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Last year, there was theAlphabestiary, running through July, definitions in verse of such diverse creatures as Kangaroo, Uncle, I, Werewolf, Gnu, and Victor. I have, Hitchcock confirmed. I have been very successful at it.” He paused, waiting for Reese to speak. Reese said nothing. By slipping around into the side passage and tapping on the window, as if youd forgotten something. When Sonderberg opened it, raising it high on its hinge, you reached through the bars, shot him twice — the first shot must not have been a fatal one, an error on your part — and then immediately dropped the pistol to the floor. Naturally he released his grip on the window as he staggered backward, and it dropped and clattered shut — the loudish thump I heard before I ran into the passage. The force of impact flipped up the loose swivel catch at the bottom of the sash. Of its own momentum the catch then flipped back down and around the stud fastener, locking the window and adding to the illusion. The gun jumped. "Look, you mess up my waldo and I will kill you, dont care who you are! Take that thing off." She turned her face blindly toward me.The way out, she said. “The way back again—” An idea hit me. Like Wilson again—or Simak—Raphael is the true-hybrid breed of news-SF man, deriving his fiction largely from the other side(s) of his double (or triple) life. (Covered AEC and rocket tests at Los Alamos and White Sands for seven years; the Nuclear Reactor Testing Station in Idaho for five; member of the National Association of Science Writers; now handles science-oriented legislative projects for his senator.) The Thirst Quenchers, title story of his first book (Gollancz, 1965), was the bastard brother of a documentary film on water problems which won a National Radio and Television News Directors Award for Boise Station KBOI and writer-director Raphael; both pieces came out of “six years of riding snow cats, and plodding ungracefully on skis and snowshoes in the company of the Columbia Basin Snow Survey supervisor, learning and reporting the vital mechanics and sciences of his art.” His first novel, Code Three, about the highways of the future, will be published this spring by Simon and Schuster. Its just another sign they’re turning smart, Muller said. Them hunting in packs, I mean. That’s evolution working. It takes brains to stay alive in a country like this.” I felt tears wash down from my eyes as I stumbled across the familiar yard in the dark. I dont know why I was crying—unless it was because I was homesick for something bright that I knew I would never have, and because I knew I could never tell Mom what really happened. "Muskless person." Its a full moon night and he’ll be out for sure, Lazeer said, and what we’re fixing to do is bottle him on just the right stretch, where he got no way off it, no old back-country roads he knows like the shape of his own fist. And here we got it.” He put brackets at either end of astring-straight road. And Mrs. Egan having slipped a buckle, to plan to murder her perceived rival in cold blood. ----------,The Dead Lady of Clown Town, Gal, Aug. Greedily, the reflex of starvation making him for the moment ignore this discovery that the Japanese had deliberately chosen to die in the crevice, Traven slid down the slope until his feet touched the splitting soles of the corpses shoes. He reached out and seized the canteen, then prized off the lid. A cupful of flat water swilled weakly around the rusting bottom. Traven gulped down the water, the dissolved metal salts cloaking his tongue with a bitter film. The mess-tin was empty but for a tacky coating of condensed syrup. Traven scraped at this with the lid. He chewed at the tarry flakes, letting them dissolve in his mouth with a dark intoxicating sweetness. After a few moments he felt light-headed, and sat back beside the corpse in a delirium of exhaustion. He spread a large hand over his chest. "Petit Manuel— acrobat and weight-lifter. Nolan!" he bellowed. "Look at this!" His companion was squatting by the sonic statues, twisting their helixes so that their voices became more resonant. "Nolans an artist," the hunchback confided to me. "Hell build you gliders like condors." [ _14.jpg] I got paid off on Lyra one. I left that deep space boat.I went downtown to the barrooms there, just to wet my throat.The Shoshonu were all around, and one sat down with me.Oh, whatll I do with my Shoshonu?And what’ll she do with me?She hadn’t moulted her humanoid form; she was pretty as could be.She turned her big eyes up to mine, and smiled soulfully.But she slipped a mickey in my drink, when she got home with me.Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?And what’ll she do with me?When I woke up the wedding was on, and I was saying,Yes—The High Shoshonu’s six-foot fangs two inches from my vest.The relatives were all around, they swarmed all over me.Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?And what’ll she do with me?Her father gave us a ton of gold; her mother gave us jewels.The rest of the tribe pitched in on a house, complete with swimming pools.They said,“Take care of our little girl—she’s about to moult, you see.”Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?And what’ll she do with me?So I’m sitting here with a drink in my hand, as worried as I can be.When a Shoshonu moults, she turns into a dragon, rough-el-ly.It’s our wedding night. She’s moulting now. And it makes them hung-ger-ry.Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?And what’ll—she—do—with—me?.
