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The snow falls thickly, both in volume and individual character--each nascent flake, fuzzy, lopsided, living, like fantastical larvae, animated by some homing sense to clamber atop each other until the whole dome darkens with uniform snowbright. It is no later than 0700, by Galactic Standard Time, and Elijah Baley, as is increasingly the fashion for aging diplomats and resistant heroes, has nothing in particular to do.