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Five Miles from Pavement by Steven Utley The Dame Paleontologist, that sun-blackened whipcord of a woman, sits down opposite me in the mess tent. We have not seen each other in several years—she has jumped in and out and in again, and for the past many months she's been collecting in the interior, somewhere far past Wegener Point. By way of greeting, however, she tells me, "You look like hell, and you deserve to." "Why, thank you. And you're even pricklier than I remember." "Your big Tinkertoy's an eyesore. It looks like the bastard offspring of a drydock and an offshore drilling rig. There used to be a lovely view of the bay." We have been friends, or more or less friendly ex-lovers, or acquaintances, anyway, for decades, ever since our post-graduate days. Even if that were not the case, I'm too tired to be offended; though the sun will be rising soon, I'm already more than halfway through my work day. So I let her crack about the structure pass, and she accepts my grunt as an appropriate response, contemplates |
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