Eight o-clock in the seed chute came and went with the rapidity of a switchblade knife. The bald Kelson sat in his creaking reed chair, counting, weighing, and measuring seeds that passed the examiners. Eruptions crackled along the serrated skyline; the fume of hair fuel in the trinket population outspent the heavenly bodies in their many-laned courses. Breakfast came to the Kelson three times upside-down because of the anomaly: see the oven tapestry record.
To the chugging sound the examiner stations swelled, and he lanced them to prevent overthrow, unaccounted ejection through the doors magnificent and pillared. Dragging grooves traced a mesh over his coal mane evermore, till through darkness of polished red glass shapes the time struck the full nine.