FANTASY MAGAZINE PDF
Fantasy Magazine. Issue 3. Table of Contents. Manuel and the Magic Fox by Ekaterina Sedia (fiction). Black Eyed Moon by Darby Harn (fiction). Salt Wine by. Fantasy Magazine. Issue 2. Table of Contents. Sparking Anger by Margaret Ronald (fiction). Ragazzo by Bruce McAllister (fiction). Lessons With Miss Gray by . A large archive of magazines from Fantasy true PDF, download and read magazines online.
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Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction cover gallery and pdf archive. SPECIAL STUDENT RATE If you're now attending high school or college we'll be happy to enter your subscription to The Magazine of FANTASY AND SCIENCE. Lightspeed Magazine / Fantasy Magazine Reader. Survey. 1. Gender. Response. Percent. Response. Count. Male. %. Female. %.
Cheers, Gavin. What formats are available for download? Asimov use to write a column based on science that was beyond superb. They also ran a contest once which had to be based on puns.
The winner wrote a science fiction story with a pun on the Lone Ranger. It was really good. So if anyone knows where I might find these, please post here. Rob Chilson. Harry Turtledove. Mark Bourne. Fritz Leiber. Harlan Ellison. Brian Stableford. Jeff Bredenberg. Steve Perry. Kelley Eskridge. Kij Johnson. David Brin. Ray Bradbury. Frederik Pohl. Robert Silverberg. Richard Bowes.
Theodore Sturgeon. Isaac Asimov. Urs Frei. Mary A. Bridget McKenna. Kristine Kathryn Rusch. How do series work? Helpers PortiaLong , Ross.
Top bar: Links Wikipedia Publisher website Series description Began publication in fall We might learn to correct mental disorders or cure the Ultras. Mankind might learn to develop greater intelligence gener- aUy. Consider that you face a possible turn to evil by the government if you help us, but you risk the certain and declared evil purpose of the Ultras if you don't. And yet I have a favor to ask of you. I have a niece who is, I believe, quite fond of me.
She is constantly upset over the fact that I steadfastly refuse to in- dulge in the lunacy of travel. Urth, if you help us find the Device and if it can be made to work, then I as- sure you that we will be glad to help you free yourself of your pho- bia against travel and make it pos- sible for you to go with your niece anywhere you wish. For a moment, he looked wildly about as though he were already trapped.
If I help you; if you retrieve the Device and learn its use; if the fact of my help be- comes public; then my niece will be on the government like a fury. She is a terribly headstrong and shrill-voiced woman who will raise public subscriptions and organize demonstrations.
She will stop at nothing. And yet you must not give in to her.
You must notl You must resist all pressures. I wish to be left 28 alone exactly as I am now. That is my absolute and minimum fee. What do they mean? Your interpreta- tions are as good as any I suppose. What was this maun- dering about a fee, then? But I know what this message means. Its meaning is trans- parent. I suspected it half way through your story.
And I was sure of it once I read the reconstruction of the conversations between Strauss and Jennings. You would understand it yourself, gentlemen, if you would only stop to think. I said I know what the message means.
Why is it so hard for you to understand, when you yourself stand on the brink? Well, all right. If you accept the quar- tered circle and the arrow as di- recting you to me, that leaves seven items. If these indeed refer to seven craters, six of them, at least, must be designed merely to distract, since the Device surely cannot be in more than one place.
It con- tained no movable or detachable parts — it was all one piece. SU might, by your interpretation, mean any place on the other side of the Moon, which is an area the size of South America. Even if one of them had meaning, it could not be se- lected from among the others so that it is only sensible to suppose that all the items are merely red herrings. The answer to that can only be that it is a message; that it is a clue to a hiding place. You have acted as though it were the crucial clue.
Jennings himself referred to the Device as a key or a clue. He was a mathemati- cian and astronomer of note and helped Pope Gregory XIII reform the calendar in , performing all the enormous calculations re- quired. This astronomer admired Copernicus but he did not accept the heliocentric view of the Solar system. He clung to the older be- lief that the Earth was the center of the Universe. He named the craters after astonomers of the past and since he, too, rejected Copernicus, he se- lected the largest and most specta- cular craters for those who placed the Earth at the center of the Uni- verse — for Ptolemy, Hipparchus, Alfonso X, Tycho Brahe.
The big- gest crater Riccioh could find he reserved for his German Jesuit pre- decessor. Ric- cioh ignored it, and it was named for an astronomer who hved a cen- 30 tury after his time and who was guillotined during the French Rev- olution.
