things then did not delay in turning curious. If one object behind her discovery of what she was to label the Tristero System or often only The Tristero (as if it might be something's secret title) were to bring to an end her encapsulation in her tower, then that night's infidelity with Metzger would logically be the starting point for it; logically. That's what would come to haunt her most, perhaps: the way it fitted, logically, together. As if (as she'd guessed that first minute in San Narciso) there were revelation in progress all around her. Much of the revelation was to come through the stamp collection Pierce had left, his substitute often for her—thousands of little colored windows into deep vistas3 of space and time: savannahs teeming4 with elands and gazelles, galleons5 sailing west into the void, Hitler heads, sunsets, cedars6 of Lebanon, allegorical faces that never were, he could spend hours peering into each one, ignoring her. She had never seen the fascination7. The thought that now it would all have to be inventoried8 and appraised9 was only another headache. No suspicion at all that it might have something to tell her. Yet if she hadn't been set up or sensitized, first by her peculiar10 seduction, then by the other, almost offhand11 things, what after all could the mute stamps have told her, remaining then as they would've only ex-rivals, cheated as she by death, about to be broken up into lots, on route to any number of new masters?
It got seriously under way, this sensitizing, either with the letter from Mucho or the evening she and Metzger drifted into a strange bar known as The Scope. Looking back she forgot which had come first. The letter itself had nothing much to say, had come in response to one of her dutiful, more or less rambling12, twice-a-week notes to him, in which she was not confess-ing to her scene with Metzger because Mucho, she felt, somehow, would know. Would then proceed at a KCUF record hop13 to look out again across the gleaming gym floor and there in one of the giant keyholes inscribed14 for basketball see, groping her vertical15 back-stroke a little awkward opposite any boy heels might make her an inch taller than, a Sharon, Linda or Michele, seventeen and what is known as a hip17 one, whose velveted18 eyes ultimately, statistically19 would meet Mucho's and respond, and the thing would develop then groovy as it could when you found you couldn't get statutory rape20 really out of the back of your law-abiding head. She knew the pattern because it had happened a few times already, though Oedipa had been most scrupulously22 fair about it, mentioning the practice only once, in fact, another three in the morn-ing and out of a dark dawn sky, asking if he wasn't worried about the penal23 code. "Of course," said Mucho after awhile, that was all; but in his tone of voice she thought she heard more, something between annoy-ance and agony. She wondered then if worrying af-fected his performance. Having once been seventeen and ready to laugh at almost anything, she found herself then overcome by, call it a tenderness she'd never go quite to the back of lest she get bogged24. It kept her from asking him any more questions. Like all their inabilities to communicate, this too had a virtuous25 motive26.
It may have been an intuition that the letter would be newsless inside that made Oedipa look more closely at its outside, when it arrived. At first she didn't see. It was an ordinary Muchoesque envelope, swiped from the station, ordinary airmail stamp, to the left of the cancellation27 a blurb28 put on by the government, report all obscene mail To your potsmaster. Idly, she began to skim back through Mucho's letter after reading it to see if there were any dirty words. "Metzger," it occurred to her, "what is a pots-master?"
"Guy in the scullery," replied Metzger authori-tatively from the bathroom, "in charge of all the heavy stuff, canner kettles, gunboats, Dutch ovens . . ."
She threw a brassiere in at him and said, "I'm supposed to report all obscene mail to my pots-master."
"So they make misprints," Metzger said, "let them. As long as they're careful about not pressing the wrong button, you know?"
It may have been that same evening that they happened across The Scope, a bar out on the way to L.A., near the Yoyodyne plant. Every now and again, like this evening, Echo Courts became impossible, either because of the stillness of the pool and the blank windows that faced on it, or a prevalence of teenage voyeurs30, who'd all had copies of Miles's pass-key made so they could check in at whim31 on any bi-zarre sexual action. This would grow so bad Oedipa and Metzger got in the habit of dragging a mattress32 into the walk-in closet, where Metzger would then move the chest of drawers up against the door, remove the bottom drawer and put it on top, insert his legs in the empty space, this being the only way he could lie full length in this closet, by which point he'd usually lost interest in the whole thing.
The Scope proved to be a haunt for electronics assembly people from Yoyodyne. The green neon sign outside ingeniously depicted33 the face of an oscilloscope tube, over which flowed an ever-changing dance of Lissajous figures. Today seemed to be payday, and everyone inside to be drunk already. Glared at all the way, Oedipa and Metzger found a table in back. A wizened34 bartender wearing shades materialized and Metzger ordered bourbon. Oedipa, checking the bar, grew nervous. There was this je ne sais quoi about the Scope crowd: they all wore glasses and stared at you, silent. Except for a couple-three nearer the door, who were engaged in a nose-picking contest, seeing how far they could flick36 it across the room.
A sudden chorus of whoops37 and yibbles burst from a kind of juke box at the far end of the room. Everybody quit talking. The bartender tiptoed back, with the drinks.
"What's happening?" Oedipa whispered.
"That's by Stockhausen," the hip graybeard in-formed her, "the early crowd tends to dig your Radio Cologne sound. Later on we really swing. We're the only bar in the area, you know, has a strictly39 electronic music policy. Come on around Saturdays, starting mid-night we have your Sinewave Session, that's a live get-together40, fellas come in just to jam from all over the state, San Jose, Santa Barbara, San Diego——"
"Live?" Metzger said, "electronic music, live?"
"They put it on the tape, here, live, fella. We got a whole back room full of your audio oscillators, gunshot machines, contact mikes, everything man. That's for if you didn't bring your ax, see, but you got the feeling and you want to swing with the rest of the cats, there's always something available."
"No offense41," said Metzger, with a winning Baby Igor smile.
A frail42 young man in a drip-dry suit slid into the seat across from them, introduced himself as Mike Fallopian, and began proselytizing43 for an organization known as the Peter Pinguid Society.
"You one of these right-wing nut outfits45?" inquired the diplomatic Metzger.
Fallopian twinkled. "They accuse us of being par-anoids."
"They?" inquired Metzger, twinkling also.
"Us?" asked Oedipa.
The Peter Pinguid Society was named for the commanding officer of the Confederate man-of-war "Disgruntled," who early in 1863 had set sail with the daring plan of bringing a task force around Cape46 Horn to attack San Francisco and thus open a second front in the War For Southern Independence. Storms and scurvy47 managed to destroy or discourage every vessel48 in this armada except the game little "Disgruntled," which showed up off the coast of California about a year later. Unknown, however, to Commodore Pinguid, Czar Nicholas II of Russia had dispatched his Far East Fleet, four corvettes and two clippers, all under the command of one Rear Admiral Popov, to San Francisco Bay, as part of a ploy50 to keep Britain and France from (among other things) intervening on the side of the Confeder-acy. Pinguid could not have chosen a worse time for an assault on San Francisco. Rumors51 were abroad that winter that the Reb cruisers "Alabama" and "Sumter" were indeed on the point of attacking the city, and the Russian admiral had, on his own responsibility, issued his Pacific squadron standing53 orders to put on steam and clear for action should any such attempt develop. The cruisers, however, seemed to prefer cruising and nothing more. This did not keep Popov from periodic reconnoitring. What happened on the 9th March, 1864, a day now held sacred by all Peter Pinguid Society members, is not too clear. Popov did send out a ship, either the corvette "Bogatir" or the clipper "Gaida-mak," to see what it could see. Off the coast of either what is now Carmel-by-the-Sea, or what is now Pismo Beach, around noon or possibly toward dusk, the two ships sighted each other. One of them may have fired, if it did then the other responded; but both were out of range so neither showed a scar afterward54 to prove anything. Night fell. In the morning the Russian ship was gone. But motion is relative. If you believe an ex-cerpt from the "Bogatir" or "Gaidamak" 's log, for-warded in April to the General-Adjutant in St Peters-burg and now somewhere in the Krasnyi Arkhiv, it was the "Disgruntled" that had vanished during the night.
