Anthology of Selected Pieces (Transcribed and edited for the by Gaspar Sanz (ed. by Raymond Burley)

By Gaspar Sanz (ed. by Raymond Burley)

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Which was the problem. I was a ghost. My specialty was writing novels for TV stars GHOST, by Darrell Schweitzer | 44 who pretended to be novelists, which paid extraordinarily well, but my name seldom made it even into the dedication. I felt like I was pouring my talents down a black hole. “I just can’t do it anymore,” I said. ” “You are behind on your next book,” Henry said, gravely. As we absorbed the quintessential Los Angeles experience, sitting grid locked in traffic in the dry-roasting August heat while the car’s air-conditioner strained desperately to cope, it all came out, how I’d loved it all at first, and done all the touristy things in the first few weeks out here: Disneyland, Universal, Hollywood Boulevard and the Walk of Fame—and that was where the disillusion began to set in, because Hollywood Boulevard is a wreck, with many of the great Deco theaters just burned-out shells between blocks of shabby storefronts and outlets for we-want-your-bucks religious cults; and there’s even a crack in Elvis’s star, right there in the sidewalk and nobody really cares except maybe the enormous dinosaur looking down over the rooftops; but for a while still I found the smaller weird things, the fun things, which kept me going for a while, like the Ackermansion and the Museum of Jurassic Technology and Frankenstein’s Restaurant (where the tables are haunted); and Venice Beach is really very nice, and I even made the pilgrimage to Bronson Canyon where they filmed any number of matinee westerns, not to mention Robot Monster; but I suppose it was when I saw Donald Fucking Duck’s footprints in the cement in front of Grauman’s Chinese, right next to Shirley Temple’s and Humphrey Bogart’s that it came to me, Hey, this whole goddamn town is a lie, which makes me the lie behind the lie—and—and— Henry reached over and put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way and said, “You don’t have to live in Hollywood, not at this stage of your career.

And all that stuff you knew from Hitler—it wouldn’t have occurred to us. ” They were in a fair-sized machine shop at the end of a slight upward incline. It was cold. Rogge-Smith pushed a button that started a motor, and a flood of arctic light poured in as the roof parted slowly. It showed a small spaceship with the door open. M. Kornbluth | 42 Swenson-Swenson, the engineer; Tsutsugimushi-Duncan, his propellants man; Kalb-French, advertising. “In you go, Chief,” said Tsutsugimushi-Duncan. ” “You bet, Chief.

DEATH WISH, by Robert Sheckley | 59 When contact had been established, Somers took the microphone and stated their situation. The company official at the other end seemed to have trouble grasping it. ” he asked bewilderedly. “Any kind of an orbit—” “No. ” There was a babble of voices from the loudspeaker, punctuated by bursts of static. The lights flickered and reception began to fade. Rajcik, working frantically, managed to re-establish the contact. “Captain,” the official on Mars said, “we can’t think of a thing.

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