Only times and places, only names and ghosts.

I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass.

To put it mildly, the International Space Station, until now, had never been the kind of place for surprise visits.

Jessica stopped beside him: ‘What delicious abandon in the sleep of a child.’ He spoke mechanically: ‘If only adults could relax like that.’  ‘Yes.’ ‘When do we lose it?’ He murmured… ‘We do indeed lose something,’ she said.

Written By Frank Herbert

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