Last Human by Doug Naylor
He shimmied across the bench and peered down the aisle. Fifty, perhaps sixty, bodies lined the craft’s ugly gun-metal grey interior – a sorry bunch of rogue simulants, renegade droids,
the long view
He shimmied across the bench and peered down the aisle. Fifty, perhaps sixty, bodies lined the craft’s ugly gun-metal grey interior – a sorry bunch of rogue simulants, renegade droids,
Some quotes from what I think is my favourite book: Our family’s symbol was a black cinquefoil; his was a pair of intermeshing cogs, the emblem painted on the ship’s
there are new gods growing in America, clinging to growing knots of belief: gods of credit-card and freeway, of internet and telephone, of radio and hospital and television, gods of
I became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy The important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing
“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him