In the morning when I read the newspapers on the way to Lulu Island airport, my mood darkened. While public opinion shrieked for action, successive conferences on what was to be done ended in decisions to hold other conferences on what was to be done. Horn-rimmed intellectuals argued hotly whether the Chetzisky question was not one for United Nations discussion. And we make fun of Nero who fiddled while Rome burned!
The day was clear, ideal for flying. It was the fifth day before the end of Time. I bit my lips and looked out at the earth falling away under us.
Four o’clock that afternoon our pontoon-equipped plane swept low over the spruce and jack pine and meadows of wild hay for a smooth landing on Burns Lake, our approach scattering a brood of mallard ducks. We refuelled and were off
