“There wasn’t much to coo at when driving along a post-apocalyptic motorway. A stalled vehicle here, a mini pile-up there.”

“This flu thing’s out of control,” Grady said, pointing his fork at the TV. “There’s talk of them doing quarantines.”“Quarantines?”“Yeah, like going into towns where infection rates are high and locking the place down. That sort of thing.”Ciaran laughed. “You watch too much sci-fi, mate…”

“Wasn’t ‘Ms.’ an honorific for females back in pre-rubicon days?” asked Frome. “Some sort of honorary degree for not getting married or something?”

“More climbers die during the descent than on the way up.”Karakaredes seems to be considering this. After a minute he says, “Yes, but here on the summit, there must be some ritual . . .”“Hero photos,” gasps Paul. “Gotta . . . have . . . hero photos.”Our alien nods. “Did . . . anyone . . . bring an imaging device? A camera? I did not.”

“We know too much, and what might have been excused in other times can no longer stand up to reason. ... with that understanding comes moral responsibility.”

“Rage.Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus’ son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaeans so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death. And while you’re at it, Muse, sing of the rage of the gods themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their new Olympos, and of the rage of the post-humans, dead and gone though they might be, and of the rage of those few true humans left, self-absorbed and useless though they have become. While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of the rage of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but not-so-close-to-human beings out there dreaming under the ice of Europa, dying in the sulfur ash of Io, and being born in the cold folds of Ganymede. Oh, and sing of me, O Muse, poor born-against-his-will Hockenberry, dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., Hockenbush to his friends, to friends long since turned to dust on a world long since left behind. Sing of my rage, yes, of my rage, O Muse, small and insignificant though that rage might be when measured against the anger of the immortal gods, or when compared to the wrath of the god-killer Achilles. On second though, O Muse, sing nothing of me. I know you. I have been bound and servant to you, O Muse, you incomparable bitch. And I do not trust you, O Muse. Not one little bit.”

“It is safe to assume that any individual or group you wish to influence has access to more wisdom than they currently use. It is also safe to assume that they also have considerably more facts than they can process effectively. Giving them even more facts adds to the wrong pile. They don't need more facts. They need help finding their wisdom. Contrary to popular belief, bad decisions are rarely made because people don't have all the facts.”