The Year of the Quiet Sun

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The leggy girl was both alpha and omega: the two embodied in the same compact bundle. The operation began when she confronted him on a Florida beach, breaking his euphoria; it ended when he found her sign on a grave marker, hard by a Nabataean cistern. The leap between those two points was enormous.

Brian Chaney was aware of only a third symbol when he discovered her: she was wearing a hip-length summer blouse over delta pants. No more than that — and a faint expression of disapproval — was evident.

Chaney intended to make short work of her.

When he realized the girl was coming at him, coming for him, he felt dismay and wished he’d had time to run for it. When he saw the object she carried — and its bright red dustjacket couldn’t be missed — he was tempted to jump from the beach chair and run anyway. She was another tormentor. The furies had been hounding him since he left Tel Aviv — since the book was published — hounding him and crying heresy in voices hoarse with indignation. String up the traitor! they cried. Burn the infidel!

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