the smuggler’s bible


Clawbertron picks a spot with a crater density somewhat lower than the lunar average and piles loose rocks to form a boundary containing a little over four thousand square meters of dust. Then he straightens himself out and rolls back and forth in an effort to flatten things down a little bit.

“It won’t work”

“We’ve never tried.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

They managed it somehow, and they’re primates.”

“When humans invented lawns they had certain other advantages to compensate.”

Clawbertron rattles his components furiously. “If a ROBOT on the MOON can’t even manage one green acre,” he hisses, “what’s the point?”