＃７０

Maserati — lacquered to high hell, pleasingly well-curbed, three hall-of-mirrors distortions of yourself staring back from the Mariana depths . . . How large is a black hole? Well, forget about its stuff — forget its actual shape and distribution of matter, give up on fencing in the post-atomic sludge. What matters is its field — its pulling-in of light and mass from worlds beyond, its draw, its lordship. The boundary of a black hole is no less than the distance at which it owns you . . .

Navy side mirrors arc out at you, sunstruck. Not a dent, mite . . . one seam, no more. You are beyond the horizon, here, inextricably Schwarzchild-webbed by the socioeconomic singularity. Rougon-Macquart coefficient — 0.91, almost, you feel it, the positive-pressure garage, the white-tiled ceiling, downlights, terrace . . . the unnaturally even tyre-crunch of weekly-smoothed-out gravel. You feel it, because you can’t see it — all you see is you, you’s, fourfold, more?, all with the same blank stare sliding across the panels . . . all utterly bombing this V8 MSR test, C. Clarke obelisked for just a moment, and then the moment is gone and so are you.