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[Английский] Frederik Pohl / Фредерик Пол - Собрание книг (69 шт)[1941-2011, fb2/epub, ENG] 
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Год выпуска: 1941-2011 г.
Автор: Frederik Pohl / Фредерик Пол
Язык: Английский
Формат: fb2/epub
Качество: OCR/eBook
Описание: Фредерик Пол родился 26 ноября 1919 г. в Нью-Йорке. Единственный сын бизнесмена Фреда Джорджа Пола и его жены, ирландки Джейн Мэзон, Фред-младший с младенчества оказался погружен в мир чудовищно неопределенный и нестабильный, в котором блистательные удачи чередовались с не менее впечатляющими провалами, и никогда нельзя было предвидеть, что принесет завтрашний день. Не лучшая пора для бизнесменов — время первого из Великих Кризисов, потрясших американское общество в начале века.
Рос и учился главным образом в Бруклине. Сначала — публичная школа, затем — техническое училище, но не закончил его, полностью переключившись на литературную деятельность. Здесь, в Бруклин-Техе, он познакомился с настоящими фэнами. В это учебное заведение привела его любовь к научной фантастике: поскольку в те годы в стране не было ни одного колледжа, где бы преподавали дисциплину с таким названием («...даже ни одного специализированного колледжа с уклоном в естественные науки...- а жаль, мне казалось, я мог бы стать неплохим физиком или астрономом»,- вспоминает Пол), то пришлось ограничиться Бруклин-Техом. «Многие курсы были посвящены естественным наукам, которые в моем воображении были частью любимой научной фантастики. Кроме того, само заведение считалось престижным, чтобы поступить в него, требовалась специальная подготовка. Ничего лучшего моя душа-душа двенадцатилетнего сноба — придумать не могла».
В 17 лет, в качестве активного фэна, участвовал в Первой всемирной конвенции фантастов (Филадельфия), она состоялась в Нью-Йорке, в 1939-м, в 19 лет вместе с А. Азимовым, С. Корнблатом, Д. Найтом основал общество Футурианцев.
В это же время начинает издавать и редактировать два НФ журнала: «Astounding Stories» и «Super Science Stories», где публикует под разными псевдонимами и свои собственные произведения. Они приносили молодому главреду немного: 10 долларов в неделю. Но он был согласен и на это, ибо сей труд приносил ему истинную радость. (Кстати, первые премии «Хьюго» Фредерик Пол получил именно за свою редакторскую деятельность, в то время как первую премию за собственно литературное произведение — лишь в начале 1970-х годов...)
Еще в 1937 году будущий писатель записывается в добровольческую Американскую бригаду имени Абрахама Линкольна, чтобы отправиться на войну в Испанию. Но в тот раз ему не было суждено попасть на фронт. Во время войны Пол служил в американской Армии (с апреля 1943 по ноябрь 1945), дослужившись до сержанта воздушной метеорологической службы. После обучения в Иллинойсе, Оклахоме, и Колорадо, он был направлен для службы в Италию.
Первые публикации (под различными псевдонимами) — стихотворения и 2 рассказа совместно с Милтоном Ротманом в период с 1937 по 1939 годы.
В 1940-м году первый раз женился на Лесли Перри, также одной из участниц футурианского общества. Брак не удержался и четырех лет — тем не менее, Пол еще четырежды отправлялся в это рискованное предприятие (в 1945 году — Дороти ЛесТина, в 1948 на Джужит Мерилл, в 1953 — Карол Миткал Ульф). Второй брак «подстерег» Пола сразу по окончании войны, три последних года которой будущий писатель провел в бомбардировочной авиации, приняв участие в боевых действиях в Италии. После того как боевые действия кончились, молодой военный летчик был переведен для дальнейшего прохождения службы в Париж — ну, и дальнейшее можно было предсказать заранее... Но, как и первый, новый брак также быстро распался. Третий — с известной канадской писательницей, редактором и составителем Джудит Меррил, в конце 1960-х ставшей одним из идеологов и пророков британской «Новой волны», — зародился в 1948 году, когда уже известный редактор и составитель антологий Фредерик Пол делал ранние наброски своего первого научно-фантастического романа. Как только брак окончательно распался, тут и роман вышел в свет, принеся автору поистине всемирную славу (Это были «Торговцы космосом», более известные нашему читателю под названием «Операция «Венера»).
