“Oh you dolls, you great big beautiful dolls.”
Squads of police with thin lips, big noses and cold grey eyes move into the Market from every entrance street. They club and kick the rioters with cold, methodical brutality.
The rioters have been carted away in trucks. The shutters go up and the citizens of Interzone step out into the square littered with teeth and sandals and slippery with blood.
The sea chest of the dead man is in the Embassy, and the vice consul breaks the news to mother.
There is no . . . Morning . . . Daybreak . . . nexiste plus. . . . If I knew I’d be glad to tell you. Either way is a bad move to the East Wing. . . . He is gone through an invisible door. . . . Not here . . . You can look any place. . . . No good . . . No bueno . . . Hustling myself. . . . C’lom Fliday.
(Note: Old time, veteran Schmeckers, faces beaten by grey junk weather, will remember. . . . In 1920s a lot of Chinese pushers around found The West so unreliable, dishonest and wrong, they all packed in, so when an Occidental junky came to score, they say:
“No glot… . C’lom Fliday.. . . ”)

ISLAM INCORPORATED AND THE PARTIES OF INTERZONE
I was working for an outfit known as Islam Inc., financed by A. J., the notorious Merchant of Sex, who scandalized international society when he appeared at