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Encounter??Below??Tharsis Where there's life there's adaptation—and danger. BOB BUCKLEY The wind was out of the west. It carried before it a ruddy haze of dust that whispered gently against the deserted recreation dome. All about lay the canyon, an abyss of ragged, multicolored stone. It seemed to cup the Noctis Lacus Mining and Exploration Settlement with friendly, severe shelter. Tom McCormick rested his broad forehead against the cool plastic of the port a moment longer, enjoying the view while he attempted to ignore the persistent twinges of conscience that threatened to tear him away. The evening, descent of the sand spiders had begun. The tiny wisps of life, not spiders at all but small insectoids with limbs as attenuated as a king crab, whirled down the cheer crags like Duffs of ebony snow, their unbelievable numbers concealing the brilliant exfoliations of lichen that stippled the cliffs like heatless flames of orange, scarlet, and chrome yellow. For the spiders the dunes that mounded the flats spelled insulated safety |
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