More murders are committed at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. Over one hundred… — Ray Bradbury
More murders are committed at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. Over one hundred, it’s too hot to move. Under ninety, cool enough to survive. But right at ninety-two degrees lies the apex of irritability, everything is itches and hair and sweat and cooked pork. The brain becomes a rat rushing around a red-hot maze. The least thing, a word, a look, a sound, the drop of a hair and—irritable murder.
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He stood very straight and thought of nothing, or at least thought of thinking nothing.
Anna said, “Must they have a reason?”
“No, not if they’re insane, no,” said Juliet. “In that case no reasons are necessary.”
All the sadder that Stone, on the brink of his greatest work, turned one day and went off to live in a town we shall call Obscurity by the sea best named The Past.
