The composer grumbled. Kerb!--not until that wretched
eyrie in the clouds! And such coffee! No matter. Pobloff never felt in
robuster health; his irritable nerves were calmed by a sound night's
sleep. The air was fresher than down in the malarial valley, where stood
the shining towers of Balak; he could see them pinked by the morning sun
and low on the horizon. All together he was glad....
Hello, this must be Kerb! A moment later Pobloff bellowed for the
guard; he had shattered the electric annunciator by his violence. Then,
not waiting to be served, he ran into the vestibule, and soon was on the
station platform, inhaling huge drafts of air into his big chest. Ah! It
was glorious up there. What surprised him was the number of human beings
clambering over the steps, running and gabbling like a lot of animals
let loose from their cages. The engineer beside his quivering machine
enjoyed his morning coffee. And there were many turbaned pagans and some
veiled women mixed with the crowd.
The sparkling of bright colours and bizarre costumes did not disturb
Pobloff, who had lived too long on anonymous borders, where Jew,
Christian, Turk, Slav, African, and outlandish folk generally melted
into a civilization which still puzzled ethnologists.
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