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Updated: May 9, 2025
It was the same when Gorman blared out his stereotyped abuse of financiers, his well-worn cliches about money kings and poison spiders. Ascher agreed with him. Ascher, apparently, had some approval for the doctrinaire constitutionalism of university professors turned diplomats. I could not follow him to those heights of his. "I was thinking," I said, "of going home by way of the West Indies."
There is no danger There is no danger " I struggled up from the debris of shattered seats. Joanna was gone; just as I found her crumpled between the rows, the ship struck the water with a jar that set everything crashing again. The speaker blared, "Put on the cork belts under the seats. The life-belts are under the seats."
The trumpet blared, the kettledrum crashed again, and as a sudden hush fell over the throng without Nick heard the voices of the players going on.
On other sides marched attendants in special uniforms, and on the elephant's back stood the lion tamer, all glorious in scarlet and gold, so that he was almost hurtful to the eye. In the cage three lions paced ceaselessly up and down. The band blared. The people clapped. The clown bowed his forehead into the dust and said feelingly, "Wow!"
For a moment the two were silent, staring down at the busy landing procedures below. A warning light was flickering across the field, signaling the landing of an incoming shuttle ship, and the supply cars broke from their positions in center of the field and fled like beetles for the security of the garages. A loudspeaker blared, announcing the incoming craft.
The kettle-drums, marking the cadences, rolled at exact intervals. The director beat time furiously, as though dragging up the notes and chords with the end of his baton, while the horns and cornets blared, the bass viols growled, and the flageolets and piccolos lost themselves in an amazing complication of liquid gurgles and modulated roulades. On the stage every one was singing.
Aboard the Spanish vessel there broke a terrible cry of "Asad-ed-Din" the name of the most redoubtable Muslim corsair since the Italian renegade Ochiali the Ali Pasha who had been killed at Lepanto. Trumpets blared and drums beat on the poop, and the Spaniards in morion and corselet, armed with calivers and pikes, stood to defend their lives and liberty. The gunners sprang to the culverins.
"Can't help it," retorted the musical enthusiast, winding the handle of the instrument. "I think he's perfectly priceless!" He set the needle, stepped back a pace and stood beaming appreciatively into the vociferous trumpet while the song blared forth.
King and Forbes promptly opened windows, but this gave little relief. The trombone pumped and growled, the trumpet blared, the big brass instrument with a calyx like the monstrous tropical water-lily quivered and howled, and the drum, banging into the discord, smashed every tympanum in the car. The Indians looked pleased.
Each one reached down deliberately and picked up a pushpot. They swung the pushpots to vertical positions and presented them precisely to the Platform's side. They clung there ridiculously. Magnetic grapples, of course. Joe and Sally, at the end of the corridor in the wall, could see the heads of the pushpot pilots in their plastic domes. Music blared from behind the grandstand.
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