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What makes me mention it now is Roald Dahls story. This one is a calamity story, and if you happen to have any adrenochromesemicarbazone around, I suggest you lake a pre-reading injection.* * * * "Work? I had thought you had quit work." "I want to." [ _3.jpg] This is the first time I have used two stories by one author (knowingly—but that is anotherAnnual, and another author). Not that I have opposed the practice on principle: In fact, if I were to lake my title literally, most of theAnnuals would be limited to the work of five or six authors; it is a rare, happy year when any more than that can be said to be writing thebest. Im a trouble-shooter for Company Personnel, she said. What dyou mean, allowed? she did not understand. The bell rang, and everyone else left—probably for Health and Hygiene, which is a required course except by special dispensation. I said, Hello, to Miss Collins and smiled. I might say that I am almost always nice and pleasant—and patient, thinking right as I do. The greeting was somehow the easiest; I slowed down considerably after that and didnt say anything for a few minutes while I tried to think of a suitable explanation for Uncle Joe, one that Miss Collins would understand and yet wouldn’t disturb my own beliefs. I finally came up with, “My uncle’s gone.” That seemed to me to be a reasonable assertion,but it visibly upset Miss Collins probably because it came just the week after the news about Aunt Maude. Under the circumstances, I tried to be more cheerful. What is his field? Ed asked gloomily. Though absorbed in his work, Dr. Proctor isnt rude to interrupters. A man of unusual balance, coming as he does from a culture which sends out scientific parties that are ninety per cent of one sex, when their species provides them with two. At first meetings he is dedicated but agreeable, and Im charmed. Mullers eyes shifted from Reese to Hitchcock, then back again. He did, huh? he said neutrally. The room hushed suddenly; everyone froze. Only the whispering flight of the bats and the naked girls whimpering broke the heavy silence. All eyes were on me, even Barone’s. This had to be good. Mrs. Browns treatment of the theme is as different from Mr. Bretnor’s as psi and yoga. But in both (as in Miss Emmett’s Enchantment) there is the same odd background quality of truly fearful loneliness that seems somehow integral to such a story.* * * * The screechers tracks vanished over the crest of a rise. Qua-orellee veered away from the trail, to reach the crest well away from where the screecher had been. It was hard to climb the slope with only his rear legs. He dropped down and hobbled along using one of his front limbs. In the flipperlike hand of the other, he clutched his rock. The convention took me there, but London kept me: I went for two weeks; and stayed two months—and of course went up to Oxford (as in all those British novels) for a weekend. It is everything Brian said, and everything those English novels promised, too. (Nothing had prepared me for the House of 12th-century Wood-Carvings and Stuffed Birds, home of Bonfiglioli andImpulse.) She was chosen half a Process ago to do the dances—to wait for you..
