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"Bisson's prose is a wonder of seemingly effortless control and precision; he is one of science fiction's most promising short story practioners."—Publisher's Weekly
"His quick jabs to the funny bone and the intellect often are more powerful than many a lesser artist's attempt at a knockout punch."—San Diego Union-Tribune
"Quietly," our guide said.
Quietly it was.
We glided over ancient asphalt, past ghost-gray buildings that glowed in the old, cold light of a ruined Moon that seemed (even though we have all seen it in pictures a thousand times) too bright, too close, too dead.
Our way was lighted by our photon shadow guide, enclosing us and the street around us in an egg of softer, newer light.
At the end of a narrow lane, four streets came together in a small plaza. At one end was a stone church; at the other a glass and brick department store façade; both dating (my studies coming through at last) from the High European.
"There's no one here," one of us said.
"Listen ..." said our guide.
There came a rumbling. A synthesizer on a rubber-tired wood-and-wire cart rolled into the plaza out of an alley beyond the department store. It was pulled by an old man in black sweaters, layered against the planet's chill, and a boy in a leather jacket. An old woman, also all in black, and a smiling man who looked to be about forty walked behind. His smile was the smile of the blind.
"They still live here?" someone asked.
"Where else could they live??
|Bears Discover Fire||11|
|The Two Janets||24|
|They're Made Out of Meat||34|
|Over Flat Mountain||38|
|The Coon Suit||64|
|Are There Any Questions?||121|
|Two Guys from the Future||127|
|The Toxic Donut||142|
|Cancion Autentica De Old Earth||147|
|Carl's Lawn & Garden||155|
|By Permit Only||199|
|The Shadow Knows||206|