Twenty-SixEvening had fallen by the time Machuzak reached his home on the lower slopes of West Lake Hills. The house had become foreign to him, a mere crash pad, hardly even a life preserver in a sea without shore. His kitchen resembled an earthquake zone, counter and table strewn with empty cereal boxes, a refrigerator that had been cleared of everything but archaeological odors. He glanced at the Kandinsky clock on the living room wall. Usually it was with a momentary disbelief before he crashed onto his bed, awoke, threw on the nearest clothes, hopped into the jeep.
Tonight he was home earlier. After the press conference he had escaped the lab alone, not wanting to talk to anyone. He‘d gazed into his cloudy crystal ball and could not be cheered by what he perceived. Would ITER relent a
