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Show Acting Alone Page 349 But, who knows? The bundle had been awfully light for an ordinary incendiary bomb. And, why would Mr. Cicerone want to blister the paint on the nuns' walls anyway? Axelrad maybe just planted a moisture-activated satellite sensor-scrambler to further screw up the operations of the Great Unspeakable. Now questions of hemispherical loyalty came gallumphing inevitably to his mind. He forced himself to stop creeping and stop thinking. He forgot this old sister for the time being and softly rolled over on his back to spend a few minutes breathing deeply and listening to the tumult all around and inside Cheyenne Mountain. He stared up at the splendiferous prismatic chandelier with what he hoped wasn't a too stereotyped Marxist disgust. Copies of Marie Antoinette chandeliers paid for with Saudi petrodollars he could handle. Halves of a planet, no. He was too young and, yes, too small, to entertain hemispherical questions. Bring it down. As long as you're just imagining things anyhow, trivialize the matter. It's easier on your stomach as you belly-sneak up on the mean old praying nun. Yes. The thing could just be a sulphur stinkbomb, or a dummy, or even a bundle of explicit beefcake photos to gross out or frighten a few ladies-of- the-cloth (if that's what they're called), like a flaming bag of cowshit on their doorstep. The whole thing could just be an advanced joke. The encampment project itself might simply pulverize itself suddenly like a giant Seurat painting: when you back off, you see that the whole mess has all along been nothing but a circus, the Companions pointless, harmless clowns, DalZynnia and her epileptoid pups just circus poodles with tiny |