Afterwards, he asked his questions. They were innocuous, compared to mine. He wanted to know about taboos and marriage customs and slang expressions and education and eating habits and articles of clothing. I told him.
I was in the midst of an explanation of the game of Bingo, of all things, when there was a sudden whooshing and crackling in the earpiece of the telephone.
"Hello? Zon? Still with me?"
"Yes—but I think the signal's going out. This may be the inversion passing! We probably won't be able to talk again. Hello? Do you still hear?"
"I do. Look—one more thing before we go. You said this dictator—the one everybody hated so much—survived the final series of blasts. He and his staff. Where were they? Where were they when the blasts came?"
"In a country at that time called Canada. Little place named Resolution, on Great Slave Lake. They'd dug in there—very elaborate underground installation."
"And the date you gave me is correct?"
"As far as I know. You're determined to be in that place at that time, I suppose." He seemed amused.
"You can say that again," I said.
There were more rumblings of static on the line.