I yell. “Go away. Get off. Get bloody off.” His truncheon is as big as a champagne bottle, his eyes are green glass goblets, his smile is a bow-tie. “Get off!” I struggle up. Thank God they’ve sounded the alarm. I can hear it shrieking very loud and close. Someone ought to come now. I grope my hand out, unstick my gummy eye-lids. I’m holding not a truncheon, but a telephone. “What? Yes, that’s right. Hallo. I’m sorry, I was dreaming. Who?” The deep male voice repeats its name and title. Virgil Seymour Hackett. The Welcoming Committee and Assistant Vice President of Guest Relations. Phew! Can all that be one man? He sounds like more than one as he pours out words in torrents. Isn’t it just great we won the prize? How thrilled the Gold Rush is to have us stay, and how he himself just can’t wait to meet us both. I hope he’ll wait at least until I’m dressed. I tug the blankets up, conceal my naked body.