Последний, пятый по счету брак с известной исследовательницей фантастики, профессором Элизабет Энн Халл, был заключен в 1984 году, когда писателю было уже под 70... Все предшествующие попытки он вспоминает без раздражения и разочарования: еще до наступления своего 40-летия он мог гордиться тем, что был счастливым отцом трех собственных (сына и двух дочерей) и одного приемного (дочь) ребенка. (Еще один сын умер сразу после рождения, и до сих пор писатель вспоминает о нем с болью в сердце).
В 1953 году, после развода с Джудит Меррил, Фредерик остаётся с большим долгом как литагент. Бурная на протяжении 50-60-х годов писательская деятельность в основе своей причину имела самую что ни на есть прозаическую. Вырабатывая ежедневно по 4 машинописные страницы, Пол главным образом зарабатывал деньги. Также примечательно и то, что с 1953 года он начал публиковаться под своим именем.
Ранний период собственно творчества Пола связан с именем С. Корнблата, в соавторстве с ним был написан классический роман о рекламной кампании по «продаже Венеры» в близком будущем — «Торговцы космосом» (The Space Merchants) в 1980-е гг. Пол написал роман-продолжение — «Война торговцев» (The Merchant's War — 1984). Авторы долго не могли найти издательства, которое бы опубликовало роман, пока не встретили издателя-непрофессионала Йэна Баллантайна. Тоже своего рода доброго гения американской научной фантастики. Чтобы читатель сразу составил себе представление об этом человеке — палочке-выручалочке для начинающих авторов, счастливо попавшей в руки молодым соавторам, — скажу только, что Иэну Баллантайну американские читатели обязаны беспрецедентной издательской «раскруткой» знаменитой трилогии Толкина... И именно Баллантайну Пол и Корнблат обязаны славой своей первой книги. Лучшими оказались романы и рассказы, написанные в соавторстве с Корнблатом: «В поисках неба» (1954), «Гладиатор в законе» (1955) и «Волчья отрава» (1959).
Произведения короткой формы, написанные вместе с Корнблатом, Пол впоследствии собрал в сборник «Эффект удивления», вышедший в 1962 году, — через четыре года после скоропостижной смерти друга и соавтора (в увеличенном составе сборник выходил также под названиями «Критическая масса» и «Перед началом Вселенной»). А их совместный рассказ «Встреча» был восстановлен Полом по рукописи только к 1971 году — чтобы в следующем принести ему (а также посмертно Корнблату) первую премию «Хьюго» за собственно литературное произведение в 1973 г (а также посмертно С. Корнблату). Как правило, романы двух авторов — это остросоциальные сатирические произведения, ныне ставшие классикой жанра.
В последующие два десятилетия писатель реже выступал с произведениями короткой формы, однако снижение «вала» не сказалось на качестве: среди рассказов и повестей этого периода немало таких, которые входили в антологии «лучшего за год». В первую очередь это многоплановая и во многих отношениях скандальная повесть «Золото на конце звездной дуги» (1971), также выделяется — и отмечен премией «Хьюго» — рассказ «Ферми и стужа» (1985), в котором автор дает двоякий ответ на знаменитый вопрос «атомного» физика Ферми: если во Вселенной есть разум, почему он молчит?
Большинство своих как ранних, так и более поздних работ, автор представляет в 25 сборниках, которые он регулярно выпускает начиная с 1956 (первый сборник «Переменные токи» («Alternating Currents»).
