This brought them down to the river. “I see you,” came a woman’s voice from below. Voting made them want to storm a government office with flaming torches. Chris Butler, “Have Guitar, Will Travel,” The Immersion Book of SF.
The hyenas watched and waited expectantly. The control tower was deserted. Out on the observation deck, he watched the lightning strobe from horizon to horizon, picking out the distant sentinels of other rigs, stark and white like thunderstruck trees on a flat black plain. Then a big-shouldered swimmer rattles the locked door.
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