By Poul Anderson
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Additional resources for A Circus of Hells
That means in winter the icecup grows down to 45 degrees latitude! The glaciers grind everything flat. The far southlands were a baked desolation, scoured by hurricanes. Quite probably, at midsummer lakes and rivers there didn't simply dry up, they boiled; and the equatorial ocean became a biological fence. It would be intriguing to know how evolution had diverged in the two hemispheres. Beyond the sterile tropics, life not long ago had been outrageously abundant, jungle choking the central zone, the arctic abloom with low-growing plants.
Its limited computer—an artificial brain moronic and monomaniacal—could reach no decision as to what he was and what to do about him. He crossed the line. The robot settled to the ground. Flandry rose and tottered toward Djana. She had collapsed several meters away. He joined her. Murk spun down upon him. It lifted in minutes, after his air unit purified the atmosphere in his suit and his stimulated cells drank the oxygen. He sat up. The machine that had chased them was retreating to the middle of the adjacent square, another gleam against the dark plain, under the dark sky.
There was none. The killers ignored them. Nor did they pay attention to each other. While not totally unexpected, the relief sent Flandry's mind whirling. When he had recovered, he saw that the machines were converging on a point. Nothing appeared above the horizon; their goal was too distant. He knew what it was, though—the central complex of buildings. Djana began to laugh, wilder and wilder. Flandry didn't think they could afford hysteria. He hauled her to her feet. " When words didn't work, he took her by her ankles, held her upside down, and made his threat good.