Special occasions call for a chemical rush and my trust in the Mark
VI was not misplaced. By momentarily rejecting the outside world I
entered the atrium and from there, with the minimum of fumbling
accessed a verdant garden pendulous with figs and dates and
persimmons. Young men in diaphanous sarongs scattered chia
seeds in my path, while wise old women worked at their zithers.
The air was trembling with a fragile sweetness, the music
representing the landing of flocks of cranes on untouched sand
where their feet left exquisite patterns, instant collectibles to be
frozen and framed by art students versed in a technology that I
could not grasp. Ah, how easy it is to mistake the world for an art
work! But just as this Neo-Realist fantasy was beginning to arouse
a sensation akin to that of overindulgence in liquid olives, my
attention was directed to a low brass tray on which was tactfully
assembled a flagon of gin, a bucket of ice, nitrogen-cooled cut
crystal glasses, Sicilian lemons ready sliced and a fountain of
fluorescent tonic water. An inviting tumulus of candy-striped silk
cushions drew me to them and for the first moment on this long
and exhausting mission with all its sensational revelations, I felt
that I could put my feet up and relax. My glass simply filled itself,
"Really, officer," I announced to no one in particular (the sarong-
clad jeunes were suddenly absent, gone, I assumed, to replenish
their supplies of chia, perhaps with amaranth), "I have no idea
what came over me.!" the sparkling juniper-shot thrill lanced my
sullen mood - post-assassinational depression can take its toll on
the toughest monarch - and I began to see the world through the
ice crystals, abloom with frost, that I dropped so effortlessly in my
glass. In short order I felt ready to assume my tasks. But first, I
was unable to resist the temptation, a quick sortie into this Krell-
like world, gin-driven, irresponsible and utterly Mark VI dependent.
Those yielding cushions were useless aids in my attempts to
regain bipedal locomotion and I was forced to turn, kneel and rise
as from penitential prostration, an acknowledgement of misconduct
that I did not feel sincerely, for what can be wrong with drinking gin
and tonic to the sound of zithers even amongst the guilt seekers?
Much to my surprise, on rising to my feet, I discovered that my
luxurious refreshment nest was situated an easy Crocodylus
porosus length from a mud pool, which is to say about 2 and a half
