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y future prospects hinge entirely on the
decision of a man I have just failed to gullwho has seen through my impoverished blarney
who has no cause to love me and whom I have secretly likened to a geosynchronous shrew.
C.T. Hoare looks at meand allows the full weight of his intelligence to appear for a
moment behind his genialugly little faceand like Master Wu he finds in me whatever it
is that he is looking for.
“Stat filler
” he sayssounding like the Evangelist (in her genuineprofane mode)
talking about cross burnings. “Do you know what that is?”
I do not.
“Come with me.” And Crispin Hoare gets up from his desk and leads me out of his
officedown one corridor and up anotheruntil we are in an office almost exactly like his
own with a man named Pont. Pont has no first nameor no last. The little banker
’s plate
on his desk reads “PONT” in capitalsso I wonder whether PONT is his title. Person Of
Natural Talent. Political Organiser for Nebulous Treaties. Penguin OfficerNorth Territory.
This last one sounds improbablebut it would explain why Pont
’s wallspace is covered in
meticulous graphs and charts. I am looking for signs of Arctic birdlife and blubber studies
when Crispin Hoare speaks again.
“Pont
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uggs on clearance|《逝去的世界》The_Gone-Away_Worl