These excerpts where written by Jay Larson at
1963-65 The Fall of the Towers
Out of the Dead City
The Towers of Toron
City of a Thousand Suns
"Excuse me," a hoarse voice said. "You better let me have that, sir."
Bron looked up in the green light.
Miriamne had stopped too.
"You might as well hand it over ... sir." The man was burly. Grizzled hair (and one diminutive nipple) pushed through the black web across his chest. He wore a black skullcap, black pants, shoes open in the front over hairy, hammered toes. (They would be open in the back too, Bron knew, over wide, horny heels.) He held a canvas sack in one hand (that arm was sleeved in black), and in the other (bare except for a complicated, black gauntlet, a-glitter with dials, knobs, small cases, and finned projections) he clutched crumpled flyers. "Some bunch in the u-l printed up about fifteen thousand of these and dumped a batch at every goddamn exit. So all the e-girls have to go and turn pollution controllers!" He looked at Miriamne, who, with folded arms, now leaned one shoulder against the green tiles. Her sullen, preoccupied look had gone; it had been replaced by one of muted, but clear, hostility. "I mean you can't have junk like this just blowing around in the streets." His eyes came back to Bron's. "So come on, let a girl do his job and hand it ..." His expression faltered. "Look, if you want to read it, just put it in your pocket and take it with you. There's no restriction on having as many of 'em as you want in your own room---but we're supposed to get 'em cleaned off all publicly licensed property. Look, I don't care if you read it. Just don't leave it around in your commons, that's all ... this isn't some goddamn police state. Where do you think we are, Earth? I come from Earth. I used to be an enforcement-girl---well, we called 'em enforcement-boys, there---in Pittsburgh, before I came out here and got on the force. In Pittsburgh you could get hauled off for resocialization just for something like that---" He nodded toward the tiled wall where Miriamne was leaning. Someone had painted across it in day-glo red (which looked thoroughly unappetizing under the green light-strips):
PLANT YOUR FEET ON IT FIRMLY!
THIS ONE AIN'T GREEN CHEESE!
Below it clumsy arrows pointed to the ground.
(In black chalk, someone had scrawled across one side of the slogan: "that's a bit difficult if they keep cutting the gravity" with several arrows pointing toward the last, day-glo exclamation point.)
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