_Consider the poor mailman of the future. To "sleet and snow and dead of night"--things that must not keep him from his appointed rounds--will be added, sub-zero void, meteors, and planets that won't stay put. Maybe he'll decide that for six cents an ounce it just ain't worth it._ "I'm washed up," Preston growled bitterly. "They made a postman out of me. Me--a postman!"…
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