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Were not going to tell you. There were a number of small knots in the playground that took a secretive line, and whispered with their backs to everybody. I belonged to a loose group of boys who, looking back, I would say were intelligent and sensitive and from better homes. Their interestswere academic, or real hobbies. But I was a little contemptuous of their ignorance and softness. And I ended up hanging about behind a group led by a capable boy, or breaking roughly into a fighting gang, having a punch-up and then going to skip with the girls. I tried everything. I was nobody’s buddy. But a few groups could expect to rely on me if they needed an extra hand to defend themselves against a rough bunch or to try a good game. Go and get Rich Andrews,” someone would say: “he’ll play.” Santa Barbara, Big Angeles 9 It was Wednesday morning, John having returned to the city late the previous day, and Sabina had just finished telling him of her investigation and its outcome. "Still not quite right," said Patrick. The drop ran down my nose, in business for itself, seeking the way to the universal ocean of human misery. And I saw a drop on Marilyns cheek take the same journey. ----------,Rogue Moon,F&SF, Dec. But how lose a penny that wont get lost?* * * * She was sitting up when he returned, propped back on an enormous gold lame cushion, the single lamp at the foot of the couch throwing a semicircle of light onto the great flats which divided the sound stage from the auditorium. These were all from her last operatic role—The Medium—and represented a complete interior of the old spiritualists séance chamber, the one coherent feature in Madame Gioconda’s present existence. Surrounded by fragments from a dozen roles, even Madame Gioconda herself, Mangon reflected, seemed compounded of several separate identities. A tallregal figure, with full shapely shoulders and massive ribcage, she had a large handsome face topped by a magnificent coiffure of rich blue-black hair—the exact prototype of the classical diva. She must have been almost fifty, yet her soft creamy complexion and small features were those of a child. The eyes, however, belied her. Large and watchful, slashed with mascara, they regarded the world around her balefully, narrowing even as Mangon approached. Her teeth too were bad, stained by tobacco and cheap cocaine. When she was roused, and her full violet lips curled with rage revealing the blackened hulks of her dentures and the acid flickering tongue, her mouth looked like a very vent of hell. Altogether she was a formidable woman. "Whats wrong with the first one I described?" Make way for Insur! a man called at the back of the crowd, and Erl saw the opportunity. I wont sign unless you go,” he said. Mangon, who had been lost in reverie, pulled himself together and shook his head. Solemnity transformed into hilarity, he would explode into bubbling, effervescent, good-humored laughter:Of course I could not serve the capitalists. My little Anastasia would not let me. The bluecoat quickly dispersed the rest. The elderly woman still stood on the porch; it was not until Gunpowder Alley was mostly deserted again that she doddered back inside the darkened house. The most common use of the word syntaxrefers to the use of words in sentences. A word is a word is a word, whether it be spoken in a cave, sung by a bard at a crowded fireside, flashed on a screen for subliminal perception, printed in graceful Gothic type on a page of elegant sentences, orated in a speech, intoned in a chant, shouted from a mountain-top (to the sound of one hand clapping), or broken up in typographic effects as part of a picture. But though the word remains the same, its impact, value, in-context meaning, colour, shape, sound, may vary enormously with the syntax. William EastlakeWhat Nice Hands Held,Ken. We have the writers; we have the markets; we have the readers. But nothing is happening to bring them together. Much of the best work is being done entirely away from the social-professional nexus ofscience fiction. (Witness Donald Barthelme and Harvey Jacobs in this volume . . . Stanley Elkins “Perlmutter at the East Pole” in theSaturday Evening Post . . . William Maxwell and Robert Henderson inThe New Yorker . . . and how many others that I won’t even hear about till next year or the year after?) Toward that plume we worked. Even with oxygen, it was agony. Up there, the air is thin. The thinness is in your flesh and bones, and in your brain. You move, and pause, and your whole attention is confined to the next move..