Copyright 2010 by David Dvorkin
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Holroyd watched in horror, unable to tear his eyes from the screen.
At first glance, the tiny figure struggling in the center of the
screen might have been a fly caught upon some reddish–white,
glowing, slightly flickering surface. Then the camera zoomed in and
the figure resolved into a man, squirming desperately on the
frictionless, bowl–shaped surface of the force screen that
suspended him above the hellfire of the magma.
The image of Martinson expanded still more, and at the same time he
looked up at the camera suspended above him, so that his face
suddenly filled the screen. His eyes were wide, bulging, his face
glistened with sweat. His lips moved, but whether with curses or
pleas or recantations, Holroyd could not tell.