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"Golden," Ratlit said under the roar. "It would be much easier to take if it were grammatically connected to something: golden ones, golden people. Or even one gold, two golden." No. I wont go to a table and I won’t stand here with you. Leave me be. I have nothing to say to you. And so they did. Now we are not space-nuts; we are Prophets and Experts. As long as we talk aboutrealities—like rockets, satellites, and the missile gap, that is. Thank you, Ian said. If theres nothing more, I’ll be going.” Im not the only one who has personnel trouble, Doc, Melchior explained. Lots of times the others get in touch with me: Anthony, I need somebody. Send somebody good.’ Well, one hand washes the other, I like to help out. But it’shard, you know, Doc, toget somebody really good.” Hey, this mutt doesnt belong to nobody, said one. She has been my nurse since God-knows-when, since before I knew what a calendar was or that time was anything but fresh sheets now and then. I must have been about ten, a backward, slobbery ten when she came, squashing about on her nursing shoes. She squeaks when she turns. She bites into the floor, squashily saw-toothed, as if she felt as I do about the surfaces of things. Maybe she wanted me to have a better view of those aqueous soles of hers because the first thing she did was to have my mattress put upon the floor. I admit I gained in freedom and that my distances could then be measured. I learned that the wearing down at the heel was a long time. The great Media audience has reason to worry about content. (You too can be hypnoprone. When you no longer hear the commercials, and you start singing-along with anylyric provided the beat is right, you better start hopingthere's no content.) The latest thing is the sing-along (with Marsh McLuhan) school of criticism, which has compounded the ready-made artist/artisan and consumer/creator confusions, with a message/sermon mixup. Add a dash of camp; up pops Susan Sontag, who— actually — worries that 'the highly dubious theory that a work of art is composed of items of content' will 'violate art' or make it 'into an article of use' This done to his satisfaction, Traven returned to the bunker and squatted under the awning. "Whos over there?" I lay still. The professors eyes, deep-socketed and melancholy, met Paul’s, which had, he felt, an unmistakable slant. He was conscious, more strongly than ever, of his son’s sweetness and placidity. Odd that they should be so characteristic of the mentally retarded child. As if nature desired to compensate the cheated parents. Not that it was ever compensation enough. And in this case, when he remembered—could he really forget, even for a moment, even when that path to Paradise seemed open?—that Eleanor had died to birth this little vegetable, it was no comfort at all. The next morning, despite a mild headache, I was over the site soon after dawn. (So was Joe, and so was Sergei, all set for a quiet days fishing.) I waved cheerfully to them as I climbed into the lobster, and the tender’s crane lowered me over the side. Over the other side, where Joe couldn’t see it, went the replacement grid. A few fathoms down I lifted it out of the hoist and carried it to the bottom of Trinco Deep, where, without any trouble, it was installed by the middle of the afternoon. Before I surfaced again, the lock nuts had been secured, the conductors spot-welded, and the engineers on shore had completed their continuity tests. By the time I was back on deck, the system was under load once more, everything was back to normal, and even Karpukhin was smiling—except when he stopped to ask himself the question that no one had yet been able to answer. Where are my gloves? Looking at these holes makes me feel like puking. "My medicine. Please cant you get my medicine? Ive got to have my medicine, please, please ... please." I could just hear the small, high voice when I reached the door. I pushed it open. August 6. He has the eyes of the possessed. I would guess that he is neither the first, nor the last, to visit the island. "Throw it the other earring," Jay said. James Ballard has, I think, been more successful in this effort than anyone else writinginside SF today—comparable perhaps to Jorge Luis Borges on the “outside.” Ballard says of this story: The first SFAnnual, in 1956, was called The Years Greatest Science Fiction and Fantasy;that title stayed on the paperback (it was a Dell Original) for four years, although the simultaneous hardcover edition published by Gnome Press switched to just SF:1957with the second volume. In 1960, the book became a hardcover original, published by Simon& Schuster, and the title changed to The Fifth(and etc.) Annual of the Years Best SF.When Dell inaugurated its own hard-back line, Delacorte Press, the book went back home, so to speak: that was the 10th Annual..
