The heavy-gauge alloy yielded to the flame. Progress became discernible. Obvious. Conclusive. Doc shut off the torch, removed the goggles, wiped his sweating brow. The welcome darkness closed around them. “She’ll go now,” he said. The center post was cut all the way through. The outer posts were each cut more than two thirds through. The great sign rested mostly on its own weight, precariously balanced. A south breeze would make it totter. A child could push it over. Within its gravitational time-space continuum, the billboard’s destiny was predetermined, beyond appeal. The arc of its return
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