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Right, John. Folks, the survivor, or survivors as the case may be, will truly become aSurvivor. A Survivor, as most of you know, is exempt from all laws; he has unlimited credit; in short, he can literally do no wrong. And thats what those men are shooting for today. John. He glanced sheepishly at his torn sharkskin slacks.I was shinnying down this tree. I guess somebody left a nail in it. Freddi Urbont burst into tears. Byron and Burbitt yelled as a bubble in the floor swallowed them. The wall next to the nose jobs sprouted a dozen phallic symbols, while the seat bubbled with breasts. The walls began to melt. Seidmann began to yell about the special status of N. Y. City University Honors Program students. The music chirruped to a close, provoking obvious consternation and an abrupt halt to the amiably excited pawing. This recommenced, briefly, as the caustic virtuosity of Charlie Parkers saxophone scurried from the speaker, then ceased altogether as the creature carefully lowered itself to a squatting position, its tendrils now moving in gently bobbing patterns that made Dr. Williams think light-headedly of dancing flowers. Gingerly, and wearing a fatuously polite smile, he joined it on the ground, offering thanks for the apparently safe opportunity to do so before his legs gave way of their own accord. We live in the egg,We have covered the inside wallof the shell with dirty drawingsand the Christian names of our enemies.We are being hatched.Whoever is hatching usis hatching our pencils as well.Set free from the egg one dayat once we shall draw a pictureof whoever is hatching us.We assume that were being hatchedWe imagine some good-natured fowland write school essaysabout the colour and breedof the hen that is hatching us.When shall we break the shell?Our prophets inside the eggfor a middling salary argueabout the period of incubation.They posit a day called X.Out of boredom and genuine needwe have invented incubators.We are much concerned about our offspring inside the egg.We should be glad to recommend our patentto her who looks after us.But we have a roof over our heads.Senile chicks,polyglot embryoschatter all dayand even discuss their dreams.And what if were not being hatched?If this shell will never break?If our horizon is only thatof our scribbles, and always will be?We hope that we're being hatched.Even if we only talk of hatchingthere remains the fear that someoneoutside our shell will feel hungryand crack us into the frying pan with a pinch of salt.—What shall we do then, my brethren inside the egg? Fortunately Washington is not unaware of this situation and certain elements there are attempting to create a more favorable atmosphere for fresh, original thinking—in spite of the opposition of intrenched conservatives such as Admiral Rickover (who recently refused even to consider a revolutionary plan submitted by a high-ranking Pentagon official to install steam power in submarines). "Heard about Freddy Gore," I said. I got a little more of what had happened from the head warehouseman, who was a friend of mine. He smelled something wrong, he said, the minute the tender cut its blasts and settled down. Usually theres joshing, not always friendly, between the tender crew and the warehouse crew —the contempt of the spaceman for the landbound; the scorn of the landbound for the glamor-boy spacemen who think their sweat is wine. He phoned Doctor Benson and talked with him a while and got red around the gills. He finally slammed down the phone and turned on Mose. Class: A set Her equally hairless husband, Ben, sprawled at the kitchen table waiting for breakfast. He wore red plaid Bermuda shorts, rather faded, and a tee shirt with a large hole under the arm. His skull curved above his staring eyes more naked-seeming than hers because he wore no kerchief or hat. This seemed simple enough in itself. It was another time, another space, another continuum. ROBERT SILVERBERG:Neighbor, Gal, Aug. No, no one. She left and I went and lay down. I felt tired after all that. Suddenly Heinie called out, "The lines gone. Papa, Mama, Im lost." He looked around the room, desperately. Pearl was rigid against the iris of the tube. Goldy looked at Ted for a moment, then his head darted from side to side. His hands whitened on the controls. It was the first time wed been to the Soviet Embassy, which was throwing a party for a group of Russian oceanographers who’d just come into port. Beneath the inevitable paintings of Lenin and Stalin, a couple of hundred guests of all colors, religions and languages were milling around, chatting with friends, or single-mindedly demolishing the vodka and caviar. I’d been separated from Mike and Elizabeth, but could see them at the other side of the room. Mike was doing his There was I at fifty fathoms bit to a fascinated audience, while Elizabeth watched him quizzically, and more people watched Elizabeth..
