"I had a chance once to go New York-ward," said the driver after a long lull. Xman could not bring himself - had he ever been able? - to draw him out. Just when it seemed he had no intention of elaborating, the driver said, "Somebody told me I had the makings of a great one. 'In yourself you are a great one,' that somebody said. 'But I can foresee horror for you in the big city. You'll end up alone, spending your nights alone, a pockmarked fast-food addict taking dictation from the stars in behalf of a universal language.'" Taking a deep breath the driver accelerated for no visible reason. "Then she said something else: I've yet to understand it." Xman never importuned but as if he had, the driver sliding his hand toward the glove compartment and removing a little notebook grumbled, "Oh all right. Since you insist I'll read it."

"'You think you are beyond everybody's comprehension: beyond formulation, beyond bracketing. But I can foresee your intelligibility as a remnant, a failure, a nobody ranting and raving against the failed dawn. When your undeniable uniqueness is projected, the die being cast, upon the screen of universal resistance something monstrous will ungraciously take place. In yourself you are great but thrown into the world you cast another shadow.' That's why I never left. But it's sure to be different for you."