"Who cares?" Fallopian shrugged55. "We don't try to make scripture56 out of it. Naturally that's cost us a lot of support in the Bible Belt, where we might've been expected to go over real good. The old Confederacy.
"But that was the very first military confrontation57 between Russia and America. Attack, retaliation58, both projectiles59 deep-sixed forever and the Pacific rolls on. But the ripples60 from those two splashes spread, and grew, and today engulf61 us all.
"Peter Pinguid was really our first casualty. Not the fanatic62 our more left-leaning friends over in the Birch Society chose to martyrize63."
"Was the Commodore killed, then?" asked Oedipa.
Much worse, to Fallopian's mind. After the con-frontation, appalled64 at what had to be some military alliance between abolitionist Russia (Nicholas having freed the serfs in 1861) and a Union that paid lip-service to abolition65 while it kept its own industrial laborers66 in a kind of wage-slavery, Peter Pinguid stayed in his cabin for weeks, brooding.
"But that sounds," objected Metzger, "like he was against industrial capitalism67. Wouldn't that disqualify him as any kind of anti-Communist figure?"
"You think like a Bircher," Fallopian said. "Good guys and bad guys. You never get to any of the under-lying truth. Sure he was against industrial capitalism. So are we. Didn't it lead, inevitably68, to Marxism? Un-derneath, both are part of the same creeping horror." "Industrial anything," hazarded Metzger.
"There you go," nodded Fallopian.
"What happened to Peter Pinguid?" Oedipa wanted to know.
"He finally resigned his commission. Violated his upbringing and code of honor. Lincoln and the Czar had forced him to. That's what I meant when I said casualty. He and most of the crew settled near L.A.; and for the rest of his life he did little more than acquire " wealth."
"How poignant," Oedipa said. "What doing?"
"Speculating in California real estate," said Fallo-pian. Oedipa, halfway69 into swallowing part of her drink, sprayed it out again in a glittering cone70 for ten feet easy, and collapsed71 in giggles72.
"Wha," said Fallopian. "During the drought that year you could've bought lots in the heart of downtown L. A. for .63 apiece."
A great shout went up near the doorway73, bodies flowed toward a fattish pale young man who'd appeared carrying a leather mailsack over his shoulder.
"Mail call," people were yelling. Sure enough, it was, just like in the army. The fat kid, looking harassed75, climbed up on the bar and started calling names and throwing envelopes into the crowd. Fallopian excused himself and joined the others.
Metzger had taken out a pair of glasses and was squinting76 through them at the kid on the bar. "He's wearing a Yoyodyne badge. What do you make of that?"
"Some inter-office mail run," Oedipa said.
"This time of night?"
"Maybe a late shift?" But Metzger only frowned. "Be back," Oedipa shrugged, heading for the ladies' room.
On the latrine wall, among lipsticked obscenities, she noticed the following message, neatly77 indited78 in engineering lettering:
"Interested in sophisticated fun? You, hubby, girl friends. The more the merrier. Get in touch with Kirby, through WASTE only, Box 7391, L. A." WASTE? Oedipa wondered. Beneath the notice,
faintly in pencil, was a symbol she'd never seen before, a
loop, triangle and trapezoid, thus:
It might be something sexual, but she somehow doubted it. She found a pen in her purse and copied the address and symbol in her memo80 book, thinking: God, hieroglyphics81. When she came out Fallopian was back, and had this funny look on his face.
"You weren't supposed to see that," he told them. He had an envelope. Oedipa could see, instead of a postage stamp, the handstruck initials PPS.
"Of course," said Metzger. "Delivering the mail is a government monopoly. You would be opposed to that."
Fallopian gave them a wry82 smile. "It's not as rebellious83 as it looks. We use Yoyodyne's inter-office
delivery. On the sly. But it's hard to find carriers, we have a big turnover84. They're run on a tight schedule, and they get nervous. Security people over at the plant know something's up. They keep a sharp eye out. De Witt," pointing at the fat mailman, who was being hauled, twitching85, down off the bar and offered drinks he did not want, "he's the most nervous one we've had all year."
"How extensive is this?" asked Metzger.
"Only inside our San Narciso chapter. They've set up pilot projects similar to this in the Washington and I think Dallas chapters. But we're the only one in Califor-nia so far. A few of your more affluent86 type members do wrap their letters around bricks, and then the whole thing in brown paper, and send them Railway Express, but I don't know . . ."
"A little like copping out," Metzger sympa-thized.
"It's the principle," Fallopian agreed, sounding defensive87. "To keep it up to some kind of a reasonable volume, each member has to send at least one letter a week through the Yoyodyne system. If you don't, you get fined." He opened his letter and showed Oedipa and Metzger.
Dear Mike, it said, how are you? Just thought I'd drop you a note. How's your book coming? Guess that's all for now. See you at The Scope.
"That's how it is," Fallopian confessed bitterly, "most of the time."
"What book did they mean?" asked Oedipa.
Turned out Fallopian was doing a history of private mail delivery in the U.S., attempting to link the Civil War to the postal88 reform movement that had begun around 1845. He found it beyond simple coincidence that in of all years 1861 the federal govern-ment should have set out on a vigorous suppression of those independent mail routes still surviving the various Acts of '45, '47, '51 and '55, Acts all designed to drive any private competition into financial ruin. He saw it all as a parable89 of power, its feeding, growth and systematic90 abuse, though he didn't go into it that far with her, that particular night. All Oedipa would re-member about him at first, in fact, were his slender build and neat Armenian nose, and a certain affinity91 of his eyes for green neon.
So began, for Oedipa, the languid, sinister92 bloom-ing of The Tristero. Or rather, her attendance at some unique performance, prolonged as if it were the last of the night, something a little extra for whoever'd stayed this late. As if the breakaway gowns, net bras, jeweled garters and G-strings of historical figuration that would fall away were layered dense93 as Oedipa's own street-clothes in that game with Metzger in front of the Baby Igor movie; as if a plunge94 toward dawn indefinite black hours long would indeed be necessary before The Tris-tero could be revealed in its terrible nakedness. Would its smile, then, be coy, and would it flirt95 away harmlessly backstage, say good night with a Bourbon Street bow and leave her in peace? Or would it instead, the dance ended, come back down the runway, its luminous96 stare locked to Oedipa's, smile gone malign97 and pitiless; bend to her alone among the desolate98 rows of seats and begin to speak words she never wanted to hear?
