I could go home and forget about perfume trees and Alvarla and Uncle Isadore.
But that dream of the African estate kept irritating the back of my mind. And the large, free sky of Alvarla was soothing to the eye, when compared to the little squares of blue I noted occasionally when riding the slidewalks of Brooklyn.
What did I want out of life, anyway? Damn Uncle Isadore. I'd never test 10:9 on job adjustment again.
I was still thinking when evening swept in fast, as it does in dry climates, and the birds began to wake up and climb out of the crater, presumably to forage for food.
"Wait!" I cried. "Isadore!"
I drew out a lunch package and spread it to attract him. It attracted all of them.
I pulled out "The Dodo."
"'Tell me what thy lordly name is/On the Night's Plutonian shore.'"
"Isadore," he volunteered, swallowing fast while I climbed aboard him.