The left sonic probe still is sitting there, some few hours after the processional of two men who used to know each other and might-again, silver-long, crisp-lined and bisquey against a bit of banked snow the height of a man’s large boot.
The green light flickers on occasion, blinking morse code onto the bright eyes of the shopping area.
And that particular limey sort of green showers the pedestrian walkways, the sighing sidewalks, the leafy sausage parkways lined with topiaries for the tourists... with a kind of breezy sentimental sort of missive, granting a dubious absolution of iniquities to the empty lots and abandoned hovercars and half-open slide-doors left lonely in the wake of All That Ice like a rainstorm after zombie season.
But when first it was flown to the gerund ground, it rolled like a primitive circus, flashing its portentous eye all over the low road, seeking no favour from the area other than the simple clarification of its own existence.
And even that is gone now.
It isn’t rolling anymore, either.
When it stopped, it struck the toe of the Flesh Valeyard’s rumbling masterpiece, a throaty naked foot made of unnaturally hewn ice fashioned into man’s primal nightmare, that most frightful figure of woman.
A very particular woman.