"Tired," Zinc admitted, unlacing his shoes to ease his feet, cigarette creasing his mouth: he was no longer in Morb but was tacking along Lake Erie, on his boat, Millie snuggled down among cushions.
Dennison felt that hate was moving closer, was controlling his hands and arms: grubbing his jackknife out of his pocket he scraped grease from his nails, from his fingers: who was that freckled guy, with dirty beard, sunken eyes? Was that Landel, over there jawing with men? Why hadn't he been killed?
He tossed the butt of his cigarette away, lay back on the grass, fell asleep. Unopposed, they stormed along a narrow street: men with a flame thrower had gutted a tank: 248's guns destroyed the thrower in a giant swoosh of flames: on the margin of his mind, beyond the roar, he saw a wire of light, filament: his mind shut around it: he lost track of time: he clamped his jaws.
North.
That was Landel's scribble.
Leaning forward a little, Dennison wet his lips with his tongue.
* * *
4
The train was slowing down.
Orville considered the green countryside and then, as the train crept along, the streets and houses of Ermenonville, appreciating the simplicity of the village, a few blocks square, scaled to the past, a park, a lake, a swan or two, a rambling château, and rain-wet cobbles.