Tunc [antikvár]

Of the three men at the table, all dressed in black business suits, two must have been stone drunk. Not Nash, the reproachful, of covurse not. But Vibart the publisher (of late all too frequently): and then Your Humble, Charlock, the thinking weed: on the run again. Felix Charlock, at your service. Your humble. Ma'am. A pheasant stuffed with nominal chestnuts, a fatty wine disbursed among fake barrels in a London cellar—Poggio's, where people go to watch each other watch each other. I had been trying to explain the workings of Abel—no, you cannot have a computer with balls: but the illusion of a proximate intuition is startling. Like a buggerish astrology only more real, more concrete; better than crystal ball or divining rod. "Here we have lying about us in our infancy" (they clear their throats loudly) "a whole culture tied to a stake, whipped blind, torn apart by mastiffs. Grrr! And here we are, three men in black overcoats, ravens of ill-omen in an oak-tree." I gave a couple of tremendous growls. Heads turned towards us in meek but startied fashion. "You are still drimk Felix" (This is Nash). "No, but people as destinies are by now almost mathematically predictable. Ask Abel." "Ahnost" "Almost" "You interest me strangely" said Vibart dozing off for a second. Emboldened Charlock continued: "I call it pogonometry. It is deduction based on the pogon (Troyov) a word which does not exist. It is the smallest conceivable unit of meaning in speech; a million pogons make up the millionth part of a phoneme. Give Abel a sigh or the birthcry of a baby and he can tell you ever5^hing." Vibart dropped his fork on the floor, I my napkin. Leaning down simultaneously we banged our heads smartly together. (Reality is what is most conspicuous by its absence.) But it hurt, we were dazed. II