He stood up, his head high in the caravan’s resonant roof, and mopped his face. “Go on!” I said. “There ain’t much more. You see the devirg’nised European an’ the immemorially sophisticated Asiatic, who can hold their liquor, spreadin’ out an’ occupyin’ the land (the signs in the streets register that) like--like a lavva-flow in Honolulu. There’s jest a hint, too, of the Return of the Great Scourge, an’ how it fed on all this fresh human meat. Jest a few feet of the flesh rottin’ off the bones--’same as when Syph’lis originated in the Re-nay-sanse Epoch. Last of all--date not specified--will be the herdin’ of the few survivin’ Americans into their reservation in the Yellowstone Park by a few slouchin’, crippled remnants of the Redskins. ’Get me? ‘Presumption’s Ultimate Reward.’ ‘The Wheel Comes Full Circle.’ An’ the final close-up of Rum-in-the-Cup with his Hate-Mission accomplished.” He stooped again to the photos in the bunk-locker. “I shot that,” he said, “when I was in the Yellowstone. It’s a document to build up my Last Note on. They’re jest a party of tourists watchin’ grizzly bears rakin’ in the hotel dump-heaps (they keep ’em to show). That wet light hits back well off their clothes, don’t it?” I saw six or seven men and women, in pale-coloured raincoats, gathered, with no pretence at pose, in a little glade. One man was turning up his collar, another stooping to a bootlace, while a woman opened her umbrella over him. They faced towards a dimly defined heap of rubbish and tins; and they looked unutterably mean. “Yes.” He took it back from me. “That would have been the final note--the dom’nant resolvin’ into a minor. But it don’t matter now.” “Doesn’t it?” I said, stupidly enough.