The beginning of that performance was clear enough. It was while she and Metzger were waiting for ancillary99 letters to be granted representatives in Ari-zona, Texas, New York and Florida, where Inverarity had developed real estate, and in Delaware, where he'd been incorporated. The two of them, followed by a convertibleful of the Paranoids Miles, Dean, Serge and Leonard and their chicks, had decided100 to spend the day out at Fangoso Lagoons101, one of Inverarity's last big projects. The trip out was uneventful except for two or three collisions the Paranoids almost had owing to Serge, the driver, not being able to see through his hair. He was persuaded to hand over the wheel to one of the girls. Somewhere beyond the battening, urged sweep of three-bedroom houses rushing by their thou-sands across all the dark beige hills, somehow implicit102 in an arrogance103 or bite to the smog the more inland somnolence104 of San Narciso did lack, lurked105 the sea, the unimaginable Pacific, the one to which all surfers, beach pads, sewage disposal schemes, tourist incursions, sunned homosexuality, chartered fishing are irrelevant106, the hole left by the moon's tearing-free and monument to her exile; you could not hear or even smell this but it was there, something tidal began to reach feelers in past eyes and eardrums, perhaps to arouse fractions of brain current your most gossamer107 microelectrode is yet too gross for finding. Oedipa had believed, long before leaving Kinneret, in some principle of the sea as re-demption for Southern California (not, of course, for her own section of the state, which seemed to need none), some unvoiced idea that no matter what you did to its edges the true Pacific stayed inviolate108 and in-tegrated or assumed the ugliness at any edge into some more general truth. Perhaps it was only that notion, its arid109 hope, she sensed as this forenoon they made their seaward thrust, which would stop short of any sea.
They came in among earth-moving machines, a total absence of trees, the usual hieratic geometry, and eventually, shimmying for the sand roads, down in a helix to a sculptured body of water named Lake In-verarity. Out in it, on a round island of fill among blue wavelets, squatted111 the social hall, a chunky, ogived and verdigrised, Art Nouveau reconstruction113 of some European pleasure-casino. Oedipa fell in love with it. The Paranoid element piled out of their car, carrying musical instruments and looking around as if for outlets114 under the trucked-in white sand to plug into. Oedipa from the Impala's trunk took a basket filled with cold eggplant parmigian' sandwiches from an Italian drive-in, and Metzger came up with an enormous Thermos115 of tequila sours. They wandered all in a loose pattern down the beach toward a small marina for what boat owners didn't have lots directly on the water.
"Hey, blokes," yelled Dean or perhaps Serge, "let's pinch a boat."
"Hear, hear," cried the girls. Metzger closed his eyes and tripped over an old anchor. "Why are you walking around," inquired Oedipa, "with your eyes closed, Metzger?"
"Larceny," Metzger said, "maybe they'll need a lawyer." A snarl117 rose along with some smoke from among pleasure boats strung like piglets along the pier2, indicating the Paranoids had indeed started someone's outboard. "Come on, then," they called. Suddenly, a dozen boats away, a form, covered with a blue polyethy-lene tarp, rose up and said, "Baby Igor, I need help."
"I know that voice," said Metzger.
"Quick," said the blue tarp, "let me hitch118 a ride with you guys."
"Hurry, hurry," called the Paranoids.
"Manny Di Presso," said Metzger, seeming less than delighted.
"Your actor/lawyer friend," Oedipa recalled.
"Not so loud, hey," said Di Presso, skulking119 as best a polyethylene cone can along the landing towards them. "They're watching. With binoculars120." Metzger handed Oedipa aboard the about-to-be-hijacked vessel, a ly-foot aluminum121 trimaran known as the "Godzilla II," and gave Di Presso what he intended to be a hand also, but he had grabbed, it seemed, only empty plastic, and when he pulled, the entire covering came away and there stood Di Presso, in a skin-diving suit and wrapa-round shades.
"I can explain," he said.
"Hey," yelled a couple voices, faintly, almost in unison122, from up the beach a ways. A squat112 man with a crew cut, intensely tanned and also with shades, came out in the open running, one arm doubled like a wing with the hand at chest level, inside the jacket.
"Are we on camera?" asked Metzger dryly.
"This is real," chattered123 Di Presso, "come on." The Paranoids cast off, backed the "Godzilla H" out from the pier, turned and with a concerted whoop38 took off like a bat out of hell, nearly sending Di Presso over the fantail. Oedipa, looking back, could see their pursuer had been joined by another man about the same build. Both wore gray suits. She couldn't see if they were holding anything like guns.
"I left my car on the other side of the lake," Di Presso said, "but I know he has somebody watching."
"Who does," Metzger asked.
"Anthony Giunghierrace," replied ominous124 Di Presso, "alias125 Tony Jaguar126."
"Who?"
"Eh, sfacim'," shrugged Di Presso, and spat49 into their wake. The Paranoids were singing, to the tune127 of "AdesteFideles":
Hey, solid citizen, we just pinched your bo-oat,
Hey, solid citizen, we just pinched your boat . . . grabassing around, trying to push each other over the side. Oedipa cringed out of the way and watched Di Presso. If he had really played the part of Metzger in a TV pilot film as Metzger claimed, the casting had been typically Hollywood: they didn't look or act a bit alike.
"So," said Di Presso, "who's Tony Jaguar. Very big in Cosa Nostra, is who."
"You're an actor," said Metzger. "How are you in with them?"
"I'm a lawyer again," Di Presso said. "That pilot will never be bought, Metz, not unless you go out and do something really Darrowlike, spectacular. Arouse public interest, maybe with a sensational128 defense129."
"Like what."
"Like win the litigation I'm bringing against the estate of Pierce Inverarity." Metzger, as much as cool Metzger could, goggled130. Di Presso laughed and punched Metzger in the shoulder. "That's right, good buddy131."
"Who wants what? You better talk to the other executor too." He introduced Oedipa, Di Presso tipping his shades politely. The air suddenly went cold, the sun was blotted132 out. The three looked up in alarm to see looming133 over them and about to collide the pale green social hall, its towering pointed134 windows, wrought-iron floral embellishments, solid silence, air somehow of waiting for them. Dean, the Paranoid at the helm, brought the boat around neatly to a small wooden dock, everybody got out, Di Presso heading nervously135 for an outside staircase. "I want to check on my car," he said. Oedipa and Metzger, carrying picnic stuff, followed up the stairs, along a balcony, out of the building's shadow, up a metal ladder finally to the roof. It was like walking on the head of a drum: they could hear their reverberations inside the hollow building beneath, and the delighted yelling of the Paranoids. Di Presso, Scuba136 suit glistening137, scrambled138 up the side of a cupola. Oedipa spread a blanket and poured booze into cups made of white, crushed, plastic foam139. "It's still there," said Di Presso, descending140. "I ought to make a run for it."
"Who's your client?" asked Metzger, holding out a tequila sour.
"Fellow who's chasing me," allowed Di Presso, holding the cup between his teeth so it covered his nose and looking at them, arch.
"You ran from clients?" Oedipa asked. "You flee ambulances?"
"He's been trying to borrow money," Di Presso said, "since I told him I couldn't get an advance against any settlement in this suit."
"You're all ready to lose, then," she said.
"My heart isn't in it," Di Presso admitted, "and if.I can't even keep up payments on that XKE I bought while temporarily insane, how can I lend money?"
"Over 30 years," Metzger snorted, "that's tempo-rary."
"I'm not so crazy I don't know trouble," Di Presso said, "and Tony J. is in it, friends. Gambling141 mostly, also talk he's been up to show cause to the local Table why he shouldn't be in for some discipline there. That kind of grief I do not need."
Oedipa glared. "You're a selfish schmuck."
