Notes from the Decline of America.
"If you can't bash your own who can you bash?"
Propaganda as an art form.
The Shadow speaks. The whole is different than the sum of its parts. Things fall apart on their own.
Webster sat at the desk and held his hands in front of him, staring at them. Hands that had skill, held knowledge. Hands that could save a life if he could get them to Mars. Hands that could save for the solar system, for mankind, for the Martians an idea-a new idea-that would advance them a hundred thousand years in the next two generations.
But hands chained by a phobia that grew out of this quiet life. Decadence-a strangely beautiful-and deadly-decadence.
