VI | There Might Be KlingonsWHAT SHE MEANS by this isn’t clear, though her dissatisfaction is. As the President drones on the Kid loses interest—unrolling his comic and flattening it out on the grass. He stares at the cover, at Turok and Andar and the fleshy pink tyrannosaurs. He is disappointed by Nixon. By this little man in a suit across the river whose forehead reminds him of Harry Osborne and whose speech has become flat and uninteresting. He stares at Turok—leaping from a cliff, grappling the tyrannosaur’s neck in his bare arms, black hair flying, his medallions jangling, the muscles of his arms rippling. He thinks of Chief Seattle, thanking the sun, speaking with such dignity and reverence, whispering almost, yet towering over everyone.
“Mr. President, will you say the magic words
