Explore "The 13th Immortal" by Robert Silverberg on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Half an hour before the neat fabric of his life was to be shattered forever, Dale Kesley was thinking desperately, _This will be a good day for the planting._
He stood at the end of a freshly-turned furrow, one brown hand gripping the sharebeam, the other patting the scaly gray flank of his mutant plough-horse. The animal neighed, a long croaking wheeze of a sound. Kesley looked down at the fertile soil of the furrow.