Isn't it the crucial clue?
Klau — clue? Davenport said, anxiously, "Dr. There is no feature on the Moon named Klau as far as I know. At this period of history, the last half of the sixteenth century, Euro- pean scholars were Latinizing their names. Klau did so. Klau — clue, Clavius — clavis — key.
In his whole life, Jennings could never have made a double, bilingual pun without the Device. Now he could, and I wonder if death might not have been almost triumphant under the circum- stances. And he directed you to me because he knew I would remem- ber his penchant for puns and be- cause he knew I loved them too.
Urth said solemnly, I would suggest you search the shaded rim of Clavius, at that point where the Earth is nearest the zenith.
Davenport lin- gered behind. But even if I am wrong, I suspect it doesn't matter. For if the Ultras find the Device, they will probably be unable to use it. He was a student of mine a year or so after Jennings.
I remember him well. Very cold. It is the hallmark of the Ultras, I think. They are all very cold, very rigid, very sure of themselves.
What emotions they possess are icy ones, self-absorbed ones, feelings incapable of span- ning the distance between two hu- man beings. He lacked the emotional intensity, or the type of necessary emotion.
Realms of Fantasy magazine website now has PDF of current ish
I imagine all Ultras would. Jennings, who was not an Ultra, could manipulate it. Anyone who could use the Device would, I suspect, be incapable of deliberate cold-blooded cruelty. He might strike out of panic fear as Jennings struck at Strauss, but never out of calculation, as Strauss tried to strike at Jennings. After all, you may have to face my niece.
This offer is good through November 15, Remittance must accompany all orders. Here, he offers an obstructed profile of Isaac Asimov, which con- centrates on the small things e, g,, Isaac and the Army rifle and manages very nicely to give us a full picture of the man. Campbell, I met a slim, good-looking stripling of medium height, with blue eyes, dark-brown hair, and a downy mus- tache.
This, Campbell told me, was one of his newest writers, Isaac Asimov. Since I was some years older than he and had been writing pro- fessionally for all of two years long- er, it seemed like a case of old pro to eager novice. That distinction vatiished in a few months, as Isaac got the writing bit in his teeth and ran away with it.
He soon pulled ahead of me in total sales, and I have been panting in his wake ever since. The next time I saw Isaac was at a fan meeting in New York. Called upon to introduce himself, he said: At last he became so famous, both as a science-fictioneer and as a non-fiction popularizer of science, that it sounded silly, like Sir Edmund Hilary apologizing for being such a feeble mountain climber.
Anyway, as the years passed, my wife Catherine and I came to know Isaac better, and the better we knew him the more he became one of our very favorite people.
He financed his higher education by professional writing. And here was Isaac, writing part- time. The mustache disappeared when he got married 1 have always thought it a pity and the Hitler- ian War gathered us up. There we worked for three and a half years, fighting the Axis with slide rule and requisition forms in quintuplicate. We did test and de- velopment engineering on naval aircraft parts, accessories, and ma- terials.
After the war, I hung up my uni- form while Isaac put his on. The Army kept him for a year. Some might not pick Isaac as a natural soldier, and certainly he would not claim he was cut out for that ca- reer. But, like Edgar Allan Poe under similar circumstances, he did all right. He made corporal by the time he got out. He went back to Columbia, got his Ph. Ever since, he has lived in a 33 suburb of Boston with his wife Ger- trude and two attractive children.
For the last decade, he has been turning out big, solid scientific popularizations and reference books, in addition to his stories, so fast that I have abandoned trying to keep up with them.
If I read them all, I should have no time left to write anything myself. That is a terrible thing to have one of one's favorite writers do to one. Note that, while Isaac is one of the mer- riest of men in private life, his sto- ries have usually been serious in tone.
Writers of funny stories, on the contrary, are often pretty solemn squares in private life. Naturally, Catherine and I have come to know Isaac pretty well. For instance, we claim the credit or blame for introducing him to the demon rum.
About , in our apartment in New York, we gave him his first drink. It was just a teensy drink, but he turned a funny purple color, with spots, and com- plained of feeling strange.
After he left us, he rode the subway back and forth until he felt normal enough to go home. It wasn't inebriety but some allergy that got him. So, wise man, he swore off the sauce and has stayed off it ever since. I will not fill pages with what a lovable fellow Isaac is. Of course he is, and everybody who knows him knows it. To tell you how much the de Camps love Isaac is merely to lose ourselves in a vast throng, I will, instead, tell about some of his less obvious qualities.
