By Philip K. Dick
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Extra resources for A Maze of Death (SF Masterworks 63)
They were. " the label declared. "Made from genuine Seville oranges (group 3-B mutational subdivision). " "Fine," Morley said. " He lugged the bulky paper bag from the building and out once more into the bright sun of midday. Back again at the noser parking area he began getting the pints of marmalade stored away in the Morbid Chicken. The one good thing this kibbutz produces, he said to himself as he placed the jars one by one within the magnetic grip-field of the storage compartment. I am afraid this is one thing I'll miss.
But he had grown tired of the taste; he had eaten too much. "The hell with it," he said, tossing his knife down. He felt irritable and he did not like Gossim; he felt no desire to continue the conversation. What mattered was the fact that no matter how he felt, Gossim could not revoke the transfer. It carried an override, and that was the long and the short of it . . to quote William S. Gilbert. "I hate your bloody guts," Gossim said. " "A Mexican standoff," Niemand said. "You see, Mr. " Making an obscene gesture toward Morley and Niemand Gossim strode off, parting the group gathered there, and disappeared somewhere on the far side.
Well, however many there were in There. Ten, maybe. Not much for a ship this size. And with such stringent rules. From the top drawer of his dresser he got out an unopened fifth of Peter Dawson scotch, broke the seal, unscrewed the lid. Little libation, he told himself as he poured scotch into a Dixie cup. And celebration. The gods appreciate ceremony. He drank the scotch, then refilled the small paper cup. To further enlarge the ceremony he got down – a bit reluctantly – his copy of The Book: A.