By Marcel Proust

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His mind, his vision, reached beyond the fence, beyond that rickety barn. Beyond, there were trees, little groups of them; and grass—a green, pleasant meadow that sloped toward a broad river, gleaming dully now that the rays of the sun no longer touched it with their shining fire. But even the meadow (part of a golf course, he noted absently) held his gaze for an instant only. A land of dream began on the opposite shore of the river, a veritable fairyland of growth, a Slan 49 gardener’s paradise.

He stood there swaying, waiting for the swift flame of his strength to drive away that abnormal weakness. ” Her rapacious face bent toward him. Her black eyes glittered. ” “You needn’t worry,” Jommy replied confidently. “Before I take anything, I’ll throw my mind around to see if anyone is looking. ” The thin face broke into a grin. “And don’t worry if Granny isn’t here when you come back. She’s going over to the liquor store for some medicine. She can afford medicine now that she’s got a Slan 52 young slan; and she does need it—oh, so much—to warm her cold old bones.

The engineering student, Mrs. Hardy, a grocer who had been a rocket pilot, a radio and TV repairman, and Old Man Darrett—these were the people who educated him, unknowingly, during the first two years he spent with Granny. Of the group, Darrett was Jommy’s prize. A big, stocky, lonely, cynical man of seventy-odd years, he had once been a professor of history—but that was merely one of the many subjects about which he had an almost inexhaustible fund of information. Slan 64 It was obvious that sooner or later the old man would bring up the subject of the slan wars.

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