The drug hit him like an express train,
        a white-hot column of light mounting his
        spine from the region of his prostate,
        illuminating the sutures of his skull
        with X-rays of short-circuited sexual
        energy. 'Don't you drink a glass to us,
        dear little neighbours?' said I. His
        teeth sang in their individual sockets
        like tuning forks, each one
        pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol. 'I
        don't drink wine,' said the lass; 'I
        like lemonade better: but I wish you
        health!' His bones, beneath the hazy
        envelope of flesh, were chromed and
        polished, the joints lubricated with a
        film of silicone. 'And I like
        ginger-beer better,' said the little
        lad. Sandstorms raged across the scoured
        floor of his skull, generating waves of
        high thin static that broke behind his
        eyes, spheres of purest crystal,
        expanding ... Well, well, thought I,
        neither have children's tastes changed
        much. 'Come on,' she said, taking his
        hand. 'You got it now. We got it. Up the
        hill, we'll have it all night.' And
        therewith we gave them good day and went
        out of the booth. The anger was
        expanding, relentless, exponential,
        riding out behind the betephenethylamine
        rush like a carrier wave, a seismic
        fluid, rich and corrosive. To my
        disappointment, like a change in a
        dream, a tall old man was holding our
        horse instead of the beautiful woman.
        His erection was a bar of lead. He
        explained to us that the maiden could
        not wait, and that he had taken her
        place; and he winked at us and laughed
        when he saw how our faces fell, so that
        we had nothing for it but to laugh also.
        The faces around them in Emergency were
        painted doll things, the pink and white
        mouth parts moving, moving, words
        emerging like discrete balloons of
        sound. 'Where are you going?' he said to
        Dick. He looked at Cath and saw each
        pore in the tanned skin, eyes flat as
        dumb glass, a tint of dead metal, a
        faint bloating, the most minute
        asymmetries of breast and collarbone,
        the ­ something flared white behind
        his eyes. 'To Bloomsbury,' said Dick. He
        dropped her hand and stumbled for the
        door, shoving someone out of the way.
        'All right,' said Dick, 'tell me when
        you want to get down and I'll stop for
        you. Let's get on.' 'Fuck you!' she
        screamed behind him, 'you ripoff shit!'
        So we got under way again; and I asked
        if children generally waited on people
        in the markets.