for a number, and a thumbmark. He puts his thumb upon the slab and
makes the thumbmark first with the utmost deliberation. Meanwhile
he studies the other two entries. The "numbers" of the previous
guests above are complex muddles of letters and figures. He writes
his name, then with a calm assurance writes down his number,
A.M.a.1607.2.ab+. I am wrung with momentary admiration. I follow
his example, and fabricate an equally imposing signature. We think
ourselves very clever. The landlord proffers finger bowls for our
thumbs, and his eye goes, just a little curiously, to our entries.

I decide it is advisable to pay and go before any conversation about
our formulae arises.

As we emerge into the corridor, and the morning sunlight of the
Utopian world, I see the landlord bending over the book.

"Come on," I say. "The most tiresome thing in the world is
explanations, and I perceive that if we do not get along, they will
fall upon us now."

I glance back to discover the landlord and a gracefully robed woman
standing outside the pretty simplicity of the Utopian inn, watching
us doubtfully as we recede.

"Come on," I insist.


Section 8

We should go towards the Schoellenen gorge, and as we went, our