Offices of the Commandant
The Leyland Straits
geb. ano 1583
Most Generous Patrons
There is little new to report. The original inhabitants of this land are all but gone forever. At sunset sometimes, we wonder if perhaps we do not hear them, those mournful souls, lamenting the murders and no doubt grievously sorrowed by the suicides their Talking Heads convinced them were the only answer.
We came, as you know, at first in small groups and then, gradually, as we learned the way, all together. It was fitting—only proper—that they refer to us as The Generation of Love, though they could not know how far-reaching that appellation would come to be.
We came to BE. We ARE to COME. The natives repelled us. It is that simple.
From the first we had no use for their silky-haired Daughters, precious though they must have seemed to their own kind. Likewise their Old Mistresses, as they call them, their fallen dusky jugs more abhorrent than alluring.
When one or the other would stand between us, a barrier to our coupling, an impediment to the Grand Design, we would shove them aside—roughly but matter-of-factly—with our instruments and then get on with it.
From time to time one of us would have to stifle their gutteral (and derisive) attempts at vocal interdiction by slitting their heathen throats. Such is the power of the New Age. We can brook no impediment in the name of Tradition.
The Colony continues to progress. The animals you sent proliferate. Only our instruments of love occupy more space in the buckminsters.
Gradisca has a request: Could you possibly send her the transcripts of the Leary Interlude? It would appear that her memory has been affected. A small price to pay for Our Grand Vision, hey my Good Friends?
I am well. The operation was more than successful and I am able to travel at least so far as the exosystem each morning for therapeutic aberrations.
I have Good Hopes for the future.
Praying this finds you all well, and more than ever committed to Our Grandest Plan,
Your Humble Servant,
Sir Humphrey Snapper