С 1954 г. по 1991 г. в соавторстве с Д.Уильямсоном написаны добротные образцы приключенческой и детской НФ — это трилогия о завоевании океана, а также трилогия «Дитя звезд», 1969 г. и дилогия «Сага Кукушки», 1983 г. В соавторстве с Лестерем Дель Реем (под общим псевдонимом Эдсон Мак-Кан) выпущен роман «Предпочтительный риск» (Preferred Risk — 1955).
В послевоеное десятилетия Пол работал литагентом (в частности А. Азимова) и редактором ряда журналов НФ (до 1969 г. издавал журналы «If» и «Galaxy» — с 1966 по 1968 редактируемый им журнал «If» ежегодно получал «Хьюго»), а в 1971-79 гг. редактировал научно-фантастические издания в двух крупнейших издательствах «Эйс букс» (Ace Books) и «Бэнтам букс» (Bantam Books) (1973-79).
Крупные произведения, как уже говорилось, никогда не относились к сильной стороне сольного творчества Пола. Тем неожиданней оказалась вторая половина 1970-х годов, когда, сбросив с себя редакторские путы, писатель поразил читателей и критиков мощным творческим выбросом — и именно в «романной» форме. Первый шумный успех выпал на долю романа «Человек с плюсом» (1976), удостоенного другой высшей премии -«Небьюла». Психологическая драма киборга, специально сконструированного для выполнения тяжелой работы на осваиваемом землянами Марсе, совсем недавно получила своеобразное развитие: в 1994 году Пол в соавторстве с Томасом Т. Томасом выпустил роман-продолжение «Марс с плюсом». И все же самый неожиданный поворот в творческой биографии Фредерика Пола пришелся на последние пятнадцать лет. Когда вышли в свет его самые значительные (если не, считать «Торговцев космосом») романы, в первую очередь — из серии о Звездных Вратах и контакте с цивилизацией хичи. Первый роман цикла — роман «Врата», вышедштй в 1977 году принес автору полный букет всех высших премий в жанре — «Хьюго», «Небьюлу», журнала «Локус», Мемориальную имени Джона Кэмпбелла (кстати, еще в повести «Торговцы Венерой» (1971) впервые содержится упоминание о галактической сверхцивилизации «хичи»).
Другим интересным поворотом за последние десятилетия стало более частое и более целенаправленное вторжение Пола-фантаста в сферу политики. То, что интерес писателя не случаен, подтверждается и солидной статьей «Политическая научная фантастика». Творчество Пола-«политика» не ограничивается воззваниями. Многие его романы последних лет — «Джем: создание утопии» (1979), «Холодная война» (1981), «Восход Черной Звезды» (1985) и другие, а также короткие повести «Числом превосходя живущих» (1990) и «Остановка на Медленном Году» (1991) — как раз и представляют (с разной степенью успеха) собой образцы столь не любимой многими фантастики социальной, «проблемной». И конечно, прямым — во многом публицистическим — откликом на текущую политику стал едва ли не самый успешный в коммерческом отношении (единственный, выбившийся в национальные бестселлеры!) нефантастический роман Пола, название которого говорит само за себя: «Чернобыль» (1987). Также к «социальной фантастике относится цикл новелл о близком будущем Нью-Йорка вышел под одной обложкой как «Годы города» [The Years of The City] (1984; Мемориальная премия им. Джона Кэмпбелла-85)

Награды и премии:
1966: Скайларк.
1973: Премия Хьюго.
1973: Локус.
1976: Премия Nebula.
1978: Премия Хьюго.
1977: Премия Nebula.
1978: Локус.
1978: Мемориальная премия Джона Кэмпбелла.
1979: Премия "Аполло".
1979: Локус.
1985: Мемориальная премия Джона Кэмпбелла.
1986: Премия Хьюго.
1992: Премия Nebula.
1994: Форри.
1995: Милфорд.
1996: Премия Ассоциации исследователей научной фантастики.
1998: Зал славы научной фантастики и фэнтези.
2010: Премия Хьюго.
2013: Мемориальная премия Теодора Старджона.

Фредерик Пол скончался 2 сентября 2013 г. на 94-м году жизни.



SeriesCuckoo with Jack Williamson 1 - Farthest Star 1975 fb2 2 - Wall Around a Star 1983 fb2

Eschaton 1 - The Other End of Time 1996 fb2 2 - The Siege of Eternity 1997 fb2 3 - The Far Shore of Time 1999 fb2

Heechee 1 - Gateway 1977 fb2 2 - Beyond the