So this week I’m re-reading The Black Mountain, by Rex Stout, AKA The One Where Nero Wolfe Goes To Montenegro. Given that Wolfe normally doesn’t even like going out onto the sidewalk, this is serious business.
Abruptly he shoved his chair back, arose, and moved. He went to the television cabinet and stood a while staring at the screen, then turned and crossed to the most conspicuous object in the office, not counting him – the thirty-six-inch globe – twirled it, stopped it, and studied geography a minute or two.
Ah, globes. Out of date the moment you get them, but so much fun to spin. Meanwhile, editing continues plodding along on Television Man, when I’m not busy entertaining a certain high-energy puppy …
She pushed herself a little higher onto the marker to make sure they could see her properly and hung there, exhausted. She was still wiped out from her sudden return to humanity, or maybe being human had always felt this way, and she only noticed it now because she had briefly been so much more.
Hmm. Probably that second one.