The 13 Crimes of Science Fiction

Language: French

Pages: 0

ISBN: B00195IFFM

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


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whether as death or zeroness. Listen close. Fig as in not care a fig,' the value of a fig being practically nothing. Jig as in 'the jig's up.' Knucklebone equals 'die.' John the Waterman could be John the beheaded Baptist or Charon, either or both. Sack of stones connotes 'cul-de-sac' and 'headstone.' Finis." "You mean Kraut had a death wish?" "Death wish, hell. I got a life wish, or why would I be coming back and taking over?" Taking over? Not so fast. Careful, though. A program that could

sat in the tiers of bunks that rose in row after sternly functional row all the way down the cargo hold. Each man clutched—and some caressed— a small package neatly wrapped in plain brown paper. The chief guard ambled up on the other side of the bars, picking the morning's breakfast out of his front teeth. "Hi, boys," he said. "Who're you looking for—as if I didn't know?" One of the older, more famous columnists held the palm of his hand up warningly. 'Xook, Anderson: no games. The ship's been

to have Crandall followed and neutralized. Blotto Otto saw no point in preening over his reflexes. The two of them had learned to move fast a long time ago—over a lot of dead bodies. "A Venusian dandehon bomb," he observed. "Well, at least the guy doesn't want to kill you, Nick. He just wants to cripple you." "That would be Stephanson's style," Crandall agreed, as they paid their check and walked past the faces which were just now beginning to turn white. "He'd never do it himself. He'd hire a

bully-boy. And he'd do the hiring through an intermediary just in case the bully-boy ever got caught and blabbed. But that still wouldn't be safe enough: he wouldn't want to risk a post-criminal murder charge. "A dose of Venusian dandelion, he'd figure, and he wouldn't have to worry about me for the rest of my life. He might even come to visit me in the home for incurables—like the way he sent me a card every Christmas of my sentence. Always the same message: 'Still mad? Love, Freddy.'" "Quite

from me—he had arrived in his reasoning at a correct answer. From here on—agaiost this man— I would have to walk a narrow line. "I think," Trobt said more slowly, glancing down at the board between us, then back at my expression, "that this may be the First Game, and that you are more dangerous than you seem, that you are accepting the humihation of allowing yourself to be thought of as weaker than you are, in actuality. You intend to find our weakness, and you expect somehow to tell your states

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