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Yes. Do you understand? … middy collar, batten-barton sleeves with sixteen rows of smeddlycup balderdashes…. Pretty good chest and shoulders, I thought, staring in the mirror; Im twenty-six years old, kind of thin faced, not bad-looking, not good-looking. The lower half of her body changed itself from white to very pale blue, from very pale blue to pale green, from pale green to emerald green, to moss and lime green, to scintillas and sequins all dark green, all flowing away in a fount, a curve, a rush of light and dark, to end in a lacy fan, a spread of foam and jewel on the sand. The two halves of this creature were so joined as to reveal no point of fusion where pearl woman, woman of a whiteness made of cream-water and clear sky, merged with that half which belonged to the amphibious slide and rush of current that came up on the shore and shelved down the shore, tugging its half toward its proper home. The woman was the sea, the sea was woman. There was no flaw or seam, no wrinkle or stitch; the illusion, if illusion it was, held perfectly together and the blood from one moved into and through and mingled with what must have been the ice-waters of the other. Perhaps one of my friends will manage to live until there is peace and quiet. I have never known such a time. But it may come, and somebody might say,Those, children, were the days when we learned to throw a bomb as you learn to throw a ball. The boy Martin was there at that time, and he played the man among us men . . . Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is John Ardanyon bringing you the start of the third day of the 2050 Olympic War Games. Of course, all that (except the physics lessons and conclusions about God) is just theplot. The book is built out of forty-onechapters, some containing a eulogy, critique, polemic, or outright backstab, aimed at Jarrys associates and enemies, and other prominent figures of the time; and each is a separate entity, containing a discourse or comment or allegory on art, science, politics, religion, metaphysics, literature . . . and, of course, Pataphysics (which isthe science). Cordwainer Smith is the pseudonym of a gentleman who is undoubtedly the farthest-out Professor of Sociology ever to hide his dignity behind a fantasy-barrel. I have yet to see two stories alike fromMr. Smith—or one that did not somehow fascinate me.* * * * The plug, then. The fissure lit up like a boulevard. Across from me I knew the flare was dropping dreamily, but I wasnt looking that way. Right below me, two hundred feet down, I saw a transparent helmet with something green and round and crested inside and with shoulders under it. He was—well, frankly, in olden days he would have been thought a monster. He lowered his voice as if it were a subject not to be broached aloud. He was frightful to look upon.” Dont! cried the first boy. The subject was intelligent Extraterrestrial Life. Yet this was no gathering of wild-eyed dreamers. The convener was the Space Science Board of the National Academy of Sciences. The host was one of the world’s most distinguished astronomers, and several others among the eleven men present were internationally recognized leaders in their highly diverse fields. I got someone who is sick, said Mose. ‘I hope you can help him. I would have tried myself, but I don’t know how to go about it.’ "The way into this game is too easy," said Berke. "If we study, it is to be eventually better at our job. There is no ruling. It is a labour of love. Amateurs, opportunists can always make inroads. Perhaps we should form a union, or get some recognition from the Central Committee." What is a man? Im a man by definition. By natural right By accident of fertilization. What else is a man? From a long way off down the coast a voice called. They had now traveled down the outside of the chamber that housed the tridiorama. When the elevator gates opened, they stepped out, both aware and glad in their different ways that they were about to part for good. Harry fainted again. Goldy thought he had a moneymaking scheme for us, but Goldy hasnt been normal since he took Polykarp Kusch’s Kusch of Death at Columbia, “Electrodimensions and Magnespace.” He was going to build four-dimensional molecules. I sat savoring my egg the next morning, letting my thoughts slip in and out of my mind to the rhythm of my jaws. What a funny dream to have, to talk with a silver-voiced someone. To talk about the way blowing clouds and windy moonlight felt. But it wasnt a dream! I paused with my fork raised. At least not my dream. But how can you tell? If you’re part of someone else’s dream, can it still be real for you?.
