Hurtling through space to meet the enemy
in equipment too delicate to step on, without
enough fuel to get back, and knowing you're
completely expendable is just——
Long, slim, twenty-foot
pencils of death, glistening in the harsh glare of the overheads. They
had their own sort of lethal beauty, those Stingers, and a power about
them, as if they were quiescently submitting to these puny men for now,
for their own mechanical reasons.
The malignant neurosis of humanity, making it behave as though all things unknown were dangerous. Or perhaps just realistic thinking. You couldn't know, unless you knew all about the universe. Perhaps the idea of conscious animosity was incomprehensible to the Outspacers, but there was no way to tell.
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