broadcast. Nor does life broadcast to this day. This I assumed: tornadoes, strewing the poisonous blue-white frost of ice-nine everywhere, tore everyone and everything above ground to pieces. Anything that still lived would die soon enough of thirst—or hunger—or rage—or apathy. I turned to The Books of Bokonon, still sufficiently unfamiliar with them to believe that they contained spiritual comfort somewhere. I passed quickly over the warning on the title page of The First Book: “Don’t be a fool! Close this book at once! It is nothing but foma!” Foma, of course, are lies. And then I read this:
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