By Alfred Bester
Gully Foyle, Mechanic's Mate third type, is the one survivor on his drifting, wrecked spaceship. whilst one other area vessel, the Vorga, ignores his misery flares and sails through, Foyle turns into a guy enthusiastic about revenge. He endures one hundred seventy days by myself in deep area prior to discovering shelter at the Sargasso Asteroid after which returning to Earth to trace down the group and proprietors of the Vorga. yet, as he works out his murderous grudge, Foyle additionally uncovers a mystery of momentous proportions. Read more...
summary: Gully Foyle, Mechanic's Mate third type, is the single survivor on his drifting, wrecked spaceship. whilst one other area vessel, the Vorga, ignores his misery flares and sails via, Foyle turns into a guy enthusiastic about revenge. He endures one hundred seventy days on my own in deep house sooner than discovering safe haven at the Sargasso Asteroid after which returning to Earth to trace down the group and proprietors of the Vorga. yet, as he works out his murderous grudge, Foyle additionally uncovers a mystery of momentous proportions
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Extra info for The stars my destination
I simply said he was right. He’s an officer, responsible for his men, and he daren’t risk their lives so recklessly. I’ve been wishing for a horse, miss, but I’ll not lie to you: we’ve small chance. If your father is not dead I think that he soon will be, and by going out yonder I might ride right amongst them. ” “No, I’ll go. I’m a horseman. ” Only two men were on guard, and both at the front of the train. They had orders to walk down the sides and back, but it was no trick to open the car after they’d passed, for the groom had already done so twice, and Cris eased the ramp to the ground, then led one of the beasts down.
Where then would they go, if robbery was the idea? And what was more to the point, where were they now? He was sorry he had thought of that, for they must be somewhere near, and that meant a camp, a base of operations, a place to wait until the train came. When he went to the wounded man again, his eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. Cris stood beside the bed and after a minute he said, “I’ll fix some broth. ” The man’s eyes turned, and there was fear in them. “I am Cris Mayo,” Cris said.
He took off his black coat. It was growing shabby. He combed his hair in front of a piece of broken mirror. His hair looked black when wet down, but was actually a very dark red, something you couldn’t see unless it caught the sun. He wore a candy-striped shirt and sleeve garters. His arms bulged with muscle, the kind they could use out there, laying track. He wiped the dust off his heavy brogans and tried to brush his pants clean. Then he looked out the doors and windows again. It was very hot, and very still.
The stars my destination by Alfred Bester