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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 66 "Gin who?" a tourist had squawked. "The good ifrit? Miss Barbara Eden, star of I Dream of Djinns?" "That's right, big fellow," laughed a carpet baron from New York, florid in a great patterned shirt, "she's on up the coast, still living with our astronauts, and sleeping in a vacuum cleaner." "No Peri," Dory Clayton had explained. It was the same syndrome his students were experiencing, too much television, inability to distinguish unreality. . An amulet glittered on the huge man-steer. "Should you come to Irate," Peri frowned, "you would be welcome in my house. . .on the street to the fig forests. . ." "Peri you are kind to me. Kinder," he paused, looking at the Pooh-bah's glaring cabal, and faces that had given nightmares to a children's crusade, "than most. We will part friends, and I wonder, eunuch, if you could tell me why this should be." "Well, my father was British. . .?" This prettiest weather. The calm. Not a zephyr against the bright mirror of ocean. Yet toward midnight, when Dory ran in the biting salt air to the Atlantic shoreline there was a brilliant |