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ROB CHILSON THIS SIDE OF INDEPENDENCE THEY WERE TAKING UP Kansas in big bites. Geelie hovered above, detached, observing Stark night cloaked the world under a shrunken sun, save for the pit, where hell glared. Magma glowed in the darkness where the rock, hectares wide, crumbled in the gravitor beam. Shards of the world upreared, uproared, black edged with glowing red, and lofted into the groaning air, pieces of a broken pot. The bloody light spattered on the swag-bellied ships that hung above--crows tearing at the carcass with a loud continuous clamor. Pieces of the planet fell back and splashed in thunder and liquid fire, yellow and scarlet. Old Earth shuddered for kilometers around. The glare, the heat, the tumult filled the world. But from a distance, Geelie saw, it was reduced to a cheerful cherry glow and a murmur of sound, lost in the endless night. In her long view, Kansas was a vest sunken plain of contorted rock, dusted with silent snow under a shaded sun. "Aung Charah in Tigerclaw to Goblong Seven," Geelie's speaker said. "Goblong Seven to Aung Charah," she said. "Geelie, take a swing around the south side of the working |
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