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Mom and Sonny were watching the two craft grow larger and closer above, keeping close to a group of spacemen; Sonny was looking around excitedly, while Mom clung to his arm, like a hen with an oversized chick. The reasoning was clear these people knew all about big things that came down out of the sky and weren't afraid of them; stick close to them, and it would be perfectly safe.
Even then, he could see nothing of interest the room was ordinary in every sense. But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized suitcase, stood on end. And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat had been cut.
He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes made of some kind of manure, apparently. These and his hair made him smell like the very nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayed and broken and unclean shirtfront. Showy studs, of imitation gold they had made black disks on the linen. Oversized sleeve buttons of imitation gold, the copper base showing through.
"Damn your intentions!" Greggson rasped. "No oversized kitty is going to make fools of my men and get away with it!" "Hey, Colonel," Dawson said, "it's okay, we " Greggson glared at him. "Keep out of this, Major. Get back to your post. And keep your mouth shut." "As the Colonel orders," Dawson said with icy correctness, and left. "That goes for you, too, Ensign. Wait outside."
It was, ostensibly, nothing but an oversized pocket lighter, just the sort of a thing a gadget-happy kid would carry around. It worked perfectly as a lighter, too, till you pushed in on a little gismo on the side. Then, instead of producing a flame, it squirted out a small jet of sleep gas. It would knock out a man; it would almost knock out a Zarathustra veldtbeest.
Gefty took an oversized wrench from the wall, climbed quickly and quietly down the three ladder steps to the floor of the lock, and walked across it to the sill of the giant freight door, which now had swung out and down into the vault hall, fitting itself into a depression of the flooring. He hesitated an instant on the sill, then stepped out into the big dark hall.
Right under us a narrow ledge rose up out of the valley, with a green, slanting, bench-shaped top, and grouped about upon this green-baize bench were a lot of black and white sheep which looked merely like oversized worms. The bench seemed lifted well up into our neighborhood, but that was a deception it was a long way down to it.
Happy Jack was wobbling up the path with an oversized sack of potatoes balanced on his shoulder, and his face a deep crimson from the heat and his exertions. Down in the stable the little black dog, enlivened by the plate of bones Rosemary had given him, had scented the cat in the loft and was barking hysterically up the ladder.
He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes made of some kind of manure, apparently. These and his hair made him smell like the very nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayed and broken and unclean shirtfront. Showy studs, of imitation gold they had made black disks on the linen. Oversized sleeve buttons of imitation gold, the copper base showing through.
"The same as everyone else, Commander." "What about your feeders?" asked Strong. "With ordinary reactant, and no new cooling units aboard your ship, you must have oversized feeders to make such fantastic speeds." Brett shrugged and held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I don't even know myself, Captain Strong," he said blandly. "It's one reason why I have Quent Miles piloting for me.
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