The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories

The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories

Language: English

Pages: 418

ISBN: 2:00182729

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Retail ePub of this series which has seven 25-story packs (#3 has 26 for some reason) to this date released since 2011. Not released annually.

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The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack selects 25 more modern and classic science fiction stories, by talented authors new and old. Authors in this volume include: Mary A. Turzillo, E.C. Tubb, Murray Leinster, Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Jason Andrew, Henry Kuttner, Cynthia Ward, George H. Scithers and John Gregory Betancourt, Milton Lesser, John Russell Fearn, Harry Harrison, Isaac Asimov, Ayn Rand, and many more

Complete contents

"Zora and the Land Ethic Nomads," by Mary A. Turzillo

"Food for Friendship," by E.C. Tubb

"The Life Work of Professor Muntz," by Murray Leinster

"Beyond Lies the Wub," by Philip K. Dick

"Pictures Don’t Lie," by Katherine MacLean

"The Big Trip Up Yonder," by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

"Storm Warning," by Donald A. Wollheim

"The Application of Discipline," by Jason Andrew

"Tom the Universe," by Larry Hodges

"Wild Seed," by Carmelo Rafala

"Tabula Rasa," by Ray Cluley

"The Eyes of Thar," by Henry Kuttner

"Regenesis," by Cynthia Ward

"Not Omnipotent Enough," by George H. Scithers and John Gregory Betancourt

"Plato’s Bastards," by James C. Stewart

"Pen Pal," by Milton Lesser

"Living Under the Conditions," by James K. Moran

"The Arbiter," by John Russell Fearn

"The Grandmother-Granddaughter Conspiracy," by Marissa Lingen

"Top Secret," by David Grinnell

"Living Under the Conditions," by James K. Moran

"Sense of Obligation," by Harry Harrison

"Angel's Egg," by Edgar Pangborn

"Youth," by Isaac Asimov

"Anthem," by Ayn Rand

Poe: New Horror Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe

New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos

Lo mejor de Ernesto Sabato: Selección, prólogo y comentarios del autor

The 13 Crimes of Science Fiction











“Dis…” Ihjel said aloud. “Seven million people…hydrogen bombs…Brion Brandd.” These were just key words, land marks of association. With each one Brion felt the rushing wave of the other man’s emotions. There could be no lies here, Ihjel was right in that. This was the raw stuff that feelings are made of, the basic reactions to the things and symbols of memory. DIS…DIS…DIS…it was a word it was a planet and the word thundered like a drum a drum the sound of its thunder surrounded and was a

three days more, so that didn’t bother him. His muscles had a plentiful supply of fuel at hand in the no longer wanted subcutaneous fatty layer. Metabolizing it kept him warm. By running at a ground-eating pace whenever the footing was smooth he made good time. By dawn he was feeling a little tired and was at least ten kilos lighter due to the loss of the burned up fat. There was no sight of the city yet. This was the last day. Massive as the adaptation of his body was to the climate, it still

they were pictures which made men laugh. But it is only our brothers in the Home of the Artists who are permitted to draw pictures, so International 4-8818 were sent to the Home of the Street Sweepers, like ourselves. International 4-8818 and we are friends. This is an evil thing to say, for it is a great transgression, the great Transgression of Preference, to love any among men better than the others, since we must love all men and all men are our friends. So International 4-8818 and we have

room, leaving only Emerald standing in the doorway. Tears streamed over her cheeks. “Oh, you poor lamb—please don’t look so awful! It was my fault. I put you up to this with my nagging about Gramps.” “No,” said Lou, finding his voice, “really you didn’t. Honest, Em, I was just—” “You don’t have to explain anything to me, hon. I’m on your side, no matter what.” She kissed him on one cheek and whispered in his ear, “It wouldn’t have been murder, hon. It wouldn’t have killed him. It wasn’t such a

quickest way to get there?” The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. “Now take it easy, ma’am. First place, I don’t know any Haron Gorka—” Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an oh under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda, almost happily, that he was sorry he couldn’t help her. He grudgingly suggested that if it really was important, she might check with the

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