This was almost merciful, considering what had been done to the sky.When the train did not sneak between hills of slag, cinders, rubbish,garbage, dross and the bloody brown carrion of broken machinery, itshot like a bolt in the groove of an arbolest between unbrokenbarriers of advertising or through deep concrete troughs and roaringtunnels full of grimy light and grubby air. Thetrain which took him to the city every morning passed through acountry in the terminal stages of a long war of self-destruction.Whatever had been burned, botched, poisoned or exhausted in thatstruggle had been filled along the right-of-way, among drifts of sootand ground-mists of sulphurous smoke and chemical flatulence, to forma long tedious mural-a parody of cloud-borne Asiatic hills,precipitous and always so close to the tracks that their tops couldnot be seen. And what lay at the city's heart?=ĭewforth had almost most lost the habit of looking from windows. copyright on this publication | | was renewed. Extensive research did not uncover any | | evidence that the U.S. | | | | This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction, | | December 1963. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +-+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Jeannie Howse and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at
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