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STEVEN UTLEY FOODSTUFF THE BOAT TAKING ME upriver broke down the first afternoon out of Stinktown. Doug, the boatman, ran in close to the bank, apologized for what he said would be only a slight delay, and disappeared belowdecks to fuss with his malfunctioning motor or balky galley slaves, whichever. Till now, I'd kept pretty much to myself, and so had the other passenger. Which suited me just fine. I'd been bunged up on arrival and spent some time in sickbay -- jumping through a spacetime anomaly is about as much fun as riding in a spin dryer full of rocks -- and I still felt rotten. I was behind schedule, too, which made me feel rottener. There had been a third passenger when we set out, a bland-looking fellow who got off before we even left the marshes behind. The whole time he'd been aboard he just sat on a Crate and played a recorder, with a beatific look on his face. He played |
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