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The pain in my limbs, the pain in my belly and the pain in my heart rose to my head like a redoubtable intoxication, and gave birth in my head to thoughts of crime...

Rule #1 of surviving a horror novel: don't have a seance!

There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon a pitch-dark night.

With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company.

You never know, he thought. You just never know. You drift along, year after year, presuming certain values to be fixed; like being able to drive on a public thoroughfare without somebody trying to murder you. You come to depend on that sort of thing. Then something occurs and all bets are off.

"Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill."

"Someone", she said, "just now moved us, all of us, into another world. We inhabited it, lived in it, as citizens of it, and then a vast, all-encompassing spiritual agency restored us to this, our rightful universe."

"That would be Pat", Joe Chip said. "Pat Conley. Who just joined the firm today."

Having a hangover, he dialed off interplan news, hovered momentarily at domestic news, and then selected gossip.

"Yes sir", the 'pape machine said heartily. "Gossip. Guess what Stanton Mick, the reclusive, interplanetarily known speculator and financier, is up to at this very moment."

I love it when a detective tells a character they're free to go; and then just before that character steps out the door, the detective says, "One last thing..." It's the best.

In twenty minutes I had muffed a job and lost $8,000. Well, why not? In twenty minutes you can sink a battleship, down three or four planes, hold a double execution. You can die, get married, get fired and find a new job, have a tooth pulled, have your tonsils out. In twenty minutes you can even get up in the morning. You can get a glass of water at a night club- maybe.

She either knew something or she didn't. If she knew something, she either would tell me or she wouldn't. It was that simple.

Had a sinking feeling as I struggled through one of the grosser and more heavily-foreshadowed affairs in literary history, and began to sense why many of my friends have rated this poorly. But part II also ended with a pretty tense shark-oriented set-piece, and now I'm (tentatively) back on board.
"You know what Australians call great white sharks?"
"No, what?"
"White death."
"You had to tell me, didn't you?"

These were not Aquarians. They uttered none of the platitudes of peace or pollution, of justice or revolt. Privilege had been bred into them with genetic certainty. They had been conditioned to believe (or if not to believe, to sense) that the world was really quite irrelevant to them. And they were right.

Somehow, Naomi was of another, newer generation than Nathan, despite the fact that they were the same age.

The list of specialties on his door under his name included everything but blackmail and murder for hire.

The list of specialties on his door under his name included everything but blackmail and murder for hire.

The rest of the trip was calm and companionable, a long easy drive through the Nevada desert fall, listening to Vivaldi and Zevon, drifting through along miles of the real Old West, the sort of country where jackrabbits carried water bags and gophers stood by the side of the highway, their little paws raised, waiting patiently for the brief breeze of a passing car.

I was watching some more Secrets of Nazi Germany on the History Channel when Mac called, asking, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I thought you recommended rest", I said.

"Now I recommend a cocktail."

"I don't know, man", I said. "I thought I'd catch the ten o'clock news."

"You'll just be disappointed."

I was watching some more Secrets of Nazi Germany on the History Channel when Mac called, asking, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I thought you recommended rest", I said.

"Now I recommend a cocktail."

"I don't know, man", I said. "I thought I'd catch the ten o'clock news."

"You'll just be disappointed."

The idea of entering a coffee shop without a newspaper in my hands made me nervous.

Couldn't resist starting this gothic/thriller/mystery kind of paperback on a dark and rainy Friday night. Pretty fun so far.

My guilt was so gross and overwhelming that explanations were useless.

The cop understood this. "You realize", he said, "that it's a crime to..."

"Yeah", I said. "I know. I'm guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, but I did it anyway." I shrugged. "Shit, why argue? I'm a fucking criminal."

"That's a strange attitude", he said.

What were we doing out here? What was the meaning of this trip? Did I actually have a big red convertible out there on the street?

Utterly beyond the moral laws of this or any world I could imagine.

A face swam towards me out of the darkness. I changed direction and started for the face. But it was too late in the afternoon. The sun was setting. It was getting dark rapidly. There was no face. There was no wall, no desk. Then there was no floor. There was nothing at all.

I wasn't even there.

"You're not believing me. I can tell by your voice."

"You can't tell anything by my voice. I'm a detective."

I sat there and listened to the voice. At first I thought yes, then I thought no. The longer I thought the less I knew. I went down to the parking lot and got my car out.

Manhattan, Kansas is a small town. It has to be. Only half a dozen places in Kansas are anything else.