After resolving the triangle they all flew over in the U.S.S. Cuthand to observe and inspect the Mansfield Mansion of Port Mansfield. “Elephants here too,” Pickard pointed out after landing.
“Rainbow… pot of gold. That be what you’re looking for maties.” He laughed, then, at his feigned accent. Shakespearean actors, seethed the Cpt., painting the kettle black. Speck remained neutral and calm and collected on the subject. “And where, dear Cpt. (he looks right toward Pickard instead of the Cpt. here), are the ants?”
Pickard put his hand to his ear, dramatically again. “Listen,” he hissed. “Listen to the drums.”
Speck and the Cpt. then heard them, fading in louder and louder. Deafening if close. The music from Thumper’s Bar, high high above them. High as a kite.
Now at the top, they both stare at the spectacle, wondering how he did this. Occultism!
“Listen!!” he roared over the blasts, hand still to ear.
Sunklands 