Cloud Atlas Page #3

Wait, wait. No, no. You sit... you sit, you sit. Let me see.

Great. Power outage.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

Still glad the age of chivalry isn't dead?

I still rather be right here than back up there.

Guess Mr. Ganga isn't everyone's cup of tea.

Guys like that are just an occupational hazard.

- You were interviewing him?

- Yeah, for Spyglass Magazine.

Luisa Rey.

Rufus Sixsmith.

Rey...

You wouldn't happen to be related

to the journalist, Lester Rey?

Yeah. He was my father.

Really? He must have been enormously proud of you,

- following in his footsteps.

- Hmm.

That's her, my niece, Megan.

She's lovely.

Born physicist, with a better mind for mathematics

than I ever had.

Did her PhD at Cambridge, a woman at Caius.

Gives you hope for the world.

It's hot.

And we're still here.

That's a very peculiar birthmark.

Yeah, my little comet.

My mother swore it was cancer.

She wanted me to get it removed, but

I don't know, I kinda like it.

I knew someone who had a birthmark that was

- similar to that.

- Really?

Who was it?

Someone I cared about very much.

A, uh... A hypothetical question for you, Miss Rey.

As a journalist,

what price would you pay to protect a source?

Any.

Prison?

If it came to that... yes.

Would you be prepared to

compromise your safety?

My father braved booby-trapped marshes and

the wrath of generals for his journalistic integrity.

What kind of daughter would I be if I bailed

when things got a little tough?

Saved.

Taxi!

- You sure you don't need a cab?

- No, I've got my car.

Well, you know, if... there's ever something I can do for you,

please give me a call.

Thank you, I will.

[Whispers]:
Bye.

[London, the year 2012]

It was the night of the Lemon Prizes,

[London, the year 2012]

[London, the year 2012]

and amidst all that forced jollity,

I recall a moment of introspection.

Why? Why would anyone in their right mind

choose to be a publisher?

This was the precise moment that Dermot found me.

- Oy, Timothy.

- Ah, Dermot.

Bad news inexorably does.

A f***in' waste.

Never forget Herman Melville;

writes a ripping yarn about a big white whale,

which is summarily dismissed

and yet today, it is lugged around in the backpacks

of every serious student of literature in the world.

I don't give a f*** what happens when I'm dead.

I want people to buy me book now!

Well, as your publisher, obviously nothing

would make me happier.

But sadly, for whatever reason,

"Knuckle Sandwich" has yet to connect to its audience.

You want a reason? I'll give ya a reason.

- Right there!

- Oh, you mean, Mr. Finch.

Felix f***in' Finch!

The... c*nt that shat all over me book in his

poncy f***in' magazine!

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