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Even the most conscientious sound-sweep was limited by his skill, and Mangon, with his auditory supersensitivity, was greatly in demand for his ability to sweep selectively, draining from the walls of the Oratory all extraneous and discordant noises—coughing, crying, the clatter of coins and mumble of prayer—leaving behind the chorales and liturgical chants which enhanced their devotional overtones. His skill alone would lengthen the life of the Assisi pediments by twenty years; without him they would soon become contaminated by the miscellaneous traffic of the congregation. Consequently he had no fears that the Dean would complain if he failed to appear as usual that morning. The worst thing about this was that I could not abdicate: other parents in other times could fluff off the questions of their kids with such hopeless and worthless judgments asWell, thats how things are, thereby implying that both the questioner and the questioned are standing passively at the dead end of a chain of historical cause, or are existentially trapped in the eye of a storm of supernal origin, or are at the nexus of a flock of processes arising out of the choices of too many other agencies to pinpoint and blame definitively…our life, on the other hand, was clearly and in every significant particular our own baby. It did not merely proceed out of one particular historical choice, complete with foreseeable contingencies, but was an entire fabric of choices—ours. Here was total responsibility, complete with crowding elder bushes, cold rain, chiggers, rattlers, bone-weariness and mud. I had elected to live it—even to impose it upon my progeny—and I was prepared for its hardships, but what galled me was having to justify it. Sm: Smith "Her desk," rasped Jayne. "This ... Indian ...you mean— " Do you care to comment on your own battle plans, General? We went on drinking and talking, but Nikolai Vassilevitch seemed very much disturbed and absent in spirit. Once he suddenly interrupted what he was saying, seized my hand in his and burst into tears. "What can I do now?" he exclaimed. "You understand, Foma Paskalovitch, that I loved her?" Reese nodded.I know, he admitted placidly. “Whatever we do—whatever we decide—it will be thousands of years before the consequences come. I rather imagine well have been forgotten. That puts a terrible responsibility on us. We must try to do what is right.” For instance, there should have been a spot somewhere to chuckle over Giles Goat-Boy,or to mention John Barths thoughtful and effective article The Literature of Exhaustion', in Atlantic.And I wanted to find space to discuss at least briefly the flood of critical volumes on s-f over the past two years: H. Bruce Franklin's Future Perfect,I.F. Clarke's Voices Prophesying War,and Mark Hillegas' The Future as Nightmare,all from Oxford University Press; Advent's reissue of an expanded version of Damon Knight's In Search of Wonder; C.S. Lewis' posthumous collection of papers. Of Other Worlds(Harcourt); and a whole range of books of varying merit on Cabell, E. R. Burroughs, E. E. Smith, and others— right down to Sam Moskowitz's Six-Foot Shelf of Plodding Prose in Praise of 1950. Of course, said Penrose, fellows in the Efficiency Detail are overworked and underpaid. Sometimes they cant be as thorough as they’d like to be.” Bankruptcy and recovery in business. Youre a very clever man, Mr. Reese, he conceded with gleeful ferocity. But not clever enough. You cannot deny the things I have seen with my own eyes. Nor can you lay all the blame at the feet of your underlings. What this man has done”—he gestured at Muller—”has no bearing on the fundamental fact that the welfare of this planet’s natives has been willfully and shamefully ignored—and that you have refused to do anything about it. If you do not correct this situation at once, I will expose you to every civilized community in the universe!” Ill never forget Carlos’ face when Mike said that. At first an expression of incredulity, then of panic, while he turned toward us, as though to make sure his ears hadn’t betrayed him. But what he probably read on our faces— well, on mine and Shimmy Kunitz’, because the twitches running over Swifty Zavrakos’ face kept anyone from seeing what was happening there—must have confirmed his worst fears, and the expression of astonishment and panic was soon followed by one of frightening calm. Most publishers usecategories to determine costume—or “packaging,” as the trade calls it. Science fiction, like fantasy, crime, suspense, Westerns, doctor and nurse stories, sex, love, war, is a “category.” And then there are “novels”—the non-category category, where subject does not matter, because either the book or the author is considered serious or literary or popular. (1984 and The Disappearance were serious books; The Lord of the Flies and Brave New World were literary; Fail Safe and Earth Abides popular; More Than Human and A Canticle for Liebowitz were science fiction: the latter in spite— or perhaps because?—of the publishers overfervent denials.) You have proof of this? I ceased to listen, partly because I was already sold, partly because I had heard the story of slow glass many times before and had never yet understood the principles involved. An acquaintance with scientific training had once tried to be helpful by telling me to visualise a pane of slow glass as a hologram which did not need coherent light from a laser for the reconstitution of its visual information, and in which every photon of ordinary light passed through a spiral tunnel coiled outside the radius of capture of each atom in the glass. This gem of, to me, incomprehensibility not only told me nothing, it convinced me once again that a mind as non-technical as mine should concern itself less with causes than effects. The little man got down, wetting his lips nervously. Hello, Fred, a few people said.Hello, Fred called, waving his hand. He was about forty, with a big nose and big soft brown eyes. His voice was cracked and uncertain. “Well, we sure put on a show, didnt we?”.
