Fiction Books

Herbert bowed with a muted clank—indicating he probably needed oiling somewhere—and presented Alice with a perfect martini on a silver tray. He stood holding the tray, a white, permanent porcelain smile on his smooth metal face, as Alice sipped the drink and grimaced. "It's a good martini, Herbert," said Alice. "Thank you. But, dammit, I wish you didn't have that everlasting... more...

Cueva de San Josecito in the province of Aramberri, near the town on Aramberri, Nuevo León, México, is at an elevation of approximately 7400 feet above sea level on the east-facing slope of the Sierra Madre Occidental in a limestone scarp. The dominant vegetation about the cave is the decidedly boreal forest association of pine and live oak. Additional information concerning the cave is provided by... more...

APPENDIX I. It seems impossible to separate by any exact line the genuine writings of Plato from the spurious. The only external evidence to them which is of much value is that of Aristotle; for the Alexandrian catalogues of a century later include manifest forgeries. Even the value of the Aristotelian authority is a good deal impaired by the uncertainty concerning the date and authorship of the... more...

THE GHOST IN THE MILL "Come, Sam, tell us a story," said I, as Harry and I crept to his knees, in the glow of the bright evening firelight; while Aunt Lois was busily rattling the tea-things, and grandmamma, at the other end of the fireplace, was quietly setting the heel of a blue-mixed yarn stocking. In those days we had no magazines and daily papers, each reeling off a serial story. Once a... more...

FOREWORD I take up pen for this foreword with the fear of one who knows that he cannot do justice to his subject, and the trembling of one who would not, for a good deal, set down words unpleasing to the eye of him who wrote Green Mansions, The Purple Land, and all those other books which have meant so much to me. For of all living authors—now that Tolstoi has gone I could least dispense with W. H.... more...

The young man with the brown paper bag said, "Is Mrs. Coty in?" "I'm afraid she isn't. Is there anything I can do?" "You're Mr. Coty? I came about the soap." He held up the paper bag. "Soap?" Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husband complete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture. "That's right. I'm sure she... more...

The two spaceship crews were friendly enemies, sitting across the table from each other for their last meal before blastoff. Outside the ports, the sky was nothing but light-streaked blackness, punctured periodically by Earth glare, for Space Station 2 whirled swiftly on its axis, creating an artificial gravity. "Jonner, I figured you the last man ever to desert the rockets for a hot-rod... more...

"Don't let the old goat rattle you, Pheola," I said as we rode the elevator to the penthouse. "He'll try. Just remember, he is the one who has to say O.K. if we are to give you some training." Her eyes rolled and she moaned softly, clinging to my arm. "Oh, Billy Joe!" she whispered. "I don't want to fail you!" Maragon has some pretty creepy types in his... more...

INTRODUCTION Of all the novels and stories which Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley left in manuscript, only one novelette, Mathilda, is complete. It exists in both rough draft and final copy. In this story, as in all Mary Shelley's writing, there is much that is autobiographical: it would be hard to find a more self-revealing work. For an understanding of Mary's character, especially as she saw... more...

Act I Time: About the time of the decadence in Babylon. Scene: The jungle city of Thek in the reign of King Karnos. Tharmia: You know that my lineage is almost divine. Arolind: My father's sword was so terrible that he had to hide it with a cloak. Tharmia: He probably did that because there were no jewels in the scabbard. Arolind: There were emeralds in it that outstared the sea. * * * * * * * *... more...