![]() We’ve cut steps into the cliff, one of the first things we did after erecting our shelters, more than five years ago now. There are no trams yet, nor any need for them, but the tracks are part of our sustainability planning for the new city, installed right from the start. Dufa and Unn are just-visible glows on the horizon, out across the water. The tramlines glint in the light of Kolga, largest of our nine moons, which hangs, potato-shaped and cratered, above my head. ![]() I step carefully down the metal staircase on the outside of our basic shared building, the one that still houses eight families of settlers, each of us in a little collection of interconnecting rooms, and onto the footpath below. ![]() My wife knows I’ve been doing this for months, but we never speak of it the children wouldn’t understand. ![]() In the blue-tinted nights, I pull on my heavy boots and my warm coat, loop the bag of emergency supplies over my shoulders, and walk down to the shore. ![]()
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