The air around Milo was curtained with color now, hot reds and oranges pleating into blinding electric violets and greens. People nearby weren't really people any more, either. Some just weren't even from Earth. And nobody, sure as hell, was from 1966. Milo could see colonial uniforms, roman togas, suits of leather armor, beaverskin hats, shiny metallic jumpsuits, green lizard-scaled skin, bunny ears and soft pink noses.
The Dead were still playing hot and hard. He could see them across the room. But the music had become soft, cool tinkling, wind chimes of icicles. A distinct breeze arose in the auditorium now and Milo could smell the sea. As he became aware of it, the breeze became a wind, the wind a gale. His hair lashed his eyes and, hardly able to see, now he shielded his face.
The driving storm gusted everything, everything, away.
The crowd, the band, the music, the Longshoreman's Hall disappeared in a twinkling.
The storm died as quickly as it had come.
Transdiretrogression
