Barnaby’s unfairly cheered by the sight out the hotel window: astounded people scurrying, trying to cover their heads with newspapers. They must think they’re freezing to death. For him, it’s cold, but it’s also the first time he’s felt at home here in Egypt.
It hasn’t been everything they predicted, he thinks. Not everyone’s dead, since the payloads mostly hit the Pacific–sheer statistics, there. They’d fired, but they’d lost their skill at aiming.
It’ll all get worse, soon, sure. Meanwhile, why not enjoy it? It’s a little bit magical, this new clear winter, this vision of snow on the Sphinx.