Peter’s not friendly. He gives me sideways looks.

The architecture is far from reassuring.

I feel uneasy.

A pity,—the interview began so well:

I mentioned fiendish things, he waved them away

and sloshed out a martini

strangely needed. We spoke of indifferent matters—

God’s health, the vague hell of the Congo,

John’s energy,

anti-matter matter. I felt fine.

Then a change came backward. A chill fell.

Talk slackened,

died, and began to give me sideways looks.

‘Chirst,’ I thought ‘what now?’ and would have askt for another

but didn’t dare.

I feel my application failing. It’s growing dark,

some other sound is overcoming. His last words are:

‘We betrayed me.’