People screamed. Papers, datasheets, emergency-ration wrappers, and drink bulbs pelted Marcus, then whipped past him up the access shaft. As the wind lifted him, too, but more slowly, the hatch rebounded from the shaft wall to slam into his side and send him spinning. Someone shoved him aside to ...
—Franz Kafka ON THE FRANCIA/SAXONY BORDER, 730 Karl, Pepin’s son, was a vigorous man in his early forties: for him the prime of his life. In these rough and perilous times, lesser men—if they survived—were old and wizened. Only Karl’s hair, shot through with streaks of gray, gave any suggestion o...
2102 1 The celebratory entree was never in doubt: homegrown lunar beef. The flesh of cattle raised in one-sixth of a gee was oh so tender. The local side dishes were certainly satisfactory, if unexciting. If only some Loonie would figure out how to grow a decent wine grape—the Bordeaux, imported ...