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It’s a rather offensive poem called ‘The White Man’s Burden’. Someone cited it in a submission to the journal.”“Enough of that! There’s ... space!”Gordy was already at a table ... alone.“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”“Thank you. I got a really super gift from my best spouse.”“What did the remainder of the harem gift you?”“That’s for me to know, papa.”“What was it?”“A copy of the new AND.”“That is nice. I was looking at a copy at Dymock’s last week. But it seems to have been sold ... oh!” he glanced. For one who laid on string cots in the Punjab, on sacks of vegetable on the journey to the States, and on the carpet flooring since, the bed was a luxury. Victims of abduction as far as I knew from stories and movies were usually tied hand and foot and thrown on the cold floor. Here I was quite free of any restraint. I sat up. My eyes gradually accommodated to the darkness. It was not pitch dark. A tiny bulb high on the ceiling was throwing a faint light in one corner of the room. I walked. More

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