I, journeyman, await the judgment of the guild. Am I master or fool?
The dogs prowl the perimeter. I pour a glass of rye. I check my watch again: how many hours removed is the west coast?� If I�m sitting in a stationary building on Thursday in spring during a waxing moon, am I two hours ahead or three? Are we saving the daylight now, or were we doing it last winter?� What is the relative velocity of California?
Rye again.
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My skill is zed.
Our guild has no formal body, only a loose association of masters.� There is no crest or seal or fundraising jamboree. If I pass my journeymanship I will gain no additional letters after my name. There is no recognition but trust.
But that�s worth something. Because zed is hot, my friend, very very hot. Zed is putting gas in my car, and oatmeal in my children.� Zed pays the tax man. Zed helps me get ahead.
Why hasn�t my thigh rung? It�s almost nine.
They can put a man on Pandora but they can�t call me back on time.
I mean, shit.
