Vanishing Acts: A Science Fiction Anthology
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Ellen Datlow has been nominated for the Hugo Award for best editor and has won the World Fantasy Award. In Vanishing Acts she has gathered together an extraordinary group of stories, including a long novella by Ted Chiang, that cohere around the idea of endangered speciesin some cases interpreted to include the human race.
“It isn’t so bad.” “You’re lucky it wasn’t poisoned,” Sky said. Amy washed blood from the young climber’s wounds, sprinkled antibiotic powder in them and packed them, and wound a bandage tightly around his thigh. A little blood soaked through, but the arrow seemed to have missed the major vessels. Ralph Read had been hobbling up and down at the edge of the cliff, yelling into the radio, cursing, switching frequencies and yelling some more. Now he threw the radio aside and drew his revolver and
away. “My guys aren’t doing much, just sort of drifting back and forth, like they don’t know where they want to go.” “So!” Deacon said. “Machinesounds indeed insanify.” The hrkleshira seemed to make up their minds as Hannah watched. They drifted back toward her, descending, then settled to the rim of the water trough. Three or four of them craned their necks down to taste the water, flapping their wings for balance. A few more hopped down to the ground to investigate the rocks and the dust.
rare. He felt a bit heady contemplating spending three hundred pounds even for such a creature as Mr. Paley’s. He took his carriage directly to the Paley farm, a bank draught in his pocket. As he pulled up to the old stone house he paused, disturbed, until he realized how quiet the place was. He listened for a few moments. He heard pigeons and chickens, but faintly, at a level expected on such a farm. He knocked on the door, uneasy. After knocking twice more without answer, he wandered toward
encampment before Erin and the others woke up and found that he had gone. “Insomnia,” Mack said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Happens sometimes. I’ll take a nap later. I’m fine.” Erin touched his shoulder, reassured, and turned back to the manager. “We can deliver the insectivores to the spot you want, but it’s going to take a couple days,” he said. “We’ve only got two pickup trucks, and releasing the animals takes a while.” “Can we use the Jeeps?” Erin asked. “We can, but you can
excellence. In 1991, he received a Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Bell was poetry editor of Sunstone magazine for six years. He and his partner live in Salt Lake City, but Bell grew up on a ranch on the Snake River in Idaho, a place with hundreds of acres of forest, islands in the river, wildlife everywhere. About the genesis of his story he says, “A few years back, I visited the Conservatory in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. The rooms in this