ing; his eyes were for ever closing, his head nodding. He stumbled as he walked, and at his side, step by step in time the Fog accompanied him, a mountainous grey-swathed giant.
He was talking, words were for ever pouring from him, words mixed with fog, so that they were damp and thick before ever they were free. "In life there are not, you know, enough moments of clear understanding. Between nations, between individuals, those moments are too often confused by winds that, blowing from nowhere in particular, ruffle the clear water where peace of mind and love of soul for soul are reflected.... Now the waters are clear. Let us look down."
Yes, he had read that somewhere. In one of Galleon's books perhaps? No matter. It meant nothing. "A fine sentiment. What it means.... Well, no matter. Don't you smell roses? Roses out here on the moor. If it wasn't for the fog you'd smell them—ever so many. And so he tore the 'Orvieto' into shreds. Little scraps flying in the air like goose feathers. What a pity! Such a beautiful thing..."
"Hold up," cried Dunbar. "You're asleep, Harkness. You'll have us all down."
He pulled together with a start, and opening his eyes wide and staring about him saw only the disgusting fog.
"This fog is too much of a good thing. Don't
