As a point of fact, you and I both know that the moon is tidally locked. As a result, we refer to the moon as having a light side, which is known to us, and a dark side, which is obscured. This, of course, has nothing to do with exposure to the sun, as both sides of the moon see sunlight; it is Earthlight that is in short supply.
Luckily, this has never fazed the inhabitants of the tiny lunar town of Crowell.
Home to those seeking solitude, simplicity, and independence, the kindly, yet rugged people of Crowell have maintained a way of life that is at once dated and modern; Spartan and artistic.
If, by chance, you make your way to Crowell, the most immediately noticeable feature will be the layout of the town. There are no soaring steeples, no elaborate architectural ostentations – the citizenry have no use for such things. The town, instead, more closely resembles a Shakespearean hamlet. No building is more than two stories, roofs are often thatched, and the people still draw wagons behind them as the primary method of moving goods.
Indeed, the people of Crowell have been where they are, nestled between two yawning cliff-faces on a cove bordering a long-dead lava sea, for generations beyond contemporary memory. Mr. Itzik, the town cobbler and de facto historian, only reports that the people of Crowell have been there since “the place was worth settling.” Conversation in these parts is primarily neutral and utilitarian in this fashion. Not to say that the town is unfriendly – only that the excessive and meandering conversation to be expected from a visitor can be seen as encouraging idleness to the locals. Few things are abhorred more than wasted time in Crowell.
But don’t let that put you off! There is much in Crowell that is beautiful and simple. To see the small hanging gardens, bordering on the town’s only wishing fountain, an opalescent spear-man glimmering with dew as the sun rises over the pale, illuminated peaks of the cliffs– it is no small beauty. The people of Crowell are clearly in love with their world around them, and fiercely proud of their place there. Though they are to be found at the edge of the trans-globular side (as residents will haughtily tell any tourist who mistakenly uses the phrase” the dark side”), they hold their heads up high, seemingly (or perhaps truly) ignorant of the stereotyping that surrounds their locale.
The people of Crowell are industrious, and have many fine wares to trade. Their craftsmanship is a marvel. I still wear the boots I purchased there, centuries ago. They’re a fantastic shade of mahogany with a suppleness that easily rivals many Earthbound or even Venusian leather works. The townsfolk obviously take great pride in their work, and every product they lovingly craft is designed to last.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t intend to suggest that Crowell is a place worth visiting for wares or vistas. No, despite their relatively Puritanical work ethic and functional outlook, the people of Crowell, if they were to be famous at all, should be famous for one thing – their women. Whether you find yourself at the Apollonian theatre on the outer mesa, in one of the several local taverns, or simply strolling through the countryside, it is always a genuine pleasure to see the stunning, glamorous faces that pass.
You know, it strikes me that these sorts of things often benefit from a personal touch, and I have a bit of an anecdote for you (Of course I include all the formalities on tape, see attached). If you find your way to the town’s fountain, as elsewhere, there is hardly a direction to face that doesn’t have some feminine beauty to appreciate. If you’re lucky, like I was, you might even have the good fortune to meet Liana. I first saw Liana there, chattering away happily as she collected water. She had flowing, radiant red-gold hair, and verdant eyes. But what was most attractive about Liana was her strong and independent spirit. She sounded so sure about whatever she happened to talk about. Her mannerisms were boyish, but her beauty and grace were feminine.
I approached the fountain and struck up a conversation with her. Though polite, I got the sense from her responses that she probably got this sort of thing a lot, and as I mentioned the people of Crowell don’t appreciate idle chit-chat. Undaunted, I tried to find footing through this subject and that, until we finally arrived at the subject of Earth. Much to my surprise, Liana was quite fascinated with Earth. She had a more positive image of the planet than Mr. Itzik, or any of the other townsfolk I had spoken to about the subject.
Having found a mutually satisfactory subject, we eventually gravitated to a tavern across the fountain square. There we indulged in a delicious concoction unique to Crowell – the unimaginatively named “The Usual.” A slightly luminescent aquamarine drink, I no longer recall how it was made, only that it tasted like golden raspberries and black cardamon. We had several of those throughout the evening, and really hit it off nicely.
Before parting ways for the night, Liana asked me to accompany her the next afternoon to somewhere she would only describe as “truly worth seeing.” I did not need to be inebriated to give her a resounding affirmative (though the inebriation definitely helped it resound).
Liana met me by the fountain the next day as promised. She led the way up, out of town, following a narrow path that seemed to wind almost vertically to top of the overlooking cliffs. We spent several hours climbing, and the path probably would have been grueling if the moon wasn’t at 1/6 of g. But by good fortune that is precisely lunar gravity, and we took a leisurely hike among the rocky forms and outcroppings, joking all along the way. Truth be told, I scarcely remember how all that time passed along the cliffs of Crowell. Mostly, I just remember that Liana was beautiful, and for the moment, she was with me.
Finally, as the sun set into the far-off blackened sea, we reached our destination. It seemed to be a natural amphitheater – a crater with flat boulders distributed in the middle as a semi-circle. The crater’s edge was steep, and I descended cautiously, though Liana began to hurry me, as if a countdown had commenced and the end was approaching. Not wanting to be late, I sat on what seemed to me a particularly nice stone overlooking more lunar landscape. It was a beautiful, if a bit repetitive, scene. I tried to tell Liana so, but she only hushed me and asked me to wait quietly. Wondering what she was up to, I sat as minutes passed; growing tense with the expectation that something should happen. Then, in the darkness of the now emerging night, there it was. A tiny blue sliver began peaking over the horizon. Liana smiled.
Now the rest of that trip is probably less relevant to our purpose, and I think I have made my point clear. Surely, when considered in light of the recent amendments to Article 13-A, iii. Crowell constitutes a protected community since it conforms to the definition of ‘menagerie’ as put forth by the Telor scribes. Furthermore, I can say in good faith that the spirit of the law is preserved, for though the people of Crowell are simple and surely below our own standards, they are also industrious and in many ways virtuous. My personal experiences and emotional responses, outlined here and submitted in toto via empathic drive (see attached), are genuine and attest to this. It is my belief that were the town of Crowell allowed to stand (though of course quarantined) instead of rectified, it would be for the betterment of the Empire.
P.S. I look forward to seeing you at bocce when we meet on Imperator’s Mask.
-R.O.