In his panic it seemed the spell was broken. Sahara Orange Blossom? The name sounded like someone who had danced on table-tops. Perhaps in Tripoli. But he could blame no one except himself for the distortion. It might only be momentary. The balloon of light held them now. When he looked he saw it was a small searchlight: white this time. The Land Rover had come off its collision course. Three times it cruised round them; the circumference getting steadily smaller, and the vehicle's speed slower, until it barely moved at all. Some part of Jay's mind was dispassionately acknowledging that looking up the barrel of a machine carbine was one of those sensations which, like falling from a height, was as identical in life as it was in the dream. Fear held him stupidly motionless on the ground. To have risen indignantly to his feet, while it was his only conditioned response, would have been impossible. Some deeper conviction told him that guns and uniforms were to be gawked at helplessly. A voice called in Moghrebi.
