Worlds largest orgy
John Brunner is one of the growing group of young British writers who have developed primarily in association with the consistently surprising Nova magazines—New Worlds and Science Fantasy—edited by Ted Cornell. (Both magazines, I am happy to say, are now being distributed in this country.) This selection is not from either of the British publications, but from Astounding (now Analog)--representing the increasing trend toward the exchange of material on both sides of the Pond.* * * * He is still Malann, she answered. We are still his people.” Look where it got me. I am also a writer, and I told Lieberman, the curator, and Fitzgerald, the government man, that I would like to write down the story. They shrugged their shoulders.Go ahead, they said, “because it wont make one bit of difference.” "But if it isnt on my list, how can you be so sure Ill like it?" The manager sent his respects to you. Looking at it from mans definition of intelligence, I guess, he admitted. I have since learned that many eminent persons, to keep their sanity, involve with a universe far from their daily experience. They become experts on the Civil War, on Henry Adams, on the Latvian Uprising of 1236. It is not too different from collecting stamps or coins. I needed something to keep my brain intact. I needed Navahos, and I needed them badly. Oh. . . .Those eggs. This was J. G. Ballard, in an interview on the BBC, speaking about one of his highly controversial new condensed novels, 'You and Me and the Continuum' (recently reprinted in England Swings SF,Doubleday, 1968; another, 'You: Coma: Marilyn Monroe', is included in this volume). But his preoccupation with landscape, not as background only, but as an aspect of characterisation— not as mediumbut as message—has been integral to his work from the beginning: his first story, 'Prima Belladonna' (1956; most recently in SF: The Best of the Best,Delacorte, 1967), like 'Cloud Sculptors', was set in the oddly timeless brilliance of Vermilion Sands ... Manufacture of complex light-barrier vehicles. The dirty bastard just stood there, sucking in his breath and staring at Luana. He was stricken. Id done better than I knew. But then, I was inspired. "My God," he said, "what is it?" What is human? How different can it be, and still seemone of us? How much can one of us change, and not be one of them? (And who are they? Or are they what? When J. G. won the third game, the Explorer stood up, knocked over the table, shouted that he was a cheat and a thief, took his dictionary, gathered up all the bananas, and left, slamming and locking the door. Biev continued with his monologue, as he had to continue with his monologue; not even a river to swim across would have interfered with his monologue; such matter lay coiled and ready in his brain, every dot and comma in place, only waiting to be reeled out.Man is lazy. He does only what is required of him, not much more. What I mean is guilt, fear, love, honor, what have you, are the drives that get him off his dead behind. Every one of us, if we dared, would do nothing but sleep and drink all day. But we dont; we produce the minimum that we orour society sets for us. It’s a rare one that drives himself past that minimum..
