The Watchtower

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

You are standing on the watchtower, which seems to extend considerably beyond the Earth's atmosphere. The curvature of the planet is clearly visible. The watchman is standing on his spar, smearing his thinning locks with lamb fat.

"Öe," you say. "What's the meaning of this."

The watchman regards you. He is kind of dark and Sicilian-Sephardic-looking, sort of a cross between Richard Nixon and Neil Postman. His little pigseyes catch you in their gaze.

"Well. You're no angel."

"But I wanna get to heaven just the same."