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Her ears were suddenly filled with the sound of the wind stroking the tree-tops the wrong way. She dabbed at a control in the handbag to sample the original sound from the discs--and it was much the same. The filters had, for a moment, simply replayed the sound of a couple of dozen goatee-strokers leaving the room in a huff. She dabbed again, and stored the sounds of the exit: "Juvenile!" "Why can't they discuss these things _properly_?!" "Bring me my prose of learning old! Bring me my errors of desire! Bring me my Sausurre! O signs, unfold! Bring me my foo-ootnote of fire!" The door snapped shut and the party went on, until dawn's rosy fingers touched the sky. -x-