"All the time Cosa Nostra is watching," soothed142 Metzger, "watching. It does not do to be seen helping144 those the organization does not want helped."
"I have relatives in Sicily," said Di Presso, in comic broken English. Paranoids and their chicks appeared against the bright sky, from behind turrets145, gables, ventilating ducts, and moved in on the eggplant sand-wiches in the basket. Metzger sat on the jug146 of booze so they couldn't get any. The wind had risen.
"Tell me about the lawsuit," Metzger said, trying with both hands to keep his hair in place.
"You've been into Inverarity's books," Di Presso said. "You know the Beaconsfield filter thing." Metzger made a noncommittal moue.
"Bone charcoal147," Oedipa remembered.
"Yeah, well Tony Jaguar, my client, supplied some bones," said Di Presso, "he alleges148. Inverarity never paid him. That's what it's about."
"Offhand," Metzger said, "it doesn't sound like Inverarity. He was scrupulous21 about payments like that. Unless it was a bribe149. I only did his legal tax deductions150, so I wouldn't have seen it if it was. What construction firm did your client work for?"
"Construction firm," squinted151 Di Presso.
Metzger looked around. The Paranoids and their chicks may have been out of earshot. "Human bones, right?" Di Presso nodded yes. "All right, that's how he got them. Different highway outfits in the area, ones Inverarity had bought into, they got the contracts. All drawn152 up in most kosher fashion, Manfred. If there was payola in there, I doubt it got written down."
"How," inquired Oedipa, "are road builders in any position to sell bones, pray?"
"Old cemeteries153 have to be ripped up," Metzger explained. "Lake in the path of the East San Narciso Freeway, it had no right to be there, so we just bar-relled on through, no sweat."
"No bribes154, no freeways," Di Presso shaking his head. "These bones came from Italy. A straight sale. Some of them," waving out at the lake, "are down there, to decorate the bottom for the Scuba nuts. That's what I've been doing today, examining the goods in dispute. Till Tony started chasing, anyway. The rest of the bones were used in the R&D phase of the filter program, back around the early '50's, way before cancer. Tony Jaguar says he harvested them all from the bottom of Lago di Pieta."
"My God," Metzger said, soon as this name regis-tered. "GI's?"
"About a company," said Manny Di Presso. Lago di Pieta was near the Tyrrhenian coast, somewhere be-tween Naples and Rome, and had been the scene of a now ignored (in 1943 tragic) battle of attrition in a minor155 pocket developed during the advance on Rome. For weeks, a handful of American troops, cut off and without communications, huddled156 on the narrow shore of the clear and tranquil157 lake while from the cliffs that tilted158 vertiginously159 over the beach Germans hit them day and night with plunging160, enfilading fire. The water of the lake was too cold to swim: you died of exposure before you could reach any safe shore. There were no trees to build rafts with. No planes came over except an occasional Stuka with strafing in mind. It was remarka-ble that so few men held out so long. They dug in as far as the rocky beach would let them; they sent small raids up the cliffs that mostly never came back, but did succeed in taking out a machine-gun, once. Patrols looked for routes out, but those few that returned had found nothing. They did what they could to break out; failing, they clung to life as long as they could. But they died, every one, dumbly, without a trace or a word. One day the Germans came down from the cliffs, and their enlisted161 men put all the bodies that were on the beach into the lake, along with what weapons and other materiel were no longer of use to either side. Presently the bodies sank; and stayed where they were till the early '50'5, when Tony Jaguar, who'd been a corporal in an Italian outfit44 attached to the German force at Lago di Pieta and knew about what was at the bottom, decided along with some colleagues to see what he could salvage163. All they managed to come up with was bones. Out of some murky164 train of reasoning, which may have included the observed fact that American tourists, beginning then to be plentiful165, would pay good dollars for almost anything; and stories about Forest Lawn and the American cult166 of the dead; possibly some dim hope that Senator McCarthy, and others of his persuasion167, in those days having achieved a certain ascendancy168 over the rich cretini from across the sea, would somehow refocus attention on the fallen of WW II, especially ones whose corpses169 had never been found; out of some such labyrinth170 of assumed motives171, Tony Jaguar decided he could surely unload his harvest of bones on some American someplace, through his con-tacts in the "family," known these days as Cosa Nostra. He was right. An import-export firm bought the bones, sold them to a fertilizer enterprise, which may have used one or two femurs for laboratory tests but even-tually decided to phase entirely172 into menhaden instead and transferred the remaining several tons to a holding company, which stored them in a warehouse173 outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana, for maybe a year before Bea-consfield got interested.
"Aha," Metzger leaped. "So it was Beaconsfield bought them. Not Inverarity. The only shares he held were in Osteolysis, Inc., the company they set up to develop the filter. Never in Beaconsfield itself."
"You know, blokes," remarked one of the girls, a long-waisted, brown-haired lovely in a black knit leotard and pointed sneakers, "this all has a most bizarre resemblance to that ill, ill Jacobean revenge play we went to last week."
"The Courier's Tragedy," said Miles, "she's right. The same kind of kinky thing, you know. Bones of lost battalion174 in lake, fished up, turned into charcoal——"
"They've been listening," screamed Di Presso, "those kids. All the time, somebody listens in, snoops; they bug175 your apartment, they tap your phone——"
"But we don't repeat what we hear," said another girl. "None of us smoke Beaconsfields anyway. We're all on pot." Laughter. But no joke: for Leonard the drummer now reached into the pocket of his beach robe
and produced a fistful of marijuana cigarettes and distributed them among his chums. Metzger closed his eyes, turned his head, muttering, "Possession."
"Help," said Di Presso, looking back with a wild eye and open mouth across the lake. Another runabout had appeared and was headed toward them. Two figures in gray suits crouched176 behind its windshield. "Metz, I'm running for it. If he stops by here don't bully177 him, he's my client." And he disappeared down the ladder. Oedipa with a sigh collapsed on her back and stared through the wind at the empty blue sky. Soon she heard the "Godzilla II" starting up.
"Metzger," it occurred to her, "he's taking the boat? We're marooned178."
So they were, until well after the sun had set and Miles, Dean, Serge and Leonard and their chicks, by holding up the glowing roaches of their cigarettes like a flipcard section at a football game to spell out alternate S's and O's, attracted the attention of the Fangoso Lagoons Security Force, a garrison179 against the night made up of one-time cowboy actors and L. A. motor-cycle cops. The time in between had been whiled away with songs by the Paranoids, and juicing, and feeding pieces of eggplant sandwich to a flock of not too bright seagulls who'd mistaken Fangoso Langoons for the Pacific, and hearing the plot of The Courier's Tragedy, by Richard Wharfinger, related near to unintelligible180 by eight memories unlooping progressively into regions as strange to map as their rising coils and clouds of pot smoke. It got so confusing that next day Oedipa decided to go see the play itself, and even conned181 Metzger into taking her.
The Courier's Tragedy was being put on by a San Narciso group known as the Tank Players, the Tank being a small arena182 theatre located out between a traffic analysis firm and a wildcat transistor183 outfit that hadn't been there last year and wouldn't be this coming but meanwhile was underselling even the Japanese and hauling in loot by the steamshovelful. Oedipa and a reluctant Metzger came in on only a partly-filled house. Attendance did not swell184 by the time the play started. But the costumes were gorgeous and the lighting185 imagi-native, and though the words were all spoken in Trans-planted Middle Western Stage British, Oedipa found herself after five minutes sucked utterly186 into the land-scape of evil Richard Wharfinger had fashioned for his 17th-century audiences, so preapocalyptic, death-wish-ful, sensually fatigued187, unprepared, a little poignantly188, for that abyss of civil war that had been waiting, cold and deep, only a few years ahead of them.
