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"
Is
he
here
?
"
"
It
’
s
he
who
’
s
playing
it
.
That
’
s
his
house
.
"
"
Oh
.
.
.
!
"
"
You
’
ll
meet
him
,
later
.
He
’
ll
be
glad
to
speak
to
you
.
He
knows
that
his
works
are
the
only
records
you
like
to
play
,
in
the
evening
,
when
you
are
alone
.
"
"
How
does
he
know
that
?
"
"
I
told
him
.
"
The
look
on
her
face
was
like
a
question
that
would
have
begun
with
"
How
in
hell
.
.
.
?
"
—
but
she
saw
the
look
of
his
eyes
,
and
she
laughed
,
her
laughter
giving
sound
to
the
meaning
of
his
glance
.
She
could
not
question
anything
,
she
thought
,
she
could
not
doubt
,
not
now
—
not
with
the
sound
of
that
music
rising
triumphantly
through
the
sun
-
drenched
leaves
,
the
music
of
release
,
of
deliverance
,
played
as
it
was
intended
to
be
played
,
as
her
mind
had
struggled
to
hear
it
in
a
rocking
coach
through
the
beat
of
wounded
wheels
—
it
was
this
that
her
mind
had
seen
in
the
sounds
,
that
night
—
this
valley
and
the
morning
sun
and
—
And
then
she
gasped
,
because
the
trail
had
turned
and
from
the
height
of
an
open
ledge
she
saw
the
town
on
the
floor
of
the
valley
.
It
was
not
a
town
,
only
a
cluster
of
houses
scattered
at
random
from
the
bottom
to
the
rising
steps
of
the
mountains
that
went
on
rising
above
their
roofs
,
enclosing
them
within
an
abrupt
,
impassable
circle
.
They
were
homes
,
small
and
new
,
with
naked
,
angular
shapes
and
the
glitter
of
broad
windows
.
Far
in
the
distance
,
some
structures
seemed
taller
,
and
the
faint
coils
of
smoke
above
them
suggested
an
industrial
district
.
But
close
before
her
,
rising
on
a
slender
granite
column
from
a
ledge
below
to
the
level
of
her
eyes
,
blinding
her
by
its
glare
,
dimming
the
rest
,
stood
a
dollar
sign
three
feet
tall
,
made
of
solid
gold
.
It
hung
in
space
above
the
town
,
as
its
coat
-
of
-
arms
,
its
trademark
,
its
beacon
—
and
it
caught
the
sunrays
,
like
some
transmitter
of
energy
that
sent
them
in
shining
blessing
to
stretch
horizontally
through
the
air
above
the
roofs
,
"
What
’
s
that
?
"
she
gasped
,
pointing
at
the
sign
.
