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For half an hour after she had gone he wandered around the deserted sound stage, going through his memories. Then he made his way out to the alley and drove back to the stockade.* * * * the philosopher(confused but trying to keep in the conversation): A most swashbuckling sobriquet. "Thank you." He was still looking at Selina with a strange kind of suspicion. "Its been a pleasure to do business with you." " ... the paternity is not Mr. Ratlits. If you are interested, for your eugenic records, in further information, please send us other possible urine samples from the men in your group, and we will be glad to confirm paternity ... " Vance AandahlIts a Great Big Wonderful Universe,F&SF, Nov. You speak of them, I said, as though they are aborigines. Nothing could be further from the truth.” What are pennies for, exactly? For spending, this is certain, yet I do not consider the possibility. Why not? Well, the first thing is, there is no way to spend ten thousand pennies, then ten times ten thousand, and so on. If I ordered adobe bricks from the brickyard and offered the man bags of pennies for them he would say, where did you get all these pennies, Diosdado? Could I answer that I got them from my left pocket, boss? He would get suspicious and tell the chief of police about it, or the tax collector, or both. Pennies can be deposited in the bank of course, just like dollars. Yetpeach pickers do not usually have money of any type to place in the bank. The president of the bank would think the matter over and report it to the tax collector, or the chief of police, or both. There is but one way. I must hide these bags from all eyes. From my wife and my children, them especially. I did not know what a trouble it can be to have money. Surely it is not robbery if I take pennies from my own left pocket, so why do I feel like a robber and keep looking over my shoulder? I recall your once saying to me that an experimentalfailureor thedisprovingof a theory was as important to the advancement of learning as a success would be. I know now that this is true. I am sorry, however, that my own contribution to the field must rest upon the ashes of the work of two men I regard so highly. Unexpectedly—the municipal clock pointed to one— something occurred that stunned the Red Egg: as though obedient to an imaginary baton, all the bells of the city began to ring, undoubtedly announcing a forthcoming festivity. The impact of the sound waves hit the cancer point blank, especially those of the cathedral bells that rolled at his side. The fact that these waves were gay and basically contrary to death gave him indescribable anguish. The circle of quills and antennae sprang out round his belly with fulminating aggressiveness but it did not cure him of the nausea he felt. Irritated, he leapt away with decision, toward the west, where it was clear, where there were no steeples. There he recovered. He saw two women hanging out clothes on a roof top. One of them had a carcinoma on one knee! In spite of which she laughed and gestured as though she were eternal. Suddenly, on the outskirts ofthe city, beyond the ball field, an immense sea of crosses and tombs surged before his green eye. This sight brought back his self-confidence, confidence in his power. A cemetery! It was the first time he had had direct contact with one. In his three years of life he had only seen two cadavers, both of them white mice. It was obvious that many drops in that sea of crosses were due to the action of his brothers. The graveyard constituted, then, a victorious summary, a living testimony of the power and inheritance of his stock.* * * * For a moment I just stood there in the drugstore with my mouth hanging open; then I turned the little book in my hands. On the back cover was a photograph of Mark Twain; the familiar shock of white hair, the mustache, that wise old face. But underneath this the brief familiar account of his life ended with saying that he had died in 1918 in Mill Valley, California. Mark Twain had lived eight years longer in this alternate world, and had written-well, I didnt yet know how many more books he had written in this wonderful world, but I knew I was going to find out. And my hand was trembling as I walked up to the cashier and gave her two bits for my priceless copy of South From Cairo. I couldnt see Mack’s face, but his body sort of tightened up, shaking, and he put his arms out as though he was going to haul Mary out of her seat. Sam—I presumed Sam was the man in the booth—seized his arm, yelling at him. When I visited the beach the following day I found, almost with relief, that the head had been removed. The first day I was alone, I opened a can of beans and a can of beer for my supper. Then I lay down in my bed withLife on the Mississippi, a pack of cigarettes, and an eight-ounce chocolate bar. There was nothing I had to do, no telephone, no demands and no newspapers. At that moment, I was about as contented as any man can be in these nervous times. I do. The shoe fits, and baby needsshoes. The need for such a category for critical straphangers is urgent, because fabulation isthe future of the (published) fiction form. In spite of his hot/cool hashup, McLuhans point about TV-viewers participation-involvement vs. book-readers' detachment is both accurate and important. The printed page will never again be able to compete with the screen for realistic storytelling; but it will take an as yet undiscovered technique to make the tube into a suitable medium for satire, fable, or allegory— all of which require an audience suspended at that precise focal point which provides optimum discernment of the essential interplay between figure and background. But you are unhappy. Unfortunately, they were ugly as sin. They ran off when they saw me after them with the other guys gun. No bullets though. You’ll have to help look now. 35 U.S.C. 112, I murmured..
