No grand vista (so much for my prediction), but we do get to Colorado, in “wind meaner than any he could remember since Chicago, full of ice crystals and hostile intent,” (p.75) and meet Webb Traverse.
In a moment of felicitous synchronicity Webb tells Merle of a job for a man who knows his way around quicksilver (p.78),
“Little Hellkite they’re lookin for an amalgamator, seein ‘s how with the altitude and breathin in those fumes, the current one’s got it into his head he’s the President.”
“Oh. Of. . . ?”
“Put it this way, he has this nipper with a harmonica foll’n him around everywhere playin Hail to the Chief. Out of tune. Goes off into long speeches nobody can understand, declared war on the state of Colorado last week.”
And to elaborate the theme, this isn’t Pynchon, but it should be: Randy Newman’s anthem for our times.
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