The Fifth Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack: Featuring the Work of Lester del Rey (Golden Age of SF Megapack, Book 5)

Lester Del Rey

Language: English

Pages: 381

ISBN: 2:00343970

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapacks are designed to introduce readers to classic science fiction writers who might otherwise be forgotten.

Lester del Rey (1915-1993) is most remembered today as one of the namesakes of Del Rey Books—but in the Golden Age he was an accomplished writer who got his start alongside (and sold to the same markets as) a young Isaac Asimov. This volume assembles 9 classic del Rey tales—more than 500 pages of great reading!

About the Megapacks
Over the last few years, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Mary Wickizer Burgess, Sam Cooper, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, Robert Reginald. A. E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors… who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

• “Pursuit” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, May 1952.
• “Let ’Em Breathe Space” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, July 1953.
• “No Strings Attached” originally appeared in If Worlds of Science Fiction, June 1954.
• “The Sky Is Falling” originally appeared in 1954.
• “Dead Ringer” originally appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, November 1956.
• “Victory” originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, August, 1955.
• “Police Your Planet” originally appeared in 1956.
• “Badge of Infamy” originally appeared in 1957.
• “No Head for My Bier” originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, January 1950.

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Will. I don’t know.” He had to believe her—he knew she was telling the truth, at least to some extent. And that made it just so much worse. He bound the gag over her mouth as gently as he could, and closed the door behind him. Her big eyes haunted him as he turned to the telephone. The information girl at CCNY could only tell him that Wilbur Hawkes had resigned abruptly seven months before, and no one knew where he was—they had heard he was doing government research. He snorted at that—it was

thought of cards. They waited, trying to talk, but with most of their attention on the clock. Doc had estimated that an hour should be enough to show results, but it was hard to remember that an hour was the guess as to the minimum time. He winced as Chris took a tiny bit of flesh from his neck. She went to the other men, and then submitted to his work on herself. Then she began preparing the slides. “Feldman,” she read the name of the slide as she inserted it into the microscope. Then her

Little! Maybe to David Arnold Hanson, the famed engineer, no task was impossible. But quite a few things were impossible to that engineer’s obscure and unimportant nephew, the computer technician and generally undistinguished man who had been christened Dave. They’d gotten the right man for the name, all right. But the wrong man for the job. Dave Hanson could repair anything that contained electrical circuits or ran on tiny jeweled bearings, but he could handle almost nothing else. It wasn’t

assistant professor could afford. It had been stalemate—a bitter, seven-year stalemate, until she finally gave up hope and demanded a divorce. He threw the clipping away, and pulled out the final bit of paper. It was a rent receipt for a cold-water apartment on the poorer section of West End—from the price of eighteen dollars a month, it had to be a cold-water place. He frowned, considering it. Apartment 12. That might explain why his own apartment had been unused, though it made little sense to

recognized his expression as the same one he’d seen on his father’s face at the window so long ago, the wound was completely healed. VICTORY I From above came the sound of men singing. Captain Duke O’Neill stopped clipping his heavy black beard to listen. It had been a long time since he’d heard such a sound—longer than the time since he’d last had a bath or seen a woman. It had never been the singing type of war. Yet now even the high tenor of old Teroini, who lay on a pad with neither legs

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