Jeb was disgusted that he had only a thousand in Three currency left because of the mess at the eatery. But there was nothing he could do; it was, as they said on Three, spilt milk. In this case, spilt cash. The sign above the entrance identified the cemetery as Scenic Hill. Jeb knew without looking that they were still vaguely on the east hill of the Kent Quadrant but lower than its very highest point. Jeb could make out the Kent Valley below, overtaken with industry. Very little of the food-producing crops of the twentieth century remained. He shook his head. All that fertile soil wasted beneath concrete and recycled quartz. Only some were smart, but as a whole, humanity was stupid, each thinking of themselves and not the collective good. Soon enough, intellectuals of the current generation would make innovations that would sway the sheep. The cemetery was well lit—though the gate was secure.
