Dramatic royal purpose
What is your name, young man? I asked. A mile or so from the ferry landing, farm buildings appeared in the distance. The entrance to the road that led to them was spanned by a huge, arched wooden sign into which the nameRIDEOUT had been carved and then gilded. Quincannon turned in there, rode another quarter of a mile through fenced fields to the farmstead. He reached into his left pocket. It was filled with a glorious emptiness. He felt a weight of some long tons of lifting from his shoulders. Ours was one of the two-man jobs, used only for charting. One of us sat at either end. He flew, and I drew. The pressure room was right in the middle of the ship. I helped the captain put on his suit, and then went back to watch him on the television monitor. If you must rationalize a thing, Hitchcock stated, its wrong. Good does not come from evil!” They spoke for a long time and played games with the box. She cried when it was time for him to leave, and wanted to go with him. In haste— Mrs. Brown was worried about her—about anything more than her thinness? Had she been doing queer things? The Incredible Mr. Amis singles out John Campbell several times for special notice. This is not unusual; almost anyone writing about modern American science fiction finds himself paying respects to the man under whose sometimes daft but always deft—and vigorous and enthusiastic—guidance, ASF (which you can take as Astounding Science Fiction or the new title. Analog Science Fact and—gasp—Fiction) has been the consistent leader in the field—both as to sales and influence. Mr. A., however, limits his comments about Campbells influence to a snidish remark about cranks whose rapid departure would benefit the whole field and a description of the editor as a deviant figure of marked ferocity. "To your patents. Did you not know?" I also figured out, while waiting in Gioja crater, there near the north pole on the edge of Shackleton crater, the only explanation Ive ever been able to make, though it’s something of a whopper, of the two violet flashes which ended my little mathematical friendship-chant with the crusoe. They were the first two shells I squeezed off at him— the ones that skimmed the notch. They had the velocity to orbit Luna, and the time they took—two hours and five minutes—was right enough. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Quincannon, and for arriving so promptly. Please. Sit down. He indicated a burgundy-colored leather chair, then a humidor atop his massive mahogany desk. Cigar?” I did not answer her, and she walked past Ontro and into the next room, bearing her rose. Not science-fiction writer, knowing little science, but of that lower classwho make it up. The surprise best seller of 1965 was Eric BernesGames People Play. Of course,game-playing as a psychological model is anything but new. “Role-playing” has been a basic psychiatric concept for many years, and Stephen Potter has played “Gamesmanship” into an enviable income for what seems almost as long. It might not be so bad. He remembered a time four years ago when he had thought he was dying, and that had not been so bad. He remembered that at the time he had been more concerned about bleeding on the Martins new couch. The Martins had always been good to him. Once they had thought they could never have a child of their own, and they had about half adopted him because his own mother worked and was too busy to bake cookies for him and his father was not interested in fishing or basketball or things like that. Even after the Martins had Cassandra, they continued to treat him like a favorite nephew. Mr. Martin took him fishing and attended all the basketball games when he was playing. And that was why when he wrecked the motor scooter and cut his head he had been more concerned about bleeding on the Martins’ new couch than about dying, although he had felt that he was surely dying. He remembered that his first thought upon regaining consciousness was one of self-importance. The Martins had looked worried and their nine-year-old daughter, Cassandra, was looking at the blood running down his face and was crying. That was when he felt he might be dying. Dying had seemed a strangely appropriate thing to do, and he had felt an urge to do it well and had begun to assure them that he was all right. And, to his slight disappointment, he was..