Angelo, then, evil Duke of Squamuglia, has per-haps ten years before the play's opening murdered the good Duke of adjoining Faggio, by poisoning the feet on an image of Saint Narcissus, Bishop189 of Jerusalem, in the court chapel190, which feet the Duke was in the habit of kissing every Sunday at Mass. This enables the evil illegitimate son, Pasquale, to take over as regent for his half-brother Niccold, the rightful heir and good guy of the play, till he comes of age. Pasquale of course has no intention of letting him live so long. Being in thick with the Duke of Squamuglia, Pasquale plots to do away with young Niccol6 by suggesting a game of hide-and-seek and then finessing191 him into crawling inside of an enormous cannon192, which a henchman is then to set off, hopefully blowing the child, as Pasquale recalls ruefully, later on in the third act,
Out in a bloody193 rain to feed our fields Amid the Maenad roar of nitre's song And sulfur's cantus firmus.
Ruefully, because the henchman, a likeable schemer named Ercole, is secretly involved with dissident ele-ments in the court of Faggio who want to keep Niccold alive, and so he contrives194 to stuff a young goat into the cannon instead, meanwhile smuggling195 Niccol6 out of the ducal palace disguised as an elderly procuress.
This comes out in the first scene, as Niccol6 confides197 his history to a friend, Domenico. Niccol6 is at this point grown up, hanging around the court of his father's murderer, Duke Angelo, and masquerading as a special courier of the Thurn and Taxis family, who at the time held a postal monopoly throughout most of the Holy Roman Empire. What he is trying to do, ostensibly, is develop a new market, since the evil Duke of Squamuglia has steadfastly199 refused, even with the lower rates and faster service of the Thurn and Taxis system, to employ any but his own messengers in communicating with his stooge Pasquale over in neigh-boring Faggio. The real reason Niccold is waiting around is of course to get a crack at the Duke.
Evil Duke Angelo, meanwhile, is scheming to amalgamate200 the duchies of Squamuglia and Faggio, by marrying off the only royal female available, his sister Francesca, to Pasquale the Faggian usurper201. The only obstacle in the way of this union is that Francesca is Pasquale's mother—her illicit202 liaison203 with the good ex-Duke of Faggio being one reason Angelo had him poisoned to begin with. There is an amusing scene where Francesca delicately seeks to remind her brother of the social taboos204 against incest. They seem to have slipped her mind, replies Angelo, during the ten years he and Francesca have been having their affair. Incest or no, the marriage must be; it is vital to his long-range political plans. The Church will never sanction it, says Francesca. So, says Duke Angelo, I will bribe a cardinal205. He has begun feeling his sister up and nibbling206 at her neck; the dialogue modulates207 into the fevered figures of intemperate208 desire, and the scene ends with the couple collapsing209 onto a divan210.
The act itself closes with Domenico, to whom the naive211 Niccol6 started it off by spilling his secret, trying to get in to see Duke Angelo and betray his dear friend. The Duke, of course, is in his apartment busy knocking off a piece, and the best Domenico can do is an admin-istrative assistant who turns out to be the same Ercole who once saved the life of young Niccol6 and aided his escape from Faggio. This he presently confesses to Domenico, though only after having enticed212 that in-former into foolishly bending over and putting his head into a curious black box, on the pretext213 of showing him a pornographic diorama. A steel vise promptly214 clamps onto the faithless Domenico's head and the box muffles215 his cries for help. Ercole binds216 his hands and feet with scarlet217 silk cords, lets him know who it is he's run afoul of, reaches into the box with a pair of pincers, tears out Domenico's tongue, stabs him a couple times, pours into the box a beaker of aqua regia, enumerates218 a list of other goodies, including castration, that Domenico will undergo before he's allowed to die, all amid screams, tongueless attempts to pray, agonized219 struggles from the victim. With the tongue impaled220 on his rapier Ercole runs to a burning torch set in the wall, sets the tongue aflame and waving it around like a madman concludes the act by screaming,
Thy pitiless unmanning is most meet,
Thinks Ercole the zany Paraclete.
Descended221 this malign, Unholy Ghost,
Let us begin thy frightful222 Pentecost. The lights went out, and in the quiet somebody across the arena from Oedipa distinctly said, "Ick." Metzger said, "You want to go?"
"I want to see about the bones," said Oedipa. She had to wait till the fourth act. The second was largely spent in the protracted223 torture and eventual110 murder of a prince of the church who prefers martyr-dom to sanctioning Francesca's marriage to her son. The only interruptions come when Ercole, spying on the cardinal's agony, dispatches couriers to the good-guy element back in Faggio who have it in for Pasquale, telling them to spread the word that Pasquale's plan-ning to marry his mother, calculating this ought to rile up public opinion some; and another scene in which Niccol6, passing the time of day with one of Duke Angelo's couriers, hears the tale of the Lost Guard, a body of some fifty hand-picked knights224, the flower of Faggian youth, who once rode as protection for the good Duke. One day, out on manoeuvres near the frontiers of Squamuglia, they all vanished without a trace, and shortly afterward the good Duke got poi-soned. Honest Niccol6, who always has difficulty hiding his feelings, observes that if the two events turn out to be at all connected, and can be traced to Duke Angelo, boy, the Duke better watch out, is all. The other courier, one Vittorio, takes offense, vowing226 in an aside to report this treasonable talk to Angelo at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, back in the torture room, the cardinal is now being forced to bleed into a chalice228 and consecrate229 his own blood, not to God, but to Satan. They also cut off his big toe, and he is made to hold it up like a Host and say, "This is my body," the keen-witted Angelo observing that it's the first time he's told anything like the truth in fifty years of systematic lying. Altogether, a most anti-clerical scene, perhaps intended as a sop79 to the Puritans of the time (a useless gesture since none of them ever went to plays, regarding them for some reason as immoral).
The third act takes place in the court of Faggio, and is spent murdering Pasquale, as the culmination230 of a coup35 stirred up by Ercole's agents. While a battle rages in the streets outside the palace, Pasquale is locked up in his patrician231 hothouse, holding an orgy. Present at the merrymaking is a fierce black performing ape, brought back from a recent voyage to the Indies. Of course it is somebody in an ape suit, who at a signal leaps on Pasquale from a chandelier, at the same time as half a dozen female impersonators who have up to now been lounging around in the guise196 of dancing girls also move in on the usurper from all parts of the stage. For about ten minutes the vengeful crew proceed to maim232, strangle, poison, burn, stomp233, blind and other-wise have at Pasquale, while he describes intimately his varied234 sensations for our enjoyment235. He dies finally in extreme agony, and in marches one Gennaro, a com-plete nonentity236, to proclaim himself interim237 head of state till the rightful Duke, Niccol6, can be located.
There was an intermission. Metzger lurched into the undersized lobby to smoke, Oedipa headed for the ladies' room. She looked idly around for the symbol she'd seen the other night in The Scope, but all the walls, surprisingly, were blank. She could not say why, exactly, but felt threatened by this absence of even the marginal try at communication latrines are known for.
