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Down Flowers Terry Dowling One step through the front door of the New Mars Hotel does it to me every time. One moment there's the red sand of the Australian desert under your feet, the tired, dusty, ferric blood of the old, old land that has blown and stung and blinded you for as long as you can remember. The next - across that low raised E-scaled threshold - there's the other kind: an ultimate exuberance, the three hundred tonnes of sand brought down from Cydonia 61-12, lofted, carried between the worlds. Expense, distances, far-cycling orbits notwithstanding, the sand had been snatched down the gravity well and laid out red into red here at the New Mars Hotel, each handful reckoned a fortune. It never fails to work its magic. One step takes you from desert to desert, Simpson to Cydonia. One step sets you on your way into the cool, dim interior, between pillars sleek with orichalk facings from Arsia, between the pressure cases and the totemic vac-suits of' the famous dead. To reach the bar, you pass beneath gently turning fans whose blades are made from scorched and pitted lander panels, go among the Samplings, what many regard as the finest products of tribal |
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