Monday, August 13, 2012

The Probability Broach by L. Neil Smith

I did manage to stay off coffee, quite a feat in a line of work that revolves around a station-house urn. 

Unlicensed air conditioning was a stiffer rap than hoarding silver.

No phone book.  Just like back home.

I did a little people-watching.  Something was missing -- the barely concealed hostility and fear that haunted my city streets.  They carried their heads high, unafraid of the world around them.  It sent shivers down my spine.

"Slaves make license plates, and if you don't ... purchase? ... one, you become a slave yourself?  A convenient circularity for someone."

There aren't any real prisons in the Confederacy.  People who hurt others are expected to pay for it, literally.  The "law" only compels you to restore your victims to the state they'd be in had the crime never occurred. Insanity is no excuse.  The judge is only interested in how you're planning to make up for what you did.  Society never takes the rap, only individuals.

That first type, He hates weapons because he battles every minute of his life against the temptation to blow his own unhappy brains out.  The second type, He hates weapons because he's simply afraid he'll get what he deserves.

Always liked politics.  Just perverse, I guess.

Not letting one's real defensive capabilities be known is a principal cause of war.

L. Neil Smith



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