Orfeo cleared his throat. “I would like to be killed . . . in the whitest most boneless valley of the moon, where the blessed sap congeals like alabaster and flows in dough-like strata. I would like to be killed within earshot of the soundless sweep of the blessed one’s hot golden robe as it decapitates the breathless atmospheres of the lighter planets and takes the air of day from the unchangeable path of the holy blessed sap.” He paused. “I would not like to be killed with a bayonet,” he said, smiling. “No?” “No, he wouldn’t like it.” “Who?” “The great master of the holy
