toward a cupboard, stopped at the table and glanced down. Nearly in awe, he read aloud, "The Twilight of Meaningism. Mph." An emphatic shake of the head. Then he unlimbered a pistol from the cupboard, and they sat down to wait.
Twenty-three minutes later 'copters were snarling across the night over the village, and beams cut swathes back and forth over a sea of tossing bluish faces. Spotwood stood up with a sigh, stretched and took down two gin bubbles, saying to Koven, "Have a drink."