Webster sat at the desk and held his hands in front of him, staring at them. Hands that had skill, held knowledge. Hands that could save a life if he could get them to Mars. Hands that could save for the solar system, for mankind, for the Martians an idea-a new idea-that would advance them a hundred thousand years in the next two generations. But hands chained by a phobia that grew out of this quiet life. Decadence-a strangely beautiful-and deadly-decadence.
-Clifford D. Simak
City
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