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If the applicant persists, Harry refers him to Mrs. Barger, his superior. Mrs. Barger refers him to Mr. Clott, her superior, who refers him to Mr. Whipsnade, the department chief, who happens to be away on a 52-week vacation. The heart of the ship was pulsing and throbbing. For a moment I thought I was back in Hawaii with my aqualung, an invader in a shifting, shimmering world of sea fronds and barracuda. But it was no immy, no immy—a rubber room without the notion of distance that we take for granted (technically, a room with topological properties but no metric ones). Instrument racks and chairs and books shrank and ballooned and twisted, and floor and ceiling vibrated with my breath. Gauck came in, sat down quietly, said nothing, did nothing. He did not even smoke. He never fidgeted. He never went to sleep. He just watched. Sandys fist came down hard on the bar. "Thats what I'm trying to say to you, boss! About you, about Ratlit. You've all got it in your heads that this, out here, is it! The end! Sure, you gotta accept limitations, but the right ones. Sure, you have to admit there are certain directions in which you can not go. But once you do that, you find there are others where you can go as far as you want. Look, I'm not gonna hang around the Star-pit all my life. And if I make my way back toward galactic centre, make enough money so I can go home, raise my family the way I want, that's going forward, forward even from here. Not back." He was on his feet, heading for the kitchen. Hed explored this escape route long ago. Thats right . . . he stared at Ian. Why? Why’d he invite you back?” He uttered a grunting sound that she took to be an affirmative. She prompted him by saying,Infuriatingly worse than blackmail, you said. Meaning? I had a test today. I think I faled it. and I think that maybe now they wont use me. What happind is a nice young man was in the room and he had some white cards with ink spilled all over them. He sed Charlie what do you see on this card. I was very skared even tho I had my rabits foot in my pockit because when I was a kid I always faled tests in school and I spilled ink to. Can you takeanother word? Two, really: criticismand category.They are why you probably never heard of Ellipsiabefore. Critics like categories. Some critical categories are: Pop, science fiction, avant-garde,mainstream, black humour. Hortense Calisher has a distinctive reputation as a mainstream writer— sub-category, female, One critic found the book wanting in a survey of Ladies Novels; another put it down as inadequate neo-Joyce; one who did notreview it thought it could have been an avant-gardehit if someone like William Burroughs had written it. S-f critics, who would have loved it, never saw it. The category it actually fits had not yet been invented. It wasnt a fine morning, as a matter of fact. Thick, wind-swirled fog once more laid a damp gray pall over the city. More rain was in the offing, too; Sabina sensed it and had brought her umbrella with her. But she remained hopeful that the storm would hold off until after this evening’s benefit in Union Square. With the newspapers rampaging on their demi-decade crusade against drug decadence in the colleges and universities, with a specialTime-Life report onThe Drug Takers, and whole shelves of books devoted to LSD—where, I wonder, are all the stories on psychedelics? There has been a scattering in the magazines, but the only one I recall lingering over was Henry Slesars Melodramine inPlayboy. "I tried to write a trilogy," Sandy said. "It was lousy. But it pushed some things off my chest. So I got something out of it, even if nobody else did, which is whats important. Because now Im a better mechanic for it, boss. Until I admit to myself what I can't do, it's pretty hard to work on what I can. Same goes for Ratlit. You too. That's growing up. And one thing you can't do is help Ratlit by giving him a ship he can't fly." The flopper stopped. Looking up at him dumbly, it rolled its bulbous brown eyes. Not while Ive been by these past two weeks. The window has always been dark. Bagelbaker shuffled off whistlingSlow Tuesday Night. A breakdown of function and structure, said Colles. An absolute lack of communication. Isnt it so?” Mr. Taylor, a trim, blond young man, who looked like an ad for expensive shirts, listened carefully, said nothing. Melchior looked impressed—and uncomprehending. Colles took his arm just above the elbow, pressed it. “Look at that fellow over there,” he said. “The one in the brown suit—see? Now: can I communicate with him? Or can you? On any save the most primitive level? No. Impossible, I assure you. I’ve only to look at him to know.” The crowd flowed across the street. The men in the car watched the vanishing brown suit. Then what have you found out? I am considering it, sir. Let me interrupt here for just a moment, General, if I may. This conditioning—is this a type of physical training?.
