Jaded invite crooked
Listen, this is how you met the monster and dissected it. Listen, you were skin-diving in the Grenadines, a hundred tropical shoal-water islands; you had a new blue snorkel mask, the kind with face-plate and breathing-tube all in one, and new blue flippers on your feet, and a new blue spear-gun—all this new because youd only begun, you see; you were a beginner, aghast with pleasure at your easy intrusion into this underwater otherworld. You’d been out in a boat, you were coming back, you’d just reached the mouth of the little bay, you’d taken the notion to swim the rest of theway. You’d said as much to the boys and slipped into the warm silky water. You brought your gun. But you had to come to him— They came. Sure, Muller said. He sounded very satisfied with himself. Can you think of a better reason? Besides, we may have to fight em some day. Itll be a good idea to know all we can about ‘em.” But my father said . . . Yes. Why would you think— Oh. Another, harsher warning? I read on, but the nature of the plague was not discussed. I turned pages, skipped ahead, and drew a blank. "Im not in space now. Im in the Cats' Graveyard." What poem? Mangon hurried across to her, put his arms round her shoulders to support her. She pushed him away irritably, railing at herself to discharge her impatience.Its useless, Mangon, it’s stupid of me, I was a fool— Still she did not move. "Because if the Empires crumbling, England will go first. Its an island. They'll withdraw the legions to defend the Empire— it's traditional." All right, sir. No answer. He rang the desk bell. I started writing about eleven years ago, and my first published story won a Best First Story award in the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.Ive had fifteen (I think) stories published altogether—about three-quarters of my total output—most of them in British magazines and three in F&SF.I’m probably the slowest and least prolific writer working in any field, the chief reason being that I find it such darned hard graft. I love it, but it beats the stuffing out of me, which is why, questions of quality apart, I could never attempt it as a full-time career. . . . The rear door to Letitia Carvers house, yes. But it was bolted when I tried it and she claimed not to have had any visitors. JIL JIPY TUP - Any machine with something incurable about it; pleasant laughter that is nevertheless unwelcome; the action of pulling up the trousers while running downhill.
