Chapter 63

           Iwasstaringataruinedwall.Therewereafewjaggedlastpatchesofplasterbutmostofitwasofroughstones.Manyhadfallenandlayamongcrumblingmortaragainstthefootofthewall.ThenIheard,veryfaintly,thesoundofgoatbells.ForsometimeIlaythere,stilltoodruggedtomaketheeffortoffindingwherethelightIcouldseethewallbycamefrom;andthesoundofthebells,ofwind,andofswiftsscreaming.Iwasconditionedtobeaprisoner.FinallyImovedmywrists.Theywerefree.Iturnedandlooked.Icouldseechinksoflightthroughtheroof.Therewasabrokendoorwayfifteenfeetaway;outside,blindingsunlight.Iwaslyingonanairmattresswitharoughbrownblanketoverme.Ilookedbehind.Therestoodmysuitcase,withanumberofthingsonit:aThermos,abrown-paperpacket,cigarettesandmatches,ablackboxlikeajewelrycase,anenvelope.Isatupandshookmyhead.ThenIthrewtheblanketasideandwentunevenlyovertheunevenfloortothedoor.Iwasatthetopofahill.Beforemestretchedavastdownwardslopeofruins.Hundredsofstonehouses,allruined,mostofthemnomorethangrayheapsofrubble,decayedfragmentsofgraywall.Hereandtherewereslightlylessdilapidateddwellings;theremnantsofsecondfloors,windowsthatframedsky,blackdoorways.Butwhatwassoextraordinarywasthatthiswholetiltedcityofthedeadseemedtobefloatinginmidair,athousandfeetabovetheseathatsurroundedit.Ilookedatmywatch.Itwasstillgoing;justbeforefive.Iclamberedontopofawallandlookedround.

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