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In this Numidian country, so verdant and cool, where a thousand memories of childhood encompassed him, where he was not able to take a step without encountering the ever-living image of his mother, he soared towards God with more confidence. He who sought in the things of sense ladder-rungs whereby to mount to spiritual realities, still turned kindly eyes on the natural scene.
Pop reached the rocket. He climbed the welded ladder-rungs to the air lock. He closed the door. Air whined. His suit sagged against his body. He took off his helmet. When the red-headed man opened the inner door, the hand-weapon shook and trembled. Pop said calmly: "Now I've got to go handle the hoist, if Sattell's coming up from the mine. If I don't do it, he don't come up."
She would soon be liking salads with garlic and Roquefort cheese in the dressing. She was mounting with splendid assiduity toward the cigarette and the high-ball. There was no stopping Kedzie. She kept rising on stepping-stones of her dead selves. Landladies are ladder-rungs of progress, too; Kedzie's history might have been traced by hers.
He approached the big tail-fins. On one of them there were welded ladder-rungs going up to the opened air-lock door. He climbed. The air-lock was perfectly normal when he reached it. There was a glass port in the inner door, and he saw eyes looking through it at him. He pulled the outer door shut and felt the whining vibration of admitted air. His vacuum suit went slack about him.
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