Saturday, December 5, 2009

Junk motioned with the pistol. Morrison preceded them into the room. He felt numb. The small green curtain had been pulled. Junk prodded him with the gun. This is what being a witness at the gas chamber must have been like he.

Confining themselves to the corner of the eye. There was that flying-wing liner over San Francisco last week but it was almost translucent. And the shark-fin roadsters have gotten scarcer and freeways discreetly avoid un- folding themselves into the gleaming eighty lane monsters I was forced to drive last month in my rented Toyota. And I know that none of it will follow me to New York; my vision is narrowing to a single wave- length of probability. I've worked.
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-- play for time? But what would that time buy him except to delay the inevitable? In the end that small hope based on his momentary contact with Thorvald made him decide to try that bluff. There had been changes in the com dome since the capture of the camp. A squat box on the floor sprouted a collection of tubes from its upper surface. Perhaps that was some Throg equivalent of Terran equipment in place on the wide table facing the door. The Throg leader clicked into his translator: "You call ship!" Shann was thrust down into the operator's chair his bound arms still twisted behind him so that he had to lean forward to keep on the seat at all. Then the Throg who had pushed him there roughly forced a set of com earphones and speech mike onto his head. "Call ship!" clicked the alien officer. So time.
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