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This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

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We Don’t Plummet Out of the Sky Anymore

Stan wanted a flying car. No, that wasn’t quite an accurate assessment. Stan wanted a nice flying car. He still had his old Sewell Cormorant, which was a perfectly respectable vehicle for an actuary with no aspiration toward inter-personal advancement or societal bliss. Of those qualifications, Stan regretfully acknowledged “actuary” as applicable, but only just so.

The gaudy three-color brochure in his hands promised more. Much more. Quantities of bliss awaited those fortunate enough to obtain a customized Bertolait Shearwater, and Stan desired bliss.

“Oh, hello Stan,” said Bliss as he entered the apartment next to hers. “No trouble with the car today?”

“No, thankfully,” answered Stan. The Cormorant’s internal difficulties were the sort that any matron would proudly discuss with all the surgical particulars, were they her own. Stan wished only that the contraption would silence itself long enough to pull away from the rooming house each morning, rather than announcing its discomfort to all and sundry as it lurched and hiccoughed into an airborne personification of rickets, constipation and the gout.

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