For one thing, he has character of a very definite kind. Some peo- ple may be described as human mollusks, with a hard shell of self- confidence and self-assertion, in- side of which they are mush. Isaac is the opposite. Because he clowns and jokes, and because he is so sym- pathetic and generous, he gives the impression that he is a pushover for anybody who wants to sway him or to take advantage of him.
Some people have indeed taken advantage of him. Inside this soft exterior, how- ever, is a hard core of character. When he decides that something is not for him, neither wheedling nor bribery nor threats will induce him to partake of it.
Let me give a couple of exam- ples. In his youth, he was never one to get into fights. If he never exactly turned the other cheek, he could usually joke his way out of a confrontation. Nor was he ever much for sports, although he had powerful muscles. The tormenter hit Isaac here, there, and every- where, but he might as well have punched the statue of General Sher- man in Central Park.
Well, Commander Fuller was wont to make life hard for the civilian employees in his laborato- ries, especially those of Jewish origin. He decided to treat Isaac in what I suppose he thought was a friendly manner, loudly crying: So he cut down on his calo- ries, and the next time I saw him he was thirty pounds lighter. He stuck to the new weight, too. He has a will of steel when he chooses to employ it. Of course, tliis trait has its awkward points. Since everybody except the Commander Fullers of this world loves Isaac, everybody wants to bring him up and improve him.
That means, they want him to do things the way they like to do them, which may or may not be the way Isaac likes. I fear that people who under- take thus to change Isaac are trying to bail out the ocean. They would get further if they put the effort in perfecting themselves. This is sheer intelligence. When he is faced with a predicament — whether in writing or in lifesmanship — he may clown and holler and emote a bit, but in the end he sits down and thinks his way through.
Take, for example, Isaac and the Army rifle. Since Isaac grew up where law-abiding people did not own guns, he never got on familiar terms with guns. I once undertook to teach him to shoot a pistol. It was a little hke trying to teach a man who dislikes snakes how to catch a live rattlesnake with the bare hand.
However, came the Army. Isaac had known little more about a rifle than the fact that the bullet comes out the small end. He was given a Garand M-1, instructed in its use, and told to go out on the range, lie down, and shoot at a target. Al- though it was snowing, and Isaac wears glasses, he made sharpshoot- er.
He simply listened to what he was told and applied these instruc- tions intelligently. So, if I were about to be shot off to the third planet of Alpha Cen- tauri and were given a choice of companions, I think I should pick Isaac. But I should know that, when things get tough, Isaac could think our way out if anybody could.
But, how shall I ever get him to Alpha Centauri when it is almost impossible to drag him from Boston to Philadelphia?
Fantasy & Science Fiction v014n03 (1958 03) (PDF)
Astonishing, April Liar! Universe, May The Foundation of S. Quarterly, Nov. Walker end W. Walker and M. Dobzhansky NOTE: This bibliography does not pretend to be complete. It does not in- clude the shorter non-fiction pieces written for newspapers, refer- ence works or for magazines other than science fiction.
Nor does it make any attempt to indicate reprints, anthologizadons, or foreign translations. However, we do have a limited supply of the Ray Bradbury issue, which featured two original stories by Bradbury, a bibliog- raphy, a cover by Joe Mugniani, and a profile by William F. Asimov a completely free hand in both subject and treatment, operating under the sound notion that Dr. Asimov is the possessor of an uncommon wealth of information and ideas and, more impoiiant, the ability to communicate both successfully.
For this special issue, we did press Isaac Asimov to write about himself and his writing; and he has happily obliged, with the same warmth and vigor which distinguish his science articles. Some items, however, plunge me into frustration, for while 1 am anx- ious to accommodate those who take the trouble to write me, such ac- commodation is sometimes impossible.
There is the case of the youngs ster, for instance, who writes that he is engaged in a science project on the Solar system, so would I please send him a copy of everything I have ever written on the Solar system plus any other material I might have. Invariably, this letter concludes with a hasty P.
It's a slow week in the school term when several letters like that don't arrive. My frustration grows worse when accommodation is not actually im- possible, but merely demands more of my industry than I am willing to give.
