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. Well, moderately grateful. Certainly an old man tripped by a
barely nubile female not yet into her teens (Gretchen would not be thirteen for
another two months) is a ridiculous sight, an object of scorn to all
right-thinking people. But, from the time the night before when Gretchen had
made it plain to me that she did not consider me too old, I had been feeling
younger and younger. By sundown I should be suffering the terminal stages of
senile adolescence.
So let the record show that I am grateful. That's official.
Gwen was relieved, I felt sure, when at noon Gretchen waved us good-bye
from the cab of her father's rolligon lorry, as we rolled south in Aunt
Lilybet's rolligon bus, the Hear Me, Jesus.
The Hear Me was much larger than Jinx's lorry, and fancier, being painted
in bright colors with Holy Land scenes and Bible quotations. It could carry
eighteen passengers, plus cargo, driver, and shotgun-the last riding in a turret
high above the driver. The bus's tires were enormous, twice as tall as I am;
they shouldered up above the passenger space, as its floor rested on the axles,
high as my head. There were ladders on each side to reach access doors between
the front and rear tires.
Those big tires made it hard to see out to the sides. But Loonies aren't
much interested in scenery, as most Lunar scenery is interesting only from
orbit. From the Caucasus to the Haemus Mountains-our route-the floor of Mare
Serenitatis has hidden charms
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