Now that I'm a free agent I mean to make my own choices, and explain them to nobody if that’s what pleases me. — James Blish

The express pulled into the Stazione Termini in Rome five minutes ahead of schedule with a feminine shriek. Ruiz found a porter with no difficulty, tipped him the standard 100 lire for his two pieces of luggage, and gave directions. The priest’s Italian was adequate, but hardly standard; it made the facchino grin with delight every time Ruiz opened his mouth. He had learned it by reading, partly in Dante, mostly in opera libretti, and consequently what he lacked in accent he made up for in flowery phrases; he was unable to ask the way to the nearest fruit stall without sounding as though he would throw himself into the Tiber unless he got an answer.

In retrospect, each of the steps toward this abyss seemed irrevocable, and yet they had all been so small!

But now the shots began—not many, but one shot is a fusillade if there have been no shots before.