Well, of me, for those of you who don't recognize me by that description. What got you inter- ested in writing? What writers most influence you? What are your favor- ite stories? What do you consider the importance of science-fiction to society? I have to write each eager young scholar that I cannot answer such letters in proper detail because if I did there would be no time left to do any other writing and future eager young scholars would suffer a dearth of new material to work with.
What got you started writing. The answer to that, Fm afraid, must be lost in the dim mists of antiq- uity. At the time I was an avid science fiction reader as a result of events I will describe later. I lacked money to purchase any. My friends had few copies they were willing to lend me, particularly since if my father found them in my possession, he would confiscate them. My father had high stand- ards of literature. Consequently, only two or three such books ever passed under my avid eyes and I read them and re-read them in secret with dogged persistence.
And then, one golden day, it occurred to me that I could repair tiic dreadful lack of reading matter, by writing my own books. I was always constructing stories, so why not bend that construction into a specific imitation of a series book, and place it down on paper? Only time. The setting was a small-town college, and I leave it to you to estimate how much knowledge an eleven-year-old product of the Brooklyn slums could have of either small towns or colleges, but no one had yet told me that I should write only of that which I knew.
For that matter, I never did succeed in learning that elementary rule of writer s conduct, so that eventually I wrote long novels dealing with the far reaches of the Galaxy, even though I have no direct experience with those regions either.
With the chapter and a half done, I felt in a curiously exalted state. I found myself caught in my first attack of that serious disease I call Writers' Folly — the most severe symptom of which is an irrepressible desire to tell someone all about the great novel you're writing. I buttonholed the first ninth-grade friend I met the next day during the lunch period. Slowly, his expression gained interest as I spoke, reaching a pitch of almost painful concentration by the time I came to where I had suspended operations and had to stop.
He gripped my arm hard. T get the book first after you're finished reading it, okay? Don't lend it to anyone else! He had clearly not heard me say this was a book I was writing. He thought I was reading an already written book; a professionally-written book; and he found it so exciting he wanted to borrow it. At that very moment, I realized that I was a writer. I had, after all, interested a potential reader and I recognized the need for no other qual- ification.
The only trouble was that in those days a typewriter fell into the same class with mink coats and yachts; we couldn't afiFord one. How long my father scrounged about, and how many leads he fol- lowed down, I don't know, but he eventually came upon an ancient upright Underwood No.
That wasn't all he did for me, either.
He went a giant step farther by insisting on the proper use of the machine. He came upon me a few days later, operating the typewriter. Having gazed at me with paternal fond- ness for a moment, he happened to note that I was hunting down letter after letter and then striking the necessary keys with one stifiF forefinger.
He said, T see people doing the typewriter with all the fingers like a piano. I catch you once more doing with one finger — I take away die typewriter. I found a young lady who knew how to type and got her to tell me whidi filnger went with which key. Then, since I typed several hours each day, I soon got the hang of it. My typing became first legible and then speedy.
Eventually, I could crank a hand-typewriter at 70 words a minute and now that I have an electric typewriter I recendy timed byself at 90 words a minute. I never forgot the lesson, either.
My son, having inherited the gene for typing, has, from early childhood, been interested in my machine. Naturally, he wasn't allowed to touch it, but when he was twelve I gave him one for himself and, trying to imitate my father's lofty Talmudic tone I lack the natural dignity of a European patriarch , told him I would take it away if he hunted-and-pecked and I showed him where to put his fingers.
Now he can type, too. Yes, yes, Dr. Ah, yes. My father owned a candy store in my youthful days and to that candy store was attached a newsstand and a magazine rack. The magazine rack was filled with the most delectable fiction you could pos- sibly imagine: Yet all of it, from beginning to end, was forbidden by parental ukase. Well, the library was better than nothing, and I worked my way through it with my eye-glasses glinting feverishly.
And yet — my eye- glasses also bent with unflagging yearning toward the magazine-rack. Came the day in when a copy of Science Wonder Stories ap- peared on the rack and attracted my attention. I sneaked a copy down when my father was taking his afternoon nap my kindly mother was always much more permissive and looked inside. Spaceships, monsters, ray-guns — WOW! I put it back and waited for my father to return. He did. His English was not yet strong, but the cover showed a futuristic airplane that looked very edifying and there was no denying that the word ''science" was clearly inscribed on the cover.
He said. Naturally, as the years passed, and I grew more and more enthusi- astic about science fiction, I felt the increasing urge to turn my writing activities to the more imaginative branches of fiction. After I got my typewriter, and writing began to be less of a purely mechanical problem, I decided to tackle a particularly ambitious project and took to composing an involved fantasy.
