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The Passengerby Paul McAuley Before becoming a full-time writer, Paul McAuley worked as a researcher in biology in various universities, including Oxford and UCLA, and was a lecturer at St Andrews University. His novels and short stories have won the Philip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke, John W. Campbell, Sidewise, and British Fantasy Society Awards. His latest books areThe Secret of Life andWhole Wide World . He lives in North London. [Back to Table of Contents] The sky was full of ships. Sturdy little scows that were mostly motor; lumpy intrasystem shuttles, the workhorses of space; the truncated cones of surface-to-orbit gigs; freighters that, stripped of their cargo pods, looked like the unclad skeletons of skyscrapers; even an elegant clipper, a golden arc like the crescent moon of a fairy-tale illustration. More than a hundred ships spread in a rough sphere a thousand kilometers in diameter, in the Lagrangian point sixty degrees of arc ahead of Dione. All of them hulks. Combat wreckage. Spoils of war waiting to be rendered into useful components, rare metals, and scrap. From the viewports of the battered hab-modules of the wrecking gangs, hung in the midst of this junkyard Sargasso, four or five ships were always visible, framed at various angles against starry space. Only a few showed
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