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No, said Candron, imitating her manner. What?” ----------,Equity,Dude, Sept. Muller shrugged.So what? he said. “If youd look at the reports I turn in—” He gestured at the papers on the desk. The boogs! Oh, the boogs are just everywhere. Dont you have em, sweetheart? I don’t know what to do. I try to keep a decent house, God knows— She lifted her rheumy eyes to heaven, testifying. —but I don’t know what to do.” She leaned forward, confidingly. “You won’t believe this, sweetheart, but last night ...” A cockroach began to climb out of the limp strands of hair straggling down into the woman’s eyes. “... they got into bed with us! Would you believe it? There must have been a hundred of em. I said to Osip, I said—What’s wrong, sweetheart?” In the tenth Annual, I quoted (from Russell Bakers column) some mood-filled poetry emanating from a computer in Florida. Some years earlier I had heard from John Pierce (who as J. R. Pierce is Director of Research at the Bell Labs in New Jersey; and as J. J. Coupling has been absent much loo long from the pages of the s-f magazines), about computer-composed music—and last year, of course, everyone was hearing about it. Now, from Pierce again, but this time through the pages of Playboy (June, 1965) comes word of computer art. And not just words, but pictures—one in particular.* * * * So Biev was busy. And happy, too. That is, until Project SC 109A PB exploded and fragmented the whole of his scientific circle into a round of arguing, philosophizing, and what have you. SC 109A PB, incidentally, stood for Scientific, the 109th such try, the first change or addition to that try (A), and the Projecteers initials—Biev’s own conceit and insistence. The mysteries move closer together through the immense shuttling of our thoughts, our laboratory devices, our far-traveling rockets. Around and around he rode, but the maiden never looked up. So back he rode and fell into depression. His wise man was called to diagnose the trouble. When he heard the princes story, he patted his royal head. He told the prince to sleep and seek guidance in a dream. True, there came silent moments of fear, moments—as when one looked at Utliffs distorted face—when unease crawled like a little animal inside one’s skull. But then one could generally run off and hunt something, and do a little killing and feel good again. "Poloscki," I said, "Im just not that god damn drunk!" I threw the glove on the table. … aaauuuoooh, Madame Gioconda heard herself groan. She grasped her hat and secured it. Mangon, what a dirty trick, you should have warned me.” Broadcast an hour of silence.But several thousand complaints were mailed to the stationEach containing a blank sheet of paper.But since none had a stamp on themThey were sent to the dead-letter office.Which came to blazing lifeAnd burned in a noisy fire.There were enough atoms left over from this fireTo start another station.The station broadcast nothing but static. After a rousing list of famous dates, I went to math. We looked at obtuse triangles. From there I went to lunch and then to Latin and French classes. It was generally a nice day; I wouldnt want to complain. You shut up, the newcomer said. Well, Mary?Did you?” I beg your pardon? Obviously, not about space flight. Not one of the eighteen selections preceding this has been concerned with rocketry or astrogation or planet-hopping, except as an occasional incidental background touch. "Sometimes," I said evenly, "if you leave them alone and forget about them, you end up with monsters who arent kids any more. If youd been left alone, you wouldn't have had a chance to put your two cents in in the first place, and you wouldn't have that thing around your neck." And he was really trying to follow what I was saying. A moment past his rage, his face was as open and receptive as a two-year-old's. God, I want to stop thinking about Antoni! Now really, darling. Youre as bad as that boy. I met Dr. Nesvadba at a science-fiction convention in 1964 (and can report that he is charming, witty, and devastatingly Continental). It was, I believe, his first trip to this country. The last night, he spent some hours with John Brunner, Fritz Leiber, and myself. The kid took him upstairs and into a kitchen.Hey, Ma, he said. “I brought home a mutt.”.
