Black Gods And Scarlet Dreams
“Scrub grows there, and sparse, coarse grass, and the snow that falls by night lies all the cold, thin day among the tough grass-roots and on the hillocks of the dry salt soil.
“Of all the God-forsaken countries,” said Northwest Smith, looking down from his pilot seat at the gray lands slipping past under the speed of their plane, “this must be the worst. I'd sooner live on Luna or one of the asteroids.”
Yarol tilted the segir bottle to his lips and evoked an eloquent gurgle from its depths.
“Five days of flying over this scenery would give anyone the jitters,” he pronounced. “I'd never have thought I'd be glad to see a mountain range as ugly as that, but it looks like Paradise now,” and he nodded toward the black, jagged slopes of the polar mountains that marked their journey's end so far as flying was concerned; for despite their great antiquity the peaks were jagged and rough as mountains new-wrenched from a heaving world.
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