Chapter 8

           AFTERlandingfromhisswimNostromohadscrambledup,alldripping,intothemainquadrangleoftheoldfort;andthere,amongstruinedbitsofwallsandrottingremnantsofroofsandsheds,hehadsleptthedaythrough.Hehadsleptintheshadowofthemountains,inthewhiteblazeofnoon,inthestillnessandsolitudeofthatovergrownpieceoflandbetweentheovaloftheharbourandthespacioussemi-circleofthegulf.Helayasifdead.Arey-zamuro,appearinglikeatinyblackspeckintheblue,stooped,circlingprudentlywithastealthinessofflightstartlinginabirdofthatgreatsize.Theshadowofhispearly-whitebody,ofhisblack-tippedwings,fellonthegrassnomoresilentlythanhealightedhimselfonahillockofrubbishwithinthreeyardsofthatman,lyingasstillasacorpse.Thebirdstretchedhisbareneck,cranedhisbaldhead,loathsomeinthebrillianceofvariedcolouring,withanairofvoraciousanxietytowardsthepromisingstillnessofthatprostratebody.Then,sinkinghisheaddeeplyintohissoftplumage,hesettledhimselftowait.ThefirstthinguponwhichNostromo’seyesfellonwakingwasthispatientwatcherforthesignsofdeathandcorruption.Whenthemangotupthevulturehoppedawayingreat,side-long,flutteringjumps.Helingeredforawhile,moroseandreluctant,beforeherose,circlingnoiselesslywithasinisterdroopofbeakandclaws.

           Longafterhehadvanished,Nostromo,liftinghiseyesuptothesky,muttered,“Iamnotdeadyet.