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The voice on the other end of the line pauses. Then it says, with hostility, You're new to this Committee... aren't you. It is more of a statement than a question. And, as a statement, it is an accusation.
Do you not tell committee newcomers where your committee meets? he asks. His body is thrilling to a rising contempt of his own that, while somewhat surprizing him -- for he is not a contemptuous man, by general temperament -- nonetheless feels appropriate and wonderful.
We do not, says the voice. There is an undeniable authority in its tone. It is the responsibility of the committee member, newcomer or not, to find the meeting place and to be there on time.
And am I, then, to assume, he says in response, that it is also up to me as a newcomer to know that a meeting has been scheduled in the first place?
Not only that, says the voice, but the time.
And how, he says, am I supposed to know these things?
You are hunter, are you not?
That's what they call me. Jeesh, he thinks... this is sounding like a bad cowboy movie...
Well then, says the voice, HUNT for the meeting. The time I'm spending on the phone with you is taking valuable time away from our meeting. And we have a great deal to discuss on today's agenda. I will tell you this, however. If you miss this meeting, it will look very... very... bad.
With this, the line goes dead.
He stares at the phone, dumbly, for a moment or two and then puts it back in his pocket.
He looks around.
Down on the ground, he sees something he has not before seen. He walks up to it.
It is a bloody hand. His, perhaps... The hand is positioned in a fist, with the index finger extended.
Warding off a gag reflex, he reaches down and picks up the hand. He walks in the direction in which the index finger is pointing. When he has gone a hundred paces or so, the finger bends to point in another direction. He turns in that direction, and the finger straightens.
He still feels the visceral disgust, but he can't deny that something about this, down deep, is pretty neat.