“You haven’t recovered from the breakdown of your marriage. You never will. You’re constantly waiting for a promotion to the Craftman’s Deck. It will come, two and a half years from now, but the work will be hard and the pay won’t be much better and even though you’ll regret taking the position, you will remain in it due to your, frankly, excessive pride. You will die thirty years, seven months, four days, and ten hours from now in a—” “Please don’t,” I said. “—decompression accident aboard a voidskipper bound for Ithaca. As your lungs explode and your blood boils you will think very quickly
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