It was a huge dam, stuffed with thunder, and in its rush to escape, the thunder rolled over itself and made a double thunder, and then the double thunder exploded with a roar, and the roar swelled until the air was swamped with noise. Fifteen miles away, lying on O’Neill’s bed, Paxton thought the hut would collapse under the weight of noise. A pane of glass fell from a trembling window and shattered. He rolled off the bed just as O’Neill came in. “You’ve been signing my name on your mess chits, you prick,” O’Neill said, pitching his voice to penetrate the roar. “Well, you’ve been signing mine on yours, you turd. What the hell is that?” “Guns. They go bang. Didn’t you know?” He began rummaging in Paxton’s trunk. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much starch put in your shirts … Is this my bottle of rum?” “I expect so.” Paxton was in the doorway, looking to the east. He expected to see a distant sign of such a colossal roar, but there was nothing. A few panicking pigeons clattered overhead.
