“The bellows brought the fire to a temperature which made malleable the metal parts necessary for the machining of crude guns. Fremant’s job was to shape wooden stocks for the guns. The last man doing the job had just died. “You got to keep at it,” said the gunsmith, by name Utrersin. “Them stocks don’t make themselves.” He had a thin skull with a hank of black hair that hung over his forehead like grass over a cliff edge. His boy politely brought Fremant bread and meat every day at midday. Frem...ant took a liking to this lad, whose name was Wellmod. He tried to teach Wellmod the elements of procosmology, drawing diagrams in the ashes of the fire with a poker. The boy was interested. “Here is the system from which we originated, with a G-type sun. Way over here is another G-type. This is where we are. The distance is vast. We say one thousand and eighty light-years.” “What’s a light-year?” Wellmod asked. As Fremant explained, the gunmaker, Utrersin, came over and listened to the explanation.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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