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your not alone, Tally. Don't pretend you are
Scott Westerfeld
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Scott Westerfeld
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 5
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Dallas
Texas
Scott David Westerfeld
Tally
Pretend
Alone
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The world rests upon a turtle, which itself stands on the back of an elephant!” Alek tried not to laugh. “Then what does the elephant stand on, madam?” “Don’t try to be clever, young man.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s elephants all the way down!
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The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit. Of course, Tally thought, you’d have to feed your cat only salmon-flavored cat food for a while, to get the pinks right.
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And it was pretty clear that no prince was showing up, or at least that he was really late.
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I expect that you must receive top marks at school, young lady. Madeleine smiled as she stirred her tea. There are always rewards for those who state the obvious frequently and with conviction.
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Suddenly a pair of searchlights lanced out from the frigate. They swept across the dark expanse - bright knives slicing the night into pieces.
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So what are those balloons for? In case you fall off your hoverboard?' -- Tally to Peris
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She couldn't disappoint the whole village. There were no wallscreens here, no newsfeeds or satellites bands, and touring soccer teams were no doubt few and far between. (...), that made stories a valuable commodity, and it probably wasn't very often that a stranger dropped in from the sky.
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He turned to face her again, his late-pretty composure crumbling. But you're... Pretty? Think again. She smiled. I'm Tally Youngbood. My mind is very ugly. And I'm taking your car.
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I wouldn't say design has become strictly functional. A lot of cars these days look downright comic book to me, and the info-gadgets with which late industrial people spend the most time - phones, music players, etc. - are blobjects.
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He squeezed her hand. Then I'll come get you, wherever you are when it happens. We'll be okay. But what about everybody else? He stared out across the river, nodding slowly. My guess is, everybody else is in big trouble.
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Money's the same, whoever gives it to you. That was the point of money, after all: crisp and clean or wrinkled or disintegrated into quarters - a dollar was always worth a hundred cents.
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Surely no one would ever use such a weapon against a city. There are no limits in war, Volger said, still staring out the window.
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She wasn't here to gawk. She was an infiltrator, a sneak, an ugly. And she had a mission.
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Okay... That's still blind-making.
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