PRE-RELEASE

By Andy Hooper

2156 CE. The Earth was a garden, once more a green riot. And the Earth was a cenotaph, witness to the hundreds of generations of ambitious mankind that strove and played in that familiar yellow light. Even smeared among the stars, humanity had a romantic weakness for burial on the home planet. From the Watts Towers to the Arc D'Arcturus, the Earth was a procession of eternal beacons and memorial squares, twinkling and gleaming in the oxygen-rich air.

Robert Spicer had seen them all when they were new. He'd made up his mind. He was working on his terminal download.

Robert planned to issue himself as an 18 tetrachapter commemorative album on perpetually replaceable data tabs; there would also be a limited edition for his personal acquaintances, a 3-pound book on paper with a suprasensory cover painting by Barley Salt. Loaded with microbuds of Robert's favorite smells, it would fill the room with fresh popcorn or cold summer rain when touched with a moist fingertip.

Just as he broke the connection, Tubb raised his fingers about a foot above his head, and his mouth barely began to round into the shape of the word "smooth."

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"You can also plastic canvas stitch a tater tot. Your point?"

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