the street over newly-rolled, still hot, blacktop, his
feet sink in. Man atop machine looks back."What a big idiot!" he thinks.
"Now I'll have to do it over again."
was darkly founded. His quarter-ton physique dropped
through horizons into heat more intense than tar above. With
this burn his
flesh dried into clots of earth.
Only the wind ruffling his pelt is heard.
Arrowheads were collected and forged into deadlier missiles: Protuberances
from the walls have been marked with paint so that they appear to be
faces looking out at the visitor; one at least appears to be the face
a Man and
his guns crossing the limen