And then it hit him. He was fully fifteen feet from the girl and
her little instrument. A half-hour's observational time went into
milliseconds in Thomas Lionel's mind as he watched the open drum of
asphaltum compound rise out of the open top in a parabolic arc. It
arched high, just missing the ceiling, and passing in an ogee curve to
miss a stanchion. Forward it came, to curve downward upon his own bare
head.
Simultaneously, he was drenched from behind by the arching column of
oil from the vat behind him.
In twin, converging arches, Thomas was inundated and thoroughly soaked
from head to toe with a whirling mixture of oil and tar.
He cleared his eyes with squeegeeing fingers. Elaine, holding in her
laughter with effort, showed him the box.
Above the button it said: