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For the short story reprints in the KornbluthMarching Morons (Ballantine); SturgeonsAliens 4 (Avon); and Anthony Boucher’s giant two-volume anthology,A Treasury of Great Science Fiction (Doubleday). April 6—I beat Algernon! I dint even know I beat him until Burt the tester told me. Then the second time I lost because I got so exited I fell off the chair before I finished. But after that I beat him 8 more times. I must be getting smart to beat a smart mouse like Algernon. But I dontfeelsmarter. Gratitude was a poor word to express the intensity of the Twerliks emotions toward these men-things now. It had to help them, had to repay them, had to show them how much their coming meant. What dyou mean, allowed? she did not understand. And the name was Clock. Frowning slightly, Dr. Colles repeated it. He muttered it again, as he took several files from the cabinet and leafed through the contents.Clock! TRAVELLERS REST I took my worthless story, tore it in half and dropped it into the wastebasket. Sergeant Lazeers bad guess about the identity of his moonlight road runner had made me look like an incompetent jackass. I vowed to check all facts, get all names right, and never again indulge in glowing, strawberry-flake prose. Situation comedy. Say, said a man in the crowd which had come to see the robot, aint that thing gonna play poker for us?” From outside there was a sudden terrified outcry. An instant later a second noise erupted, this one the unmistakable report of a pistol. "He says hes looking for himself." The golden shape on the golden steps executed shimmering intricacies of meaning. The body was gold and still human. The body was a woman, but more than a woman. On the golden steps, in golden light, she trembled and fluttered like a bird gone mad. How did you find me? Why... why its your human duty, Hitchcock protested, shuddering. All this might have been happier news had it not coincided with a rash of metal-wig-flipping by Brains already in use: wrong scoring in college tests, for instance, and a hilarious series of goofs in a robotized Providence, R. I., post office. Tends to make one wonder if we may not bebuilding in more parallels-with the human brain than we intended?* * * * He found the minister in his study working on a sermon. Mose sat down in a chair and fumbled his battered hat around and around in his work-scarred hands. Just a little line, whispered the second boy. He drew his fingernail along under his own chin, gently. He nodded to the woman. Tom bent again to see the faint line under either side of her firm white chin, the small almost invisible line where the gills were or had been and were now almost sealed shut, invisible. Yes, of course. I only wanted your impression. What will they think of next? Quite a toy. Quite a toy. Beat it, kid. The satellite is almost overhead, the sliver of shadow going—going—almost gone and … gone. The Pre-Third: the period was characterized in Travens mind above all by its moral and psychological inversions, by its sense of the whole of history, and in particular of the immediate future—the two decades, 1945-65—suspended from the quivering volcano’s lip of World War III. Even the death of his wife and six-year-old son in a motor accident seemed only part of this immense synthesis of the historical and psychic zero, the frantic highways where each morning of his life they met their deaths on the advance causeways to the global armageddon.* * * *Third Beach.
