But that air was at its coldest—aphelion was the chilliest season everywhere on this chill and temperate world—and the mountains of that limb were lower. Currents of darkside air would begin to flow through the low passes into the relative warmth of the marsh country, and the ponderous wheel of air would roll again.

On the apron near the terminal, on the railinged roof of the terminal with the sightseers and relatives, behind glass.

The crew will pickle the fittings in the morning.

The kind of Scots we used was messy; it was going into all sorts of odd lexical corners and stirring these up with four-letter words. It was a kind of sharawaggi, an absolute mixture. This didn't go down well.