To save paper, I remember, I wrote single space, both sides, no margins and, according to my esti- mate, I wrote 60, words before fagging out. The fantasy title forgotten involved the chaotic battling of a group of seven men against the awful powers of darkness.
I followed them through their separations and reunions and sustained them against the hosts of goblins, magicians and supernatural forces that opposed them. I thought little of that early effort until last year when I came across Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" trilogy and finally read it.
I realized, to my chagrin, that thirty years ago I had been attempting to forestall Tolkien, Oh, well — By , I was entering my sophomore year in college and I felt I had gained sufficient depth in science to tackle straight science-fiction. Consequently, I began an interminable novel, whose title and plot es- cape me now. It, too, went on for many thousands of words. Why novels? Why, for goodness' sake, interminable novels that I inevitably outgrew and abandoned?
Why not short stories that I could finish before I tired? What a tribute to my well-known brilliance that this occurred to me after only six years. No sooner thought than done. In May , I sat down to begin the first short story I ever wrote.
It was a science fiction short and was en- titled ''Cosmic Corkscrew. Each coil advanced time about a century, so that one could travel a century into the future, or two centuries, or three, but never, say, years or years into the future or past.
I had, in effect, quantized time- travel, Eve never, to this day, seen this notion used anywhere else. The actual plot dealt with a man who travelled a hundred years into the future and found the Earth deserted of all animal life, but showing every trace of recent occupation in peace and security.
There was no hint of any reason or explanation for the catastrophe and there was no way he could slide back in time just a few days to find out what had hap- pened. About the only other thing I can remember about the story is that I casually mentioned the Verrazano Bridge between Brooklyn and Staten Island only I didn't call it that I called it the Roosevelt Bridge. Well, you can't be perfect, I worked away on that story for over a year even though it was only 9, years long.
I understand. Well, in writing ''Cosmic Corkscrew" I had some dim notion of sub- mitting it for publication. The trouble was, though, that I didn't know how that was done and I lacked the intelligence to ask anyone. So my Interest in the story flagged a bit and I think that, but for a purely for- tuitous circumstance, it might never have been submitted, or even fin- ished, and that my professional writing career, if it came at all, would have been much delayed. Astounding, for instance, arrived on the third Wednesday of each month.
In fact, until very recently, I still owned the copy of the complete works of Shakespeare that I had used in my Shakespeare course; a copy that had a row of mysterious numbers marked down the end-paper. Those numbers weren't really mysterious. Each period of that class, while the professor spoke reverently of Shakespeare, I computed the number of hours that must elapse before the arrival of the next science fiction magazine and wrote that number down.
Then came April and I waited for the May issue of Astounding with an almost maniacal frenzy. Came April 20, and I rushed home on wings. I was stunned. It was Wednesday. The third Wednesday. I knew every newsstand with- in a mile of our own they were competitors! I came back hours later, with a drawn, wild countenance that greatly alarmed my mother who is four-feet- ten, was already prema- turely gray even then, and who has always had enough alarm-potential to fill someone with three times her cubic volume.
Astounding was nowhere to be had! The next day, no Astounding; nor the next. I went through my school work with dull detachment; I performed my share of the labor in the store with an aching heart, for always I had to stare at that mocking wall of magazines, minus Astounding, I had only one hope. Some jerk at Street and Smith had miscounted Wednesdays! Surely Astounding would come out on April 27, the fourth Wednesday. It didn't! I had to face the ultimate.
I had enough experience at the magazine- rack to know that magazines sometimes ceased publication. I would have to join the Foreign Legion to forget.
Desj eration nerved me to wild expedients. I looked up Street and Smith in the phone book and taking a nickel from the cash register, I called them up. To this day, I cannot condone the criminal indifference of the higher echelons at Street and Smith. How dared they make such a change in publication date without informing the readers?
Vile executives! Heaven knows how many youngsters died during that unexpected nine-day drought. That incident affected my writing career in two ways. In the first place, the period during which I feared that Astounding had died scarred me permanently.
It was from then on that I grew aware of mor- tality.
I realized that I must not delay finishing my short story; I was not immortal. So I got to work and finished. Secondly, I had called Street and Smith. The organization actually existed — not in some strange Galaxy but a mere half-hour by subway from my home. At that organization were real people, ordinary human beings, who talked to me.
