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The Pacifist agent came quickly around the desk and the older man, in an effort to escape, pushed his chair backward and tried to come to his feet. He was too clumsy in his bulk. Warren Casey loomed over him, slipped a syrette into the others neck. I scooted, skimming quickly the flood of light from our doorway, and splishing through the shallow run-off stream that swept across the court. There was a sudden wild swirl of wind and a vindictive splatter of heavy, cold raindrops that swept me, exhilarated, the rest of the way to Mrs. Klevitys house and under the shallow little roof that was just big enough to cover the back step. I knocked quickly, brushing my disordered hair back from my eyes. The door swung open and I was in the shadowy, warm kitchen, almost in Mrs. Klevity’s arms. But theres no blood. How much do you know about the Pacifists, McGivern? Whats this? he growled. by G. Harry Stine The house, up toward the coast highway in the late afternoon, was silent. The sounds of closets being rummaged, suitcase locks snapping, vases being smashed, and of a final door crashing shut, all had faded away. Would that be a mark of intelligence? Flopper asked mildly. We were at the narrowest part where the little wooden bridge was. Only now there was no bridge. The flood had torn it down and tossed it away. Somewhere in the darkness of the night, I was suddenly swimming to wakefulness, not knowing what was waking me but feeling that Mrs. Klevity was awake too. Of what kind? He woke well after noon, alarmed at first because he was four hours late for work. Then he caught the tigers eye and laughed.I have a tiger. He stretched luxuriously, yawning, and ate a slow breakfast and took his time about getting dressed. He found the debentures his uncle had given him on the dresser, figured them up and found they would realize a sizable sum. Of course. There was nothing on the seismograph. At twelve, the bell began. Some stray bullets were whistling high overhead now. Clem said,So take off your belts, take off your pants . . . He seemed to change all in a second. I have never seen such a face or heard such a voice as he said, “What? Be beat by this puddle?” We were more afraid of him at that moment than of any kind of death or disaster. He screamed like a horse in a fire. His eyes were red. He lifted the heavy end of the tree in his bare hands, alone. The seams of his leather jacket burst. Black veins swelled in his neck and arms. It was as much as the rest of us could do, working together, to lift the lighter end of the tree. Bob Shaw is not-quite-British: a North Irish journalist— columnist and science correspondent for The Belfast Telegraph—and author of perhaps a dozen short stories and one novel, Night Walk(Banner, 1966). Although his first fiction sale in 1953 was to the New York Post,he was almost unknown in the U.S. until Light of Other Days appeared in Analog,and was promptly selected for inclusion in both The World's Best Science Fiction: 1967 (Ace)and Nebula Award Stories Two(Doubleday)— as well as being a (very close) runner-up for both the Hugo and Nebula awards in 1966. They walked slowly around her. A wave touched her white hand so the fingers faintly softly waved. The gesture was that of someone asking for another and another wave to come in and lift the fingers and then the wrist and then the arm and then head and finally the body and take all of them together back down out to sea. "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! He consulted with himself once more:.
