Aftermath

She's given up cigarettes but not whiskey; the spirit of the place hasn't yet done it's worst — she's got a few months to go before she hits the Perrier-and-lime barrier. Which is fine with me: we sit out in the chilly evening, listening to the ocean and drinking Islay malt, and it may be the end of the world for all I know it, but like the song says.

"Heidel resigned," I tell her. "It was in the Chronicle."

" I saw it."

Then she'll also have seen where he's going: Poland, Czechoslovakia, the Baltics, a special faculty exchange endowed by the Braithwaite Fund. Sharing the Vision. The true West rescues the benighted East from its errors.

"Like the song says," Thea muses. "Tomorrow belongs to me."