(from page 16)

I ambled over into the basin, a quarter-acre excavation with sloping walls twice my height. Chewed-up crystal still lay at the conveyor’s mouth, a big heap weathering down into mostly thick-crusted gray-white powder. With my heel I dug out some fairly intact crystal, splintery lumps that reminded me of combing ice sweating on lakeshores in the spring.

Jasper started barking. He only barks when he should, so I hustled up out of the basin. Queenie kicked in, howling like she would when sirens impaled Dog Town. And from the promontory overlooking the lake I saw brilliant fireflies out over the middle, luminous as a welding arc — hundreds of them erecting my hackles and filling my mind with the memory of Lew Reed’s first encounter with Trans in Glacier Park! Jasper woo-woo-woofed and Queenie howled and this dazzling vortex of fireflies immersed with no more effect on the water’s glassy surface than mere light going in. A pulsing blue glow out in deepest water got dimmer and dimmer, all but fading away.