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First edition. Followed later by a book club edition. Collection of short works includes an introduction by the author and: A Hand Across the Galaxy (1967); A Very Good Year . . . (1979); And I Only Am Escaped to Tell Thee (1981); Angel, Dark Angel (1967); But Not the Herald (1965); Dismal Light(1968); Exeunt Omnes (1980); Fire and/or Ice (1980); Go Starless in the Night (1979); Home is the Hangman[Nemo] (1975); My Lady of the Diodes (1970); Recital (1981); Some Science Fiction Parameters: A Biased View (1975, essay); The Force That Through the Circuit Drives the Current (1976); The George Business (1980); The Horses of Lir (1981); The Last of the Wild Ones[Sam Murdock] (1981); The Naked Matador (1981); The Night Has 999 Eyes (1964); The Parts That Are Only Glimpsed: Three Reflexes (1978, essay); Unicorn Variation (1981); Walpurgisnacht (1981).
first of them—a dark sedan, dented and swaying, half of its roof and the nearest fender torn away—come around the canyon’s bend. He held his fire as it approached, and soon the others followed—rattling, steaming, leaking, covered with dents and rust spots, windows broken, hoods missing, doors loose. A strange feeling came into his breast as he thought about the more magnificent specimens of the great herds he had followed over the years. Still, he held his fire, even as the first in line drew
again. She bows, smiling, and announces her next number. As she begins to sing it, the man—let us call him John—leans back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and listens. He is, of course, remembering. Naturally, he has followed her career. There was a time when he had hated her and all of her flashy lovers. He had never been particularly flashy himself. The others have all left her now. She is pretty much alone in the world and has been out of sight of it for a long while. She was also fairly broke
the Hangman, it will come to me next. If I cannot stop it, then it cannot be stopped until it has completed its job.” “How do you know that you are next?” “Take a look at a map,” he said. “It landed in the Gulf. Manny was right there in New Orleans. Naturally, he was first. The Hangman can move underwater like a controlled torpedo, which makes the Mississippi its logical route for inconspicuous travel. Proceeding up it then, here I am in Memphis. Then Leila, up in St. Louis, is obviously next
the man. “Have this one,” and he passed him a light green–blue robe of the sort he himself had on, of the sort in which Randy had dressed his uncle for the journey. “Eat now. There is food upon the table,” the man continued, “and then there is the bed.” He gestured. “Sleep.” Randy stripped and donned the garment he had been given. When he looked about again, he saw that he was alone. He went to the table, suddenly realizing that his appetite was enormous. Afterward, he slept. It was dark when
flight to the moon perhaps tells you more about me than it does about science fiction and its parameters, for space flight is only a part—a colorful part, to be sure—of the story we have been engaged in telling of Man and his growing awareness. For on reflection, having watched the fire, felt the force and seen the vessel lifted above the Earth, it seemed a triumph for Pygmalion; and that, I realized, had more to do with my view that day than the fire, the force or the vessel. About The Author