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Henry Slesar, like several other new young writers, works at both mystery-suspense-psychological-thrillers and science-fantasy. In this vignette, he makes the jump from How Things Are to How They All Too Well May Be...* * * * Where are my gloves? Looking at these holes makes me feel like puking. The thing took its hand away and stepped quickly to the birdcage and slid between the bars. The hands reached for the basket and there was a sudden flicker and the birdcage was no longer there. No, said Tyburn. Why?” "He asked for you," said Hejar. Kamiko bowed again and hurried off, her slippers whispering on the hardwood floor. Monica was already smiling in the dark. The eye turned away. The nostril tentacle advanced and Monica kissed it. Jane at once wanted to imagine what roads in space might look like, but the refrigerator motor had said children, not 'child', and she knew that the language of machinery is studded with tropes. She looked at Gott. He was curled comfortably over his book, and as she watched, he turned a page and touched his lips to the martini water. Nevertheless, she decided to test him. Sabina crossed to the nearest wall defaced by the Anti slogans. Behind her Pitman said,Here now, dont touch any of those. Why, when that first party of big game hunters came to Libo, why didnt the goonies run away and hide, or fight back? Why did they instantly, immediately, almost seem to say, You want us to die, Man? For you we will do it gladly! Didn’t they have any sense of survival at all? How could a species survive if it lacked that sense? they count our knives and forks when we finish our meals. But that wouldnt stop us using them on the b — s in the dining room! (yuk-yuk.) Words by Theodore R. Cogswell—Music: John Henry variation The calliope stopped its atonal caterwauling just before Quincannon reached the ferry landing. He took advantage of the respite to ring for the closemouthed ferryman and then board the scow, which was still moored on this bank. While he and the bay were being winched across, the calliope started up again. He could tell from mid-slough where the music, such as it was, was coming from— an old, weather-beaten steamer moored at the town wharf. Doubtless Gus Burgades store boat, theIsland Star. the philosopher(adjusting his craggy toga and yawning): The topic for tonights symposium is that vast container of all, the Void. Go ahead, I told him. Its nothing that I want to stuff for the parlor. I’m making you a gift of it.”.
