Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A trip report of Gardner’s travel to Intersection, the Glasgow Worldcon, plus many of his otherwise unavailable science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories. Individual story introductions by Stephen Baxter, Michael Bishop, Pat Cadigan, Susan Casper, Jack Dann, Andy Duncan, Eliot Fintushel, Joe Haldeman, James Patrick Kelly, John Kessel, nancy Kress, George R.R. martin, Paul McAuley, Ian McLeod, Mike Resnick, Kim Stanley Robinson, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Robert Silverberg, Michael Swanwick, Walter Jon Williams, Connie Willis, and Jane Yolen. Dustjacket art by Stephen Youll.
back—where one of them distracted the enemy long enough for the other to pilfer the knob. This knob was ceremonially returned to Gardner, who used it to open the communicating door, abuse George vilely and deservedly, then shut the door before George could respond. Baffled in this contest of wit and ingenuity, the other side resorted to violence. Carl Keim arrived carrying a carving knife. (I don’t know where he got it. Probably he carries it all the time.) At knife-point he demanded the return
which the Company used to bribe people into working for them. At least he could still get around under his own power, even if he had an embarrassing tendency to puff after a few blocks and needed frequent stops to rest. It was a fine, clear day, not too hot or humid for August in Philadelphia. He nodded to his nearest neighbor, a Canadian refugee, who was out front pulling weeds from his window box; the man nodded back, although it seemed to Czudak that he was a bit curt, and looked away
isn’t any shade, and here on these bare rocky hills there is no shelter from the sun at all. Nevertheless, I am strangely happy here, and would probably be content to spend the entire vacation tramping aimlessly around over the moors. (I am fundamentally a mountain person, always happiest when I am in high country, and Susan is fundamentally a water person, happiest near or on a large body of water; I later noticed that throughout the trip, whenever I would say “Look at that!” and point at
knowing that he should shout, scream, try to rouse the other prisoners, but somehow unable to move, unable to make his mouth open, his lungs pump. He was paralyzed by fear, like a rabbit in the presence of a predator, a terror sharper and more intense than any he’d ever known. The man’s struggles were growing weaker, and Wernecke must have eased up some on the throttling pressure of his hand, because the man moaned “Don’t . . . please don’t . . .” in a weak, slurred voice. The man had been
he couldn’t give up. Not yet. Barry sighed, and massaged his stomach, feeling the acid twinges in his gut that he knew presaged a savage attack of indigestion later on. This was virgin territory, a literally untouched route. Gold waiting to be mined. And the Fairy Queen had given this territory to him . . . Doggedly, he plodded up to the next house, which looked something like a gigantic acorn, complete with a thatched cap and a crazily twisted chimney for the stem. He knocked on a round wooden