Act IV of The Courier's Tragedy discloses evil Duke Angelo in a state of nervous frenzy238. He has learned about the coup in Faggio, the possibility that Niccolo may be alive somewhere after all. Word has reached him that Gennaro is levying239 a force to invade Squamuglia, also a rumor52 that the Pope is about to intervene because of the cardinal's murder. Surrounded by treachery on all sides, the Duke has Ercole, whose true role he still does not suspect, finally summon the Thurn and Taxis courier, figuring he can no longer trust his own men. Ercole brings in Niccol6 to await the Duke's pleasure. Angelo takes out a quill240, parchment and ink, explaining to the audience but not to the good guys, who are still ignorant of recent developments, that to forestall241 an invasion from Faggio, he must assure Gennaro with all haste of his good intentions. As he scribbles242 he lets drop a few disordered and cryptic243 re-marks about the ink he's using, implying it's a very special fluid indeed. Like:
This pitchy brew244 in France is "encre" hight; In this might dire116 Squamuglia ape the Gaul, For "anchor" it has ris'n, from deeps untold245.
And:
The swan has yielded but one hollow quill, The hapless mutton, but his tegument; Yet what, transmuted246, swart and silken Hows
Between, was neither plucked nor harshly flayed247, But gathered up, from wildly different beasts. All of which causes him high amusement. The mes-sage to Gennaro completed and sealed, Niccol6 tucks it in his doublet and takes off for Faggio, still unaware248, as is Ercole, of the coup and his own impending249 res-toration as rightful Duke of Faggio. Scene switches to Gennaro, at the head of a small army, on route to in-vade Squamuglia. There is a lot of talk to the effect that if Angelo wants peace he'd better send a messen-ger to let them know before they reach the frontier, otherwise with great reluctance250 they will hand his ass29 to him. Back to Squamuglia, where Vittorio, the Duke's courier, reports how Niccol6 has been talking treason. Somebody else runs in with news that the body of Domenico, Niccol6's faithless friend, has been found mutilated; but tucked in his shoe was a message, some-how scrawled251 in blood, revealing Niccolo's true identity. Angelo flies into an apoplectic252 rage, and orders Nic-colo's pursuit and destruction. But not by his own men. It is at about this point in the play, in fact, that things really get peculiar, and a gentle chill, an ambi- , guity, begins to creep in among the words. Heretofore the naming of names has gone on either literally253 or as metaphor254. But now, as the Duke gives his fatal com-mand, a new mode of expression takes over. It can only be called a kind of ritual reluctance. Certain things, it is made clear, will not be spoken aloud; certain events will not be shown onstage; though it is difficult to imagine, given the excesses of the preceding acts, what these things could possibly be. The Duke does not, perhaps may not, enlighten us. Screaming at Vittorio he is explicit255 enough about who shall not pursue Niccolo: his
own bodyguard256 he describes to their faces as vermin, zanies, poltroons. But who then will the pursuers be? Vittorio knows: every flunky in the court, idling around in their Squamuglia livery and exchanging Significant Looks, knows. It is all a big in-joke. The audiences of the time knew. Angelo knows, but does not say. As close as he comes does not illuminate257:
Let him that vizard keep unto his grave, That vain usurping258 of an honour'd name; We'll dance his masque as if it were the truth, Enlist162 the poniards swift of Those who, sworn To punctual vendetta259 never sleep, Lest at the palest whisper of the name Sweet Niccolo hath stol'n, one trice be lost In bringing down a fell and soulless doom260 Unutterable. . . .
Back to Gennaro and his army. A spy arrives from Squamuglia to tell them Niccolo's on the way. Great rejoicing, in the midst of which Gennaro, who seldom converses261, only orates, begs everybody remember that Niccol6 is still riding under the Thurn and Taxis colors. The cheering stops. Again, as in Angelo's court, the curious chill creeps in. Everyone onstage (having clearly been directed to do so) becomes aware of a possibility. Gennaro, even less enlightening than Angelo was, in-vokes the protection of God and Saint Narcissus for Niccolo, and they all ride on. Gennaro asks a lieuten-ant where they are; turns out it's only a league or so from the lake where Faggio's Lost Guard were last seen before their mysterious disappearance262.
Meanwhile, at Angelo's palace, wily Ercole's string has run out at last. Accosted263 by Vittorio and half a dozen others, he's charged with the murder of Domenico. Witnesses parade in, there is the travesty264 of a trial, and Ercole meets his end in a refreshingly265 simple mass stabbing.
We also see Niccol6, in the scene following, for the last time. He has stopped to rest by the shore of a lake where, he remembers being told, the Faggian Guard disappeared. He sits under a tree, opens Angelo's letter, and learns at last of the coup and the death of Pasquale. He realizes that he's riding toward restora-tion, the love of an entire dukedom, the coming true of all his most virtuous hopes. Leaning against the tree, he reads parts of the letter aloud, commenting, sarcastic266, on what is blatantly267 a pack of lies devised to soothe143 Gennaro until Angelo can muster268 his own army of Squamuglians to invade Faggio. Offstage there is a sound of footpads. Niccol6 leaps to his feet, staring up one of the radial aisles269, hand frozen on the hilt of his sword. He trembles and cannot speak, only stutter, in what may be the shortest line ever written in blank verse: "T-t-t-t-t . . ." As if breaking out of some dream's paralysis270, he begins, each step an effort, to retreat. Suddenly, in lithe271 and terrible silence, with dancers' grace, three figures, long-limbed, effeminate, dressed in black tights, leotards and gloves, black silk hose pulled over their faces, come capering272 on stage and stop, gazing at him. Their faces behind the stock-ings are shadowy and deformed273. They wait. The lights all go out.
Back in Squamuglia Angelo is trying to muster an army, without success. Desperate, he assembles those flunkies and pretty girls who are left, ritually locks all his exits, has wine brought in, and begins an orgy.
The act ends with Gennaro's forces drawn up by the shores of the lake. An enlisted man comes on to report that a body, identified as Niccol6 by the usual amulet274 placed round his neck as a child, has been found in a condition too awful to talk about. Again there is silence and everybody looks at everybody else. The soldier hands Gennaro a roll of parchment, stained with blood, which was found on the body. From its seal we can see it's the letter from Angelo that Niccol6 was carrying. Gennaro glances at it, does a double-take, reads it aloud. It is no longer the lying document Niccolo read us excerpts275 from at all, but now miracu-lously a long confession276 by Angelo of all his crimes, closing with the revelation of what really happened to the Lost Guard of Faggio. They were—surprise—every one massacred by Angelo and thrown in the lake. Later on their bones were fished up again and made into charcoal, and the charcoal into ink, which Angelo, having a dark sense of humor, used in all his subsequent communications with Faggio, the present document included.
But now the bones of these Immaculate Have mingled277 with the blood of Niccold, And innocence278 with innocence is join'd, A wedlock279 whose sole child is miracle: A life's base lie, rewritten into truth. That truth it is, we all bear testament280, This Guard of Faggio, Faggio's noble dead.
