E. BANGANI A PERIOD OF watchful waiting began. In the meanwhile, the St. Ewagiow carnival continued with some not altogether unexpected events. Bonafide members of that death cult, stimulated by the mushroom cloud exploding around the clock, started several bloody riots. On the evening of June 26th, I was alone in my room. Gladys had just gone — after some offensive jokes about Tunnel of Love soul-mates. I owed my success with Cleo F. to Gladys, but being a woman she had already become indifferent to the long view of history. In a few minutes, I would be leaving to meet Cleo and escort her to Atomic Park. I finished my bourbon, and as I put the glass down, the first of the evening’s imitation fission-fusion blasts lit up the room’s windows. As if timed with it, there was a knock on the door. Before I could open it, the door swung open and a short dark man stepped inside, wearing the black and purple cape, and black hat with purple feather of a magicientist. He bowed and then facing the door he lifted his hand and the door closed.
