The tour guide spoke like this was the first time she’d ever uttered the words, “The soil coverings provided the crew with additional radiation protection. The domes, erected six months later…”
Parnell was sick of hearing about the two-hundredth anniversary of First Landing, but work brought him through the preserved, historical, centre of town. Behind the ancient domes, a sandy hill tactfully obscured downtown. The original crater rim had been bulldozed a century ago, but Parnell thought this was a fairly accurate recreation.
The windows flashed on both geodesic domes as a cloud passed overhead. Parnell continued to follow the tour group as it entered the primary airlock, gates locked full open. It was nearly as bright inside as out. Though the group stood in the low-ceilinged bunker the first fifty colonists had inhabited, light poured from the hallways leading to domes one and two.
The guide continued to ramble as Parnell casually looked around, searching for a particular face. After only a few moments he spotted his target. The man slouched near one of the dioramas, tiny space-suited figures hoisting the light weight tubes that formed the dome. Parnell had caught his target by surprise.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction.
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