In the presence of the miracle all fall to their knees, bless the name of God, mourn Niccolo, vow227 to lay Squamuglia waste. But Gennaro ends on a note most desperate, probably for its original audience a real shock, because it names at last the name Angelo did not and Niccol6 tried to:
He that we last as Thum and Taxis knew Now recks no lord but the stiletto's Thorn, And Tacit lies the gold once-knotted horn. No hallowed skein of stars can ward16, I trow, Who's once been set his tryst281 with Trystero. /
Trystero. The word hung in the air as the act ended and all lights were for a moment cut; hung in the dark to puzzle Oedipa Maas, but not yet to exert the power over her it was to.
The fifth act, entirely an anticlimax282, is taken up by the bloodbath Gennaro visits on the court of Squamu-glia. Every mode of violent death available to Renais-sance man, including a lye pit, land mines, a trained falcon283 with envenom'd talons284, is employed. It plays, as Metzger remarked later, like a Road Runner cartoon in blank verse. At the end of it about the only character left alive in a stage dense with corpses is the colorless administrator285, Gennaro.
According to the program, The Courier's Tragedy had been directed by one Randolph Driblette. He had also played the part of Gennaro the winner. "Look, Metzger," Oedipa said, "come on backstage with me."
"You know one of them?" said Metzger, anxious to leave.
"I want to find out something. I want to talk to Driblette."
"Oh, about the bones." He had a brooding look.
Oedipa said,
"I don't know. It just has me uneasy. The two things, so close."
"Fine," Metzger said, "and what next, picket286 the VA.? March on Washington? God protect me," he addressed the ceiling of the little theatre, causing a few heads among those leaving to swivel, "from these lib, overeducated broads with the soft heads and bleeding hearts. I am 35 years old, and I should know better."
"Metzger," Oedipa whispered, embarrassed, "I'm a Young Republican."
"Hap1 Harrigan comics," Metzger now even louder, "which she is hardly old enough to read, John Wayne on Saturday afternoon slaughtering287 ten thou-sand Japs with his teeth, this is Oedipa Maas's World War II, man. Some people today can drive VW's, cany a Sony radio in their shirt pocket. Not this one, folks, she wants to right wrongs, 20 years after it's all over. Raise ghosts. All from a drunken hassle with Manny Di Presso. Forgetting her first loyalty288, legal and moral, is to the estate she represents. Not to our boys in uni-form, however gallant289, whenever they died."
"It isn't that," she protested. "I don't care what Beaconsfield uses in its filter. I don't care what Pierce bought from the Cosa Nostra. I don't want to think about them. Or about what happened at Lago di Pieta, or cancer . . ." She looked around for words, feeling helpless.
"What then?" Metzger challenged, getting to his feet, looming. "What?"
"I don't know," she said, a little desperate. "Metzger, don't harass74 me. Be on my side."
"Against whom?" inquired Metzger, putting on shades.
"I want to see if there's a connection. I'm cu-rious."
"Yes, you're curious," Metzger said. "I'll wait in the car, OK?"
Oedipa watched him out of sight, then went look-ing for dressing290 rooms; circled the annular291 corridor outside twice before settling on a door in the shadowy interval292 between two overhead lights. She walked in on soft, elegant chaos293, an impression of emanations, mu-tually interfering294, from the stub-antennas of everybody's exposed nerve endings.
A girl removing fake blood from her face motioned Oedipa on into a region of brightly-lit mirrors. She pushed in, gliding295 off sweating biceps and momentary296 curtains of long, swung hair, till at last she stood before Driblette, still wearing his gray Gennaro outfit. "It was great," said Oedipa. "Feel," said Driblette, extending his arm. She felt. Gennaro's costume was gray flannel297. "You sweat like hell, but nothing else would really be him, right?"
Oedipa nodded. She couldn't stop watching his eyes. They were bright black, surrounded by an incredi-ble network of lines, like a laboratory maze298 for studying intelligence in tears. They seemed to know what she wanted, even if she didn't.
"You came to talk about the play," he said. "Let me discourage you. It was written to entertain people. Like horror movies. It isn't literature, it doesn't mean anything. Wharfinger was no Shakespeare." "Who was he?" she said. "Who was Shakespeare. It was a long time ago." "Could I see a script?" She didn't know what she was looking for, exactly. Driblette motioned her over to a file cabinet next to the one shower.
"I'd better grab a shower," he said, "before the Drop-The-Soap crowd get here. Scripts're in the top drawer."
But they were all purple, Dittoed—worn, torn, stained with coffee. Nothing else in the drawer. "Hey," she yelled into the shower. "Where's the original? What did you make these copies from?"
"A paperback299," Driblette yelled back. "Don't ask me the publisher. I found it at Zapf's Used Books over by the freeway. It's an anthology, Jacobean Revenge Plays. There was a skull300 on the cover."
"Could I borrow it?"
"Somebody took it. Opening night parties. I lose at least half a dozen every time." He stuck his head out of the shower. The rest of his body was wreathed in steam, giving his head an eerie301, balloon-like buoyancy. Care-ful, staring at her with deep amusement, he said, "There was another copy there. Zapf might still have it. Can you find the place?"
Something came to her viscera, danced briefly302, and went. "Are you putting me on?" For awhile the furrowed303 eyes only gazed back.
"Why," Driblette said at last, "is everybody so interested in texts?"
"Who else?" Too quickly. Maybe he had only been talking in general.
Driblette's head wagged back and forth304. "Don't drag me into your scholarly disputes," adding "whoever you all are," with a familiar smile. Oedipa realized then, cold corpse-fingers of grue on her skin, that it was exactly the same look he'd coached his cast to give each other whenever the subject of the Trystero assassins came up. The knowing look you get in your dreams from a certain unpleasant figure. She decided to ask about this look.
"Was it written in as a stage direction? All those people, so obviously in on something. Or was that one of your touches?"
"That was my own," Driblette told her, "that, and actually bringing the three assassins onstage in the fourth act. Wharfinger didn't show them at all, you know."
"Why did you? Had you heard about them some-where else?"
"You don't understand," getting mad. "You guys, you're like Puritans are about the Bible. So hung up with words, words. You know where that play exists, not in that file cabinet, not in any paperback you're looking for, but—" a hand emerged from the veil of shower-steam to indicate his suspended head—"in here. That's what I'm for. To give the spirit flesh. The words, who cares? They're rote225 noises to hold line bashes with, to get past the bone barriers around an actor's memory, right? But the reality is in this head. Mine. I'm the projector305 at the planetarium306, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, sometimes other orifices
also."
But she couldn't let it quite go. "What made you feel differently than Wharfinger did about this, this Trystero." At the word, Driblette's face abruptly307 van-ished, back into the steam. As if switched off. Oedipa hadn't wanted to; say the word. He had managed to create around it the same aura of ritual reluctance here, offstage, as he had on.
"If I were to dissolve in here," speculated the voice out of the drifting steam, "be washed down the drain into the Pacific, what you saw tonight would vanish too. You, that part of you so concerned, God knows how, with that little world, would also vanish. The only residue308 in fact would be things Wharfinger didn't lie about. Perhaps Squamuglia and Faggio, if they ever existed. Perhaps the Thurn and Taxis mail system. Stamp collectors tell me it did exist. Perhaps the other, also. The Adversary309. But they would be traces, fossils. Dead, mineral, without value or poten-tial.
"You could fall in love with me, you can talk to my shrink, you can hide a tape recorder in my bedroom, see what I talk about from wherever I am when I sleep. You want to do that? You can put together clues, de-velop a thesis, or several, about why characters reacted to the Trystero possibility the way they did, why the assassins came on, why the black costumes. You could waste your life that way and never touch the truth. Wharfinger supplied words and a yarn310. I gave them life. That's it." He fell silent. The shower splashed.
