Koven nodded. "The arts no longer convey meaning, but the ruler of Maru managed to put it back in. Something you didn't look for. Something I wouldn't have looked for ... if I hadn't stopped at a Vendobook." "You think they'll come after us?" Spotwood asked. Koven glanced out the window. At the street's end, pieces of something meaty and red had been hoisted up by the crowd on long, sharp poles. They glistened in the flaring light. "They may. They're in a wild mood. Once Control takes over, though, the attacks will be a thing of the past. But until then...." "Holy God," Spotwood breathed. He went toward a cupboard, stopped at the table and glanced down. Nearly in awe, he read aloud, "_The Twilight of Meaningism_. Mph." An emphatic shake of the head. Then he unlimbered a pistol from the cupboard, and they sat down to wait. Twenty-three minutes later 'copters were snarling across the night over the village, and beams cut swathes back and forth over a sea of tossing bluish faces. Spotwood stood up with a sigh, stretched and took down two gin bubbles, saying to Koven, "Have a drink."