The starways’ Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues. ...
“You wanted out?” Walker leaned forward, unwilling to believe what he had heard. “Are you trying to tell me that you arranged your discharge?” Millet shrugged. “Why, of course. Nobody ever has bothered to ask me about that up to now, but I certainly did arrange it. It wasn’t hard, you know. All I had to do was set up some sort of relationship with a so-called security risk, and I was on my way out.” “Why . . . that’s damned near ...
If you ever get to drinking beer in your favorite saloon and meet a scared little guy who wants to buy you the joint, supply you with fur coats and dolls and run you for Congress—listen well! That is, if you really want the joint, the fur coats, the dolls and a seat in Congress. Just ask Mike Murphy . . . . ...
Everything was aimed at satisfying the whims of women. The popular cliches, the pretty romances, the catchwords of advertising became realities; and the compound kept the men enslaved. George knew what he had to do . . . . ...
You’re all alone in a deserted city. You walk down an empty street, yearning for the sight of one living face—one moving figure. Then you see a man on a corner and you know your terror has only begun. ...
I didn’t have to ask whom he meant. “Scrawny neck” would mean only one inmate of our void-perambulating asylum. Lancelot Biggs. Genius and crackpot, scarecrow and sage—and soon to become son-in-law of the skipper. ...
“This Ilbrahaim, though—he swears our camp’s being haunted. He thinks a weredog, or werewolf, has attached itself to us. Says he woke and saw it prowling about last night.” ...