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English literature was my major. Myself and others like me were assigned a place near the birds big chest. We took comfort in the regular blood thumps. The hot juices of scholarship kept each feather warm. When was the last time you talked with your mother that way? he asked. The room became very quiet. The pale drift of typewriters ebbed and flowed in the outer bays. The tail of the pale green flash showed me the fissures bottom a hundred yards straight below and all dust, as ninety percent of them are—pray God the dust was deep. I had time to thumb Extreme Emergency to the ship for it to relay automatically to Circumluna. Then the lip had cut me off from the ship and I had lazily fallen out of the glare intothe blessed blackness, the dial lights in my helmet already snapped off—even they might make enough glow for the crusoe to aim by. The slug had switched off Pete’s. While he waited, a strange thing happened. It was as though his spirit passed from his body and he could see himself lying there on the hill. Poor forlorn body to lie so long upon a hill. Would they write poems and sing songs about Private Richard Starbuck like they did four years ago for Sergeant Ernie Stevens? No, no poems for this lonely body lying on a hill waiting to die. Sergeant Stevens had killed six men before he died. So far as he knew he had killed none. Not at all. Is that what she claims? Egan shook his head. Actually, I was relieved. I was on the verge of ending the affair myself, as a matter of fact.” For here was the creature hed found in the woods, no longer sick and keening, no longer close to death, but full of life and youth. What did you say, Ma? Jed asked. Seemed like you got sorta weak.” Preposterous! Wrixton cried. Utter rot!” "Is that ditch on my land?" Rampart asked. It should. It is safe. Mrs. Martin got to her feet and stood looking up the stairway without moving. In her eyes there was the look of a jungle tiger who watches its mate pinned to a stake at the bottom of the pit. Mr. Martin sat staring at the brightly colored flies on his lap. For a moment there was silence. Then a girls shrill screams announced to the Martins that war’s reality was also for the very young. Mr. Wilier is shaving. He uses an old-fashioned straight-edged razor and the mirror above his bathroom washbasin reflects a morning face that not even the fluffy icing of the lather can make very palatable. Above the lather his skin is dark and wrinkled. His eyes are somewhat yellow where they oughtto show white and his sloping forehead is embarrassingly short of hair. No matter. Mr. Wilier poises the razor for its first stroke—and instantly freezes in position. For a second he stands immobile. Then his false teeth clack once and he starts to pivot slowly toward the northwest, razor still in hand, quivering like a directional antenna seeking its exact target. This is as it should be. Mr. Wilier, wrinkles, false teeth and all,is a directional antenna. Mr. Wilier turns back to the mirror and goes ahead with his shaving. He shaves skilfully and rapidly, beaming up at a sign over the mirror which proclaims that a stitch in time saves nine. Four minutes later, stitchless and in need of none, he moves out of the bathroom, into his bedroom. Here he dresses rapidly and efficiently, at the last adjusting his four-in-hand before a dresser mirror which has inlaid about its frame the messageHandsome is as handsome does. Fully dressed, Mr. Wilier selects a shiny malacca cane from the collection in his hall closet and goes out behind his little house to the garage. 2.Population is rising rapidly, and early in the Twenty-first Century there isnt enough room on the planet Earth for everybody. This curve shows no more signs of leveling off than the other trend curves do, so we cannot take the easy way out via starvation, birth control, or mass destruction, because those things are apparently not in the cards when other trend curves are also considered. Can we export people to other worlds fast enough? Isaac Asimov says we can’t, and Dandridge M. Cole says we can... and both can back up their arguments with calculations. Or is this curve, in connectionwith other curves, simply telling us to expect an event of major cosmic significance in the next fifty years? If so, what? In any field of new knowledge, on all frontiers, concrete or physical, the fools must first rush out to see what the accepted angels of the day do not credit even enough to fear. The quixotic ass may be aSomnium or a glider at Kitty Hawk, a “Rights of Man,” a burning bush, a dream of passage to India, a Unified Field of Theory, or a story of space. Whatever its form, it must take shape first in the imagination of some, somehow, less fettered mind, and pass, through the speculations of philosophers, onto the lathe of logic; if it turns true (however slowly or swiftly), it has become Accepted Theory. He began counting out the money in twenties and tens. It made quite a pile on the desk. Ah well, perhaps next year . . ..
