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Masquerade Clifford D. Simak Copyright 1941 Old Creepy was down in the control room, sawing lustily on his screeching fiddle. On the sun-blasted plains outside the Mercutian Power Centre, the Roman Candles, snatching their shapes from Creepy's mind, had assumed the form of Terrestrial hill-billies and were cavorting through the measure of a square dance. In the kitchen, Rastus rolled two cubes about the table, crooning to them, feeling lonesome because no one would shoot a game of craps with him. Inside the refrigeration room, Mathilde, the cat, stared angrily at the slabs of frozen beef above her head, felt the cold of the place and meowed softly, cursing herself for never being able to resist the temptation of sneaking in when Rastus wasn't looking. Up in the office, at the peak of the great photocell that was the centre, Curt Craig stared angrily across the desk at Norman Page. One hundred miles away, Knut Anderson, encased in a cumbersome photocell spacesuit, stared incredulously at what he saw inside the space warp. The communications bank snarled warningly and Craig swung about in his chair, lifted the handset off the cradle and snapped recognition into the mouthpiece. "This is Knut, chief," said a voice, badly blurred by radiations. "Yes," yelled Craig. "What did you |
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