Science Fiction Books

It was just as he saw The Barbarian's squat black tankette lurch hurriedly into a nest of boulders that young Giulion Geoffrey realized he had been betrayed. With the muzzle of his own cannon still hot from the shell that had jammed The Barbarian's turret, he had yanked the starboard track lever to wheel into position for the finishing shot. All around him, the remnants of The... more...

Here the dark cave, along which Nat Starrett had been creeping, broadened into what his powerful searchlight revealed to be a low, wide, smoothly circular room. At his feet lapped black, thick-looking waves of an underground lake, a pool of viscous substance that gave off a penetrating, poignant odor of acid, sweetish and intoxicating, unlike any acid he knew. The smell rolled up in a sickening, sultry... more...

When people talk about getting away from it all, they are usually thinking about our great open spaces out west. But to science fiction writers, that would be practically in the heart of Times Square. When a man of the future wants solitude he picks a slab of rock floating in space four light years east of Andromeda. Here is a gentle little story about a man who sought the solitude of such a location.... more...

"They're crazy! They're insane! That mob outside is made up of madmen," Jacob Clark told his young assistant, Bill Towney. "They'll be battering at the door any minute now, sir," Towney said nervously. "But why? Why are they doing it? My inventions have advanced the world a hundred years. I've always been a benefactor of man, not a destroyer." "It's... more...

CHAPTER I It was shortly after noon of December 31, 1970, when the series of weird and startling events began which took me into the tiny world of an atom of gold, beyond the vanishing point, beyond the range of even the highest-powered electric-microscope. My name is George Randolph. I was, that momentous afternoon, assistant chemist for the Ajax International Dye Company, with main offices in New... more...

The slovenly wub might well have said: Many mentalk like philosophers and live like fools. They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. "What's the matter?" he said. "You're getting paid for all this." The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting... more...

In order to clear up any misunderstanding or false impressions regarding the amazing case of my beloved friend and co-worker, Professor Howard E. Edwards, I submit herewith, extracts from the professor's notebook, which I found on the desk. Evans Barclay, B.S. Fellow IRE. Jan. 25. Last night, in my dreams, I was a monstrous ant, and had been digging myself a burrow in the soft fresh earth. The... more...

The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk, "This is your third set of teeth, I believe?" His patient nodded, "That's right, Doctor. But they were pretty slow coming in this time." The doctor looked up quizzically, "Is that the only reason you think you might need a booster shot?" "Oh, no ... of course not!" The man leaned forward and placed one hand,... more...

Don Michaels twisted about uneasily for a moment, then looked toward the doors of the darkened auditorium. He shook his head, then returned his attention to the stage. Of course, he'd joined in the applause—a guy felt sort of idiotic, just sitting there while everyone else in the place made loud noises—but that comedy act had been pretty smelly. They should have groaned instead of applauding.... more...

He hadn't gotten any work done that morning. He'd spent most of the time pacing the floor of his small back office, and the rest of it at the window—hands clasped behind his somewhat bowed back—staring up into the cloudless sky. At ten-forty, the intercom buzzed. He snapped the switch. "Yes?" "I've got those figures, Mr. Lake. We have nine—" "Maybe you'd... more...