Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Neverjudgeofthewholeroundoflifebythemeresegmentyoucansee.Thewholeis,intheend,perfect.”

           Abruptlyhetookhimselfaway.Hewasgone.Presley,alone,thoughtful,hishandsclaspedbehindhim,passedonthroughtheranches—hereteemingwithripenedwheat—hisfacesetfromthemforever.

           NotsoVanamee.Forhoursheroamedthecountryside,nowthroughthedesertedclusterofbuildingsthathadoncebeenAnnixter’shome;nowthroughtherustlingand,asyet,uncutwheatofQuienSabe!nowtreadingtheslopesofthehillsfartothenorth,andagainfollowingthewindingcoursesofthestreams.Thushespentthenight.

           Atlength,thedaybroke,resplendent,cloudless.Thenightwaspassed.Therewasallthesparkleandeffervescenceofjoyinthecrystalsunlightasthedawnexpandedroseate,andatlengthflameddazzlingtothezenithwhenthesunmovedovertheedgeoftheworldandlookeddownuponalltheearthliketheeyeofGodtheFather.

           Atthemoment,Vanameestoodbreast-deepinthewheatinasolitarycorneroftheQuienSaberancho.Heturnedeastward,facingthecelestialgloryofthedayandsenthisvoicelesscallfarfromhimacrossthegoldengrainouttowardsthelittlevalleyofflowers.

           Swiftlytheanswercame.Itadvancedtomeethim.TheflowersoftheSeedranchweregone,driedandparchedbythesummer’ssun,sheddingtheirseedbyhandfulstobesownagainandblossomyetanothertime.TheSeedranchwasnolongerroyalwithcolour.