Lara Vox had a reserve of hundreds of hours of pre-recorded tape. This allowed her to slip away from the Tower on occasion, into the city, among people, as she’d done this evening. To join the madness below. A return to the human race. Her excursions were few and brief.
She kept the broadcast going 24 hours a day, every day. Taped rants and jazz. This night, as the incandescent city fell asleep, it did so to jazz of the city, the noise of nightclubs and taxis, rumbling drug lovemaking climaxed by staccato bursts of gunshot violence and piercing sirens, a simple but endless composition performed by a bass, an intermittent and unexpected trumpet, and an introspective piano which occasionally dallied, occasionally dithered, occasionally flashed like a whiskey cocktail, but never ceased.