Your head exploded, Jonesy tries to tell the gray man, but no words come out; his mouth won’t even open. And yet old Mr. ET-Phone-Home seems to hear him, because that gray head inclines slightly.
In the cluster surrounding him, just behind old Mr. I-Didn’t-Say-Anything, Jonesy sees Duddits Cavell, now fully dressed and looking okay—no dogshit mustache, in other words. McCarthy is there, too. Call him old Mr. I-Stand-at-the-Door-and-Knock, Jonesy thinks. And someone else, as well. A gray man. Only he’s not a man at all, not really; he’s the alien that was standing behind him while Jonesy was at the bathroom door. Huge black eyes dominate a face which is otherwise almost featureless. The saggy dewlapping elephant’s skin is tighter here; old Mr. ET-Phone-Home hasn’t started to succumb to the environment yet. But he will. In the end, this world will dissolve him like acid.
Your head exploded, Jonesy tries to tell the gray man, but no words come out; his mouth won’t even open. And yet old Mr. ET-Phone-Home seems to hear him, because that gray head inclines slightly.
