Explore "Tubemonkey" by Jerome Bixby on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Radiations had shorted his brilliant pilot's / brain, left him an aimless, childish hulk. Yet / Rhiannon had his moments -- when he needed them.
Echoed by the sloping, sun-drenched concrete walls, booming above the high, bony clatter of monorail cranes, shaming the entire fuming, metallic hubbub of Boat Bed 52, the sound might have been the cavernous indignation of some giant beast being dragged zoo-ward from a Bio-Institute boat. It was, however, a voice, singing: