I miss the Ridgeway. Our hero was on track, he was plodding on, he had his book to read, he was doing his best. He had his heroic problems certainly, yet he did the right thing, he ran away from angry Danish women and it was all going swimmingly. And if a writer of pulp is capable of achieving a conclusion, then your writer of pulp has come to the conclusion that he's lost control of our hero. Which is a sad thing, and I understand sometimes how the Creator must feel. It's disappointing as much as anything, and I'm not yet convinced it has anything to do with anti-inflammatory medication.
All the same, it's at this juncture end parts can sometimes devolve into the
Rapture Scenario. All very well cleaving to the propaganda ministries by saying
there is such a thing as original thought, but feel free to trust your writer of
pulp when he assures you that thought hasn't actually produced anything original
since the tree dwelling days of our species. All of us are still very much on
track for some kind of horrible end except perhaps The Rabbit of Usk. Not
certain what this has to do with the Potlatch of Chapter Seventeen, except to
say that our hero has to somehow come to terms with that Ogre or Warlock which
is the Hotel and Catering Industry.