The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction: A 30-Year Retrospective
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Hardcover reprint of the October 1979 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, including: Introduction by Edward K. Ferman; F&SF at 30, essay by Isaac Asimov; Fondly Fahrenheit, by Alfred Bester (SF Hall of Fame story); And Now the News . . . by Theodore Sturgeon; Not With a Bang, by Damon Knight; Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes (winner, 1960 Hugo Award); A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr.; One Ordinary Day, with Peanuts, by Shirley Jackson; The Women Men Don't See, by James Tiptree, Jr.; Born of Man and Woman, by Richard Matheson (nominated, 2001 Retro Hugo); Jeffty Is Five, by Harlan Ellison (winner, 1977 Nebula Award, 1978 Hugo Award, 1978 Locus Poll Award); Ararat, by Zenna Henderson; Sundance, by Robert Silverberg; Dreaming Is a Private Thing, by Isaac Asimov; Poor Little Warrior!, by Brian W. Aldiss; We Can Remember It for You Wholesale, by Philip K. Dick; Selectra Six-Ten, by Avram Davidson; Problems of Creativeness, by Thomas M. Disch; The Quest for Saint Aquin, by Anthony Boucher (SF Hall of Fame story); The Gnurrs Come from the Voodvork Out, by Reginald Bretnor; plus cartoons and poems.
bright birds sway, the lice scamper like dogs, the marsh groans, as bronto sways over and sends his little cranium snaking down under the bile-bright water in a forage for roughage. You watch this; you have never been so jittery before in all your jittered life, and you are counting on this catharsis wringing the last drop of acid fear out of your system for ever. OK, you keep saying to yourself insanely over and over, your million-dollar twenty-second-century education going for nothing, OK, OK.
very long time, that time your old girl friend, the one you hired to read Manuscripts, you remember? Nuf sed. And I know you have only my own welfare at heart. Right? Right. So you wouldn't be angry when I explain that Igot the idea, whilst triping on my new tripewriter, that if I carried out your nifty keen suggestions for the rewrite of my BELINDA BEESWAX story, that would drolly enough convert it into a Crime Story, as well as F and SF. Just for the fun of it, then, I couldn't resist sharyimg
"All right, Charlie," he said, "you've seen these cards before, remember?" "Of course I remember." The way I said it, he knew I was angry, and he looked surprised. "Yes, of course. Now I want you to look at this one. What might this be? What do you see on this card? People see all sorts of things in these inkblots. Tell me what it might be for you—what it makes you think of." I was shocked. That wasn't what I had expected him to say at all. "You mean there are no pictures hidden in those
to locate the other People. None of the boys here please me. Me Hilbert Schenck,Jr. I think that I shall never see A calculator made like me. A me that likes Martinis dry And on the rocks, a little rye. A me that looks at girls and such, But mostly girls, and very much. A me that wears an overcoat And likes a risky anecdote. A me that taps a foot and grins Whenever Dixieland begins. They make computers for a fee, But only moms can make a me. Sundance Robert Silverberg
skin glisten; my heart pounds. I talk to them with my feet, and they understand. They understand. They have a language of soft sounds. They have a god. They know love and awe and rapture. They have rites. They have names. They have a history. Of all this I am convinced. I dance on thick grass. How can I reach them? With my feet, with my hands, with my grunts, with my sweat. They gather by the hundreds, by the thousands, and I dance. I must not stop. They cluster about me and make their