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For novels in the magazines: to Gordon Dicksons explosive Dorsai! (Ast, May-July), Everett E. Cole’s “The Best Made Plans,” (Ast, Nov.-Dec.); and the magazine version of Pat Frank’s “Alas, Babylon” (Good Housekeeping, March). Up. I spotted a green, unwinking star, and felt a lump in my throat. When I had finished I was pleased. It wasnt great—at least, it was no greater than it needed to be—High Martian not being my strongest tongue. I groped, and put it into English, with partial rhymes. Maybe I’d stick it in my next book. I called itBraxa: Turned out it was not only -able, but very much -ed. Jarry lived in France at the turn of the century—and wrote in a vein startlingly similar to the newest surreal-science-fantasy. He is currently having a revival among the avant-garde, with an off-Broadway production of his play, Uhu Roi, and new editions of his work from New Directions. He is also the founder (prophet? inventor? perpetrator? saint?) of the Science of Pataphysics. I will scatter a few nuts on the frosting, said Maxwell, and he pushed the lever for that. This sifted handfuls of words like chthonic and heuristic and prozymeides through the thing so that nobody could doubt it was a work of philosophy. That is the view of the Soviet government. Touch of the grippe, Quincannon lied. The FDA has become supercautious: DMSO—dimethyl sulfoxide —is still not released for any but experimental use. Many ordinary citizens have become wildly experimental (Here, try my pills!). The laws governing narcotics are hopelessly confused, and apparently as hopeless to enforce. Her breasts tumbled out like children at recess. We pressed together. Marilyn kissed my ear. It occurred to me that Oliver August, the vengeful seducer, had never opened a single button. I crossed the Mall and got the usual suspicious stares from the mixed assortment of soldiery that half-filled it. The uniforms were all the same. You couldnt tell the noble Tommy from the fiendish Hun. I looked to my right and saw Buckingham Palace. From the mast flew a huge flag, a Union Jack with a bloody great swastika superimposed on it. Id never got rid of my loathing for that symbol, conceived as part of their perverted, crazy mysticism. Field Marshal Wilmot had been an officer in the Brigade of St. George— British fascists who had fought with Hitler almost from the start. A shrewd character that Wilmot. He had a little moustache that was identical with the Leader's — but as he was prematurely bald, hadn't been able to cultivate the lock of hair to go with it. He was fat and bloated with drink and probably drugs. He depended entirely on the Leader. If he hadn't been there it might have been a different story. Merrill shouted after him.Mangon, help me fix this! Where are you going? He got down on his knees, started trying to piece the sonovac together. The mistress laid the ruler down. She said,In two weeks time, after our little concert and the customary speeches for end of term, there will be a presentation. I shall be given a reading lamp or a Life of Johnson, and I shall make a short parting address wishing you all luck in the years to come and hoping you have a Merry Christmas.There will be three cheers for Miss Hutton. I can hear them now, very penetrating and shrill with the school captain leading them. Then I shall leave. I studied this lonely guy. His name was Mack—Id heard him called that. He was probably ten years older than I was, which made him in his middle forties—plenty old enough to have dozens of potential Contacts. There was nothing visibly wrong with him except this look of unspeakable misery he wore—and if he really had no Contacts at all, then I was surprised the look was of mere misery, not of terror. "Ive had it, boy," he said. "I think Ill just go in the house and die." gott: Keep off me, I tell you. Lord! There are so many originals and somany words! When I was twelve I started pointing out the little differences between what he was preaching and what I was reading..
