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BY A. BERTRAM CHANDLER NEW WINGS Illustrated by Pat Davis It's "any port in a storm," but if the port's too harsh, the refugees may never quite get the courage to try again for another port— It was an hour before sunrise. The sky was black, the stars were very bright. And there were two moons—one, high in the east, climbing the last few degrees of arc to the meridian, the other lifting rapidly from the western horizon. The reflected light of the satellites glittered from tiny crystals in the rocks, in the sand. They looked like frost, but they were not. Frost was found only in the immediate vicinity of the canals. Low on the northern horizon glimmered the dim lights of the city. They hung there, between the dark, featureless desert and the black, star-scintillant sky, a reproach, eloquent witness to the carelessness of the man who should have switched them off on leaving. They were wasting precious power. For all the people of the city were here, out in the desert. Dim, amorphous shapes they were, huddled in their thick clothing, their oxygen |
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