Black Marcus came out carrying food. We moved to the table and I started on my second breakfast.
Sherry wondered whether the voice that had spoken to him from the orange tree had also spoken to Kavalov. He had asked Kavalov, he said, but hadn’t received a very satisfactory answer. He believed that voices which announced deaths to people’s enemies usually also warned the one who was to die. “That is,” he said, “the conventional way of doing it, I believe.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll try to find out for you. Maybe I ought to ask him what he dreamed last night, too.”
“Did he look nightmarish this morning?”
“I don’t know. I left before he was up.”
Sherry’s eyes became hot gray points.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you’ve no idea what shape he’s in this morning, whether he’s alive or not, whether my dream was a true one or not?”
“Yeah.”
The hard line of his mouth loosened into a slow delighted smile.
“By Jove,” he said. “That’s capital! I thought—you gave me the impression of knowing positively that there was nothing to my dream, that it was only a meaningless dream.”
He clapped his hands sharply.
Black Marcus popped out of the door.
“Pack,” Sherry ordered. “The bald one is finished. We’re off.”