"Driblette?" Oedipa called, after awhile.
His face appeared briefly. "We could do that." He wasn't smiling. His eyes waited, at the centres of their webs.
"I'll call," said Oedipa. She left, and was all the way outside before thinking, I went in there to ask about bones and instead we talked about the Trystero thing. She stood in a nearly deserted311 parking lot, watch-ing the headlights of Metzger's car come at her, and wondered how accidental it had been.
Metzger had been listening to the car radio. She got in and rode with him for two miles before realizing that the whimsies312 of nighttime reception were bringing them KCUF down from Kinneret, and that the disk jockey talking was her husband, Mucho.
though she saw Mike Fallopian again, and did trace the text of The Courier's Tragedy a certain distance, these follow-ups were no more disquieting313 than other revela-tions which now seemed to come crowding in expo-nentially, as if the more she collected the more would come to her, until everything she saw, smelled, dreamed, remembered, would somehow come to be woven into The Tristero.
For one thing, she read over the will more closely. If it was really Pierce's attempt to leave an organized something behind after his own annihilation, then it was part of her duty, wasn't it, to bestow314 life on what had persisted, to try to be what Driblette was, the dark machine in the centre of the planetarium, to bring the estate into pulsing stelliferous Meaning, all in a soaring dome198 around her? If only so much didn't stand in her way: her deep ignorance of law, of investment, of real estate, ultimately of the dead man himself. The bond the probate court had had her post was perhaps their evaluation315 in dollars of how much did stand in her way. Under the symbol she'd copied off the latrine wall of The Scope into her memo book, she wrote Shall I project a world? If not project then at least flash some arrow on the dome to skitter among constellations316 and trace out your Dragon, Whale, Southern Cross. Any-thing might help.
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hap
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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teeming
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galleons
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cedars
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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inventoried
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appraised
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peculiar
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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13
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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14
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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15
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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16
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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17
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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18
velveted
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| 穿着天鹅绒的，天鹅绒覆盖的 | |
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19
statistically
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| ad.根据统计数据来看，从统计学的观点来看 | |
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20
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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21
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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22
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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23
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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24
bogged
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| adj.陷于泥沼的v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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25
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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26
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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27
cancellation
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| n.删除，取消 | |
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28
blurb
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| n.简介，短评 | |
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29
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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30
voyeurs
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| n.窥淫癖者（喜欢窥视他人性行为）( voyeur的名词复数 )；刺探隐秘者（喜欢刺探他人的问题或私生活） | |
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31
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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32
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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33
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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34
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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35
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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36
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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37
whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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38
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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39
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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40
get-together
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| n.(使)聚集；(使)集合 | |
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41
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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42
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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43
proselytizing
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| v.（使）改变宗教信仰[政治信仰、意见等]，使变节( proselytize的现在分词 ) | |
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44
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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45
outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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47
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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48
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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49
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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50
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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51
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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52
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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55
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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57
confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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58
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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59
projectiles
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| n.抛射体( projectile的名词复数 )；（炮弹、子弹等）射弹，（火箭等）自动推进的武器 | |
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60
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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61
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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62
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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63
martyrize
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| v.使殉难，把…作牺牲，使受难n.殉难，成为烈士 | |
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64
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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65
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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66
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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67
capitalism
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| n.资本主义 | |
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68
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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69
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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70
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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71
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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72
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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74
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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75
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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77
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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78
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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80
memo
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| n.照会，备忘录；便笺；通知书；规章 | |
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81
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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82
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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83
rebellious
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|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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84
turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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85
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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86
affluent
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|
| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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87
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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88
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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89
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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90
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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91
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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92
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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93
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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94
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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95
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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96
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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97
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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98
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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99
ancillary
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| adj.附属的，从属的 | |
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100
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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101
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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102
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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103
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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104
somnolence
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| n.想睡，梦幻；欲寐；嗜睡；嗜眠 | |
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105
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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107
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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108
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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109
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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110
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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111
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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112
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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113
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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114
outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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115
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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116
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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117
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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118
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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119
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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120
binoculars
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| n.双筒望远镜 | |
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121
aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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122
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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123
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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124
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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125
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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126
jaguar
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| n.美洲虎 | |
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127
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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128
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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129
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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130
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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132
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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133
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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134
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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135
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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136
scuba
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| n.水中呼吸器 | |
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137
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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138
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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139
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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140
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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141
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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142
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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143
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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144
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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145
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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146
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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147
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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148
alleges
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的第三人称单数 ) | |
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149
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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150
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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151
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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152
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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153
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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154
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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155
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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156
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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157
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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158
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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159
vertiginously
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| adj.头晕的，引起头晕的；多变化的 | |
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160
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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161
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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162
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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163
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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164
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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165
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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166
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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167
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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168
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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169
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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170
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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171
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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172
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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173
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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174
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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175
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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176
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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178
marooned
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| adj.被围困的；孤立无援的；无法脱身的 | |
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179
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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180
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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181
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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183
transistor
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| n.晶体管，晶体管收音机 | |
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184
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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185
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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186
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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187
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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188
poignantly
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189
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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190
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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191
finessing
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| v.手腕，手段，技巧( finesse的现在分词 ) | |
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192
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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193
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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194
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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195
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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196
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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197
confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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198
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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199
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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200
amalgamate
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| v.(指业务等)合并，混合 | |
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201
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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202
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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203
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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204
taboos
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| 禁忌( taboo的名词复数 )； 忌讳； 戒律； 禁忌的事物（或行为） | |
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205
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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206
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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207
modulates
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| 调整( modulate的第三人称单数 )； （对波幅、频率的）调制； 转调； 调整或改变（嗓音）的音调 | |
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208
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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209
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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210
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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211
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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212
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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214
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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215
muffles
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的第三人称单数 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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216
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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217
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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218
enumerates
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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219
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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220
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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222
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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223
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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224
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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225
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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226
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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227
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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228
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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229
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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230
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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231
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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232
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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233
stomp
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| v.跺（脚），重踩，重踏 | |
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234
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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235
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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236
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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237
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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238
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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239
levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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240
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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241
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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242
scribbles
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| n.潦草的书写( scribble的名词复数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下v.潦草的书写( scribble的第三人称单数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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243
cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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244
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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245
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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246
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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248
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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249
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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250
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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251
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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253
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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254
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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255
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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256
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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257
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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258
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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259
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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260
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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261
converses
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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262
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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263
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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264
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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265
refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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266
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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267
blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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268
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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269
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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270
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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272
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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273
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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274
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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275
excerpts
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| n.摘录，摘要( excerpt的名词复数 )；节选（音乐，电影）片段 | |
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276
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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277
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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278
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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279
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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280
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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281
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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282
anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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283
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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284
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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285
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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286
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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287
slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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288
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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289
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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annular
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| adj.环状的 | |
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292
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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293
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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294
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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295
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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296
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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297
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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298
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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299
paperback
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| n.平装本，简装本 | |
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300
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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301
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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303
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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304
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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305
projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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306
planetarium
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| n.天文馆；天象仪 | |
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307
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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308
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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309
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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310
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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311
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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312
whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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313
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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314
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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315
evaluation
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| n.估价，评价；赋值 | |
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316
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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