The prospector was climbing a crater slope with its handling members retracted
and its head tilted up. Behind it the distant ringwall and the horizon, the
black sky, the pin-point stars. And he was there, and it was not far enough, not
yet, for the Earth hung overhead like a rotten fruit, blue with mold, crawling,
wrinkling, purulent and alive.
From Masks by Damon Knight 1968.
Art by me.
thats another one for the reading list.
ReplyDelete