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"I don't work for Seabed Safaris," Joel says, as politely as possible. They've been cruising just off the southeastern shoulder of the rift, floodlights doused; sonar shows a featureless landscape of mud and boulders.
"I freelance." The whitecap probably doesn't know any better, comes from a generation when everyone pledged allegiance to the same master year after year. The rift itself is another five or ten minutes away.
It’s as if the mortal remains of Millard Fillmore and James Buchanan have come from the grave to eat the brains of Debbie Wasserman Schultz and Reince Priebus.
The rectified essence of every zombie fantasy churned out of Hollywood seeps through the capillaries of the dying political establishment, as it stews and ferments and waits to be loaded on the garbage barge of history.
That will precede a more general splintering to come of the republic, first by demographics, then by territory.
The most exceptional thing about the US has been the rapidity of its rise and now fall in the roll-call of empires.
Speaking of turns, isn’t it Delaware’s turn for a president?The others are plugged into headsets, running a program carefully designed to occupy them through the descent without being so impressive that the actual destination is an anticlimax. Simulations are almost always better than real life, and real life gets blamed for the poor showing.Joel wishes this particular program was a bit better at holding the cargo's interest; they might shut up if they were paying more attention.Wishful Thinking, Technology, and the Fate of the Nation The nationally best-selling author of "The Long Emergency" expands on his alarming argument that our oil-addicted, technology-dependent society is on the brink of collapse—that the long emergency has already begun. Sunlight hasn't touched these waters for a million years. It can't have been an easy birth, judging by the life that remainsmonstrous things, twisted into nightmare shapes by lightless pressure and sheer chronic starvation. He relies on those sounds; the readouts only confirm what the beast has already told him by the grumbling of its stomach. The tour guide, a mid-twenties Hindian with a zebra cut Preteela someone flashes him a brief, rueful smile. She can't compete with the onboard library, she doesn't come with 3-d animations or wraparound soundtrack. These people pay her salary not because she does anything useful, but because she doesn't.