Midnight on the western front is a bitterly cold hour. The darkness is deeper than a well and the howling creeps like ea ghost through the canyons. In an old broadcasting booth on the outskirts of Murdo, South Dakota Georgiana Starlington came with her guitar on just such a night. Nary a light flickered through the clouds, but all in those parts said they saw the fiery trail of that comet. The semi drivers were blinded by the light. Truck engines were heard roaring through remote valleys.
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