Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Before leaving the place he looked upwards, and could just discern the blue vault and pale stars of Heaven through an iron grating at the top. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility. He lost control of the machine.
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