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He could not go to the Movie;he was the devil he knew. He took a small, civilized sip of his drink and, stretching out his arm, delicately let the glass fall into the abyss beneath him.Always the one for the dramatic gesture, he thought, carefully not saying it aloud lest it turn into a sob, and, looking up again, shook his futile fist viciously, not knowing if he did so at the windows, or at the sky.* * * * Alto read the note pensively. Then, in a harder voice, he said,Shes using you for her own purposes, Mangon. At present you satisfy one whim of hers—the neurotic headaches and fantasy applause. God forbid what the next whim might be. "Not on the stone floor," she said. And no one ever noticed us. Or cared. The sight of the rising Earth brought home to him, with irresistible force, the duty he feared but could postpone no longer.Launch Control, he said, holding his voice steady with a great effort. “Please give me a circuit to Earth.” At a little after nine we were in position. I was with Sergeant Lazeer at the west end of that eighteen-mile stretch of State Road 21. The patrol car was backed into a narrow dirt road, lights out. Gaiders and McCullum were similarly situated at the east end of the trap. We were smeared with insect repellent, and we had used spray on the backs of each others shirts where the mosquitoes were biting through the thin fabric. We wanted the same instrumentation as the traditional New Orleans marching bands, lacking only the second cornet—all of us were determined to play different instruments: it was our only claim to individuality. We already had the trombone, cornet, clarinet and baritone horn, so we needed an alto, a tuba, and bass and snare drums. The alto cost only two dollars—the instrument dealer had an old one, that hesaid would require at least twenty dollars worth of his labor to take out the dents, and was willing to, let us have it for what it had cost him, since used alto horns are slow sellers. We didnt mind the dents, and were well satisfied with the horn, which was otherwise in good working order. An E-flat tuba was twenty dollars, and the two drums came to thirty, complete with sticks. Science fiction did not invent speculative thinking; it was quite the other way round. For whatever reasons of historical happenstance, the special kind of thinking that lies between outright fantasy and scientific hypothesis was focussed for a while largely in the s-f magazines. Now, some of the best story plots are going into reports by research and development men for the government, the armed services, the big corporations, and such novelties in our scheme of things as the Rand Corporation. What part of this thinking is not channeled into governmental or industrial secrecy is as likely to appear in essay form in a serious journal as in adventure trappings in the magazines. Naturally—it could be nothing else. She looked at him and felt an overwhelming desire never to be parted from him again. She wondered if she was in love. Candron nodded.So, while the whole world was mourning the fact that one of Earths greatest physicists has died, he was being held captive in the most secret and secure prison that the Red Chinese government could put him in. By the time I had the cabin ready to live in, my money was all gone, but I was able to pick up enough odd jobs in the neighborhood to satisfy my simple needs, and still have plenty of free time. I found that by leaving the city, I had shed the radical movement like a bad dream. While I still believed vaguely in the desirability of socialism, once I had the chance to achieve some perspective, it became perfectly obvious that the wrangling little sects that had consumed so large a part of my life would never amount to anything and I was well quit of them. You son of a bitch! she cried. Her hand had snaked inside her habit and it reappeared now clutching a small-caliber pistol. Before she could bring it to bear, Quincannon, who had never before struck a woman, nor ever would except in dire circumstances such as these, essayed a swift right-handjab to Duprees jaw. Down she went in a black-and-gold heap, to lie unmoving with her eyes rolled up. He bent to retrieve the pistol, slipped it into his coat pocket. What I lacked, she told me then ... "probably due to your environment ... you cant be expected ... so naïve ... not like the rest of us ... " and so on and on. What I lacked, it all came down to, was Good Taste, capital G, capital T, otherwise I would have known that a picture of myself would be an Oh-so-gross violation of propriety and could certainly serve no good purpose either to others or to me, so, she said, she had decided from the beginning not to do it for my own good (as well as for everyones) but I had been so forceful, so firm, she hadn't known how to argue with me ... at that time, at least. She was, of course, terribly sorry about the whole thing. But, besides, what would the man who printed the pictures say? Chances were he wouldn't return them. Society sees to such things, she said. There are censors at work, even on photos, whether I knew it or not. (Can I, somehow, be lewd simply existing like this? Do I lie here on my sheets, pornographic everyday? But hasn't everyonegot his pornographic parts?) At times like these, grasping at distracting details, I watch her nose point out her line of sight. Look ahead, it tells me, but life surely cannot be as earnest as most noses would have it to be. Yet it is from this eager nose that I got the idea of asking to see my mother. I thought I might have more courage to speak out to someone I didn't know as well. Fear lashed my anger as I followed the insanity flickering in his eyes. Warren Casey leaned back in his chair, his face expressionless, aside from the perpetual weariness.All right, he said. Can you takeanother word? Two, really: criticismand category.They are why you probably never heard of Ellipsiabefore. Critics like categories. Some critical categories are: Pop, science fiction, avant-garde,mainstream, black humour. Hortense Calisher has a distinctive reputation as a mainstream writer— sub-category, female, One critic found the book wanting in a survey of Ladies Novels; another put it down as inadequate neo-Joyce; one who did notreview it thought it could have been an avant-gardehit if someone like William Burroughs had written it. S-f critics, who would have loved it, never saw it. The category it actually fits had not yet been invented. Even then the gods cheered the minute I closed my eyes..
