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Mark Elf By Cordwainer Smith The years rolled by; the Earth lived on, even when a stricken and haunted mankind crept through the glorious ruins of an immense past. I Descent of a Lady Stars wheeled silently over an early summer sky, even though men had long ago forgotten to call such nights by the name of June. Laird tried to watch the stars with his eyes closed. It was a ticklish and terrifying game for a telepath: at any moment he might feel the heavens opening up and might, as his mind touched the image of the nearer stars, plunge himself into a nightmare of perpetual falling. Whenever he had this sickening, shocking, ghastly, suffocating feeling of limitless fall, he had to close his mind against telepathy long enough to let his powers heal. He was reaching with his mind for objects just above the Earth, burnt-out space stations which flitted in their multiplex orbits, spinning forever, left over from the wreckage of ancient atomic wars. He found one. Found one so ancient it had no surviving cryotronic controls. Its design was archaic beyond belief; chemical tubes had apparently |
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