«Dixon
was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way;
not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a
summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like
a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him
harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it
once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the
scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by
some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night,
too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up
by secret police. He felt bad.»
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