reliving all scenes of the past with sharpness and flavor retained.
(The scent of new-cut grass curls up red and sweet and humming through his nostrils.
The summer day is warm; a Gray wind caresses him, cool and smooth. A piece of chocolate bursts its muddy flavor in his mouth.)
Time enough to think over what has happened, what it means. He opens himself to the moment. It sweeps him up, wraps him in a yawning bath of sensation. He opens himself.
Each instant splinters sharp into points of perception.
He opens himself. He. Opens. Himself.
Gray is not solely for humanity. There are greater categories now. Larger perspectives on the world beckon to us. To us all.
You know many things, but what he knows is both less and more than what I tell to us.
Вы читаете Space Stations
