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"They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't a thing to do all day. I'll take it on." They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right. "What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclite last night? You're shaking!" "It's an opening!" Wasil insisted. "An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!" "All right. I'll chance it!"
Already the merclite vendors were busy, making their surreptitious way from group to group, selling the highly intoxicating and legally proscribed gum that would lift the users from the sordid, miserable plane of their daily existence to exalted, reckless heights. War vessels now began to course overhead, their solid, heavily plated hulls glinting dully in the sun.
The excitement of the day, coupled with the fact that nearly everyone carried arms, had led to numerous fights, not a few of which ended fatally. "Merclite!" grinned the policeman, suppressing a hiccup of his own. "And besides, that big 'un would make two of me." One Thousand to One The scheme that Sira had imparted to Wasil was simple simple and direct.
The rheumy eyes rolled, and a wisp of dirty gray hair strayed across his gnarled face. He lifted a shaking hand, pointed a knotty finger. "There she is!" he croaked. "There she is! I claim " "There she is!" guffawed a tipsy merclite chewer. "The creatress, come to punish you! Cut off his nose, O creatress, and stuff it into his mouth!" There were shouts of laughter, a surge to see better. "No! No!
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