Why not simply go there then the oflSces were at 79 Seventh Avenue in those days and hand in my story? In June I did just that I walked up to the reception desk and in choked tones managed to whisper a request to see Mr.
John W. Campbell, Jr. The receptionist called Mr. CampbeU and I closed my eyes and waited for the decapitating blow to fall. Instead she said, briskly, '"Mr. Camp- bell will see you!
Even today, the smell of old pulp magazines will make me an 1 8 -year-old again. John Campbell spoke to me for an hour, put me at ease, acted de- lighted at my having submitted a story. Naturally, he treated me with every consideration in later years when he was anxious to have stories from me; but he treated me with just as much consideration when I was a frightened year-old whom he had never heard of. If you expect the story to end with an account of how John accepted the very first story I submitted to him and that I was instantly recognized as a science-fiction great, forget it.
That may have happened to A. Heinlein, but not to me. John read the story that evening and mailed it back the next day with a two page letter, pin- pointing my errors and containing much gentle encouragement. After that I wrote science fiction stories at the rate of one or more a month and brought each one in to John Campbell. Each time I came, I was invited in; each time there was a long friendly talk; each time he rejected the story with a helpful letter; each time I was all the more en- couraged.
As a writer, I owe John Campbell everything; and I know for a fact that I am not the only science fiction writer who does. Each story that John returned went next to the two other science fic- tion magazines that then existed: Amazing Stories and Thrilling Won- der Stories. The rejections piled up and in the space of four months, I had piled up half a dozen. It didn't faze me, for in addition to John Campbell's goodness to me, my father committed an act of faith that in turn committed me irrevo- cably to pushing forward.
The rejections bothered my father not at all. He prized my ambition and drive and his values were untarnished by consideration of either fame or financial success. That I try was all he required of me.
My learned stories, he felt, were deserving of more than an old relic of an Underwood upright. With that gleaming portable lying before me, it would have taken a much more unfilial person than myself to avoid making the resolution to earn back that money for my father if it took me ten years.
It didn't take ten years after the purchase, thank goodness. It took more like ten weeks. It was my very first professional earning and it paid oflF the typewriter. The envelope also contained a very kind letter from Ray Palmer, then editor of Amazing, telling me how much he liked my story.
I was in no position to frame the check, so I framed the letter of acceptance. With that, I became a pubhshed writer. And whatever happened to the stories you wrote before you were published? Gone, gone, all gone!
In fact, in my hfe, I have written six short stories, I think, that were never published — all of them between and Not one of them remains. I don't know where they went; in the viscissitudes of hfe they vanished. I don't particularly regret these six stories.
They were not too differ- ent in style from those earliest stories of mine that were pubhshed. However, those interminable novels I wrote in the early 's — those I do miss. In particular I would give a large sum to have that nickel copybook again; the one in which I wrote the eight chapters of The Greenville Chums in College. But alas, longing will not bring back that which is gone! Please be sure to give us your old address as well as the new one, and be sure to add the ZIP number.
He gazed in bliss at me, and this Is what he had to say: Or if alive, one-fifty-five Cold years had passed you by, And left you weak, with poor physique, Thin hair and rheumy eye. For sure enough, Fve read your stufiE Since I was but a lad And couldn't spell or hardly tell The good yarns frdm the bad. My father, too, was reading you Before he met my Ma, For you he yearned, once he had learned About you from his Pa.
Since time began, you wondrous man. My ancestors did love That s. My step is light, my eye is bright, My hair is thick and dark. Not one of these ticky-tacky modern cracker boxes with no room to breathe. Not if a bar- gain was to be made. So he tried to look shrewd and tightfisted, much as a dormouse might counterfeit ferocity.
Shop with confidence
His was not a poker face; it registered emotions quite similar to those that once flickered in con- trasty muggings across the silent screen.A portion of its surface, half-hidden under a flap of metal, glowed phosphorescently. For some reason, the glass had been covered with many bmsh strokes of heavy, black enamel. A foundling of unknown parentage, he was raised in Canton by foster parents, married at 21, and served with the U.
New as it is, we have already rehabilitated seven otherwise un- reclaimable criminals with it. Ferrant — the better mind of the two, I suppose — did see the significance and took action.
It was Wednesday. Well, the library was better than nothing, and I worked my way through it with my eye-glasses glinting feverishly. I would fight them by all means, so I don't want to seem to be hanging back, but — What is there to say that this mind-affect- ing object exists at all? I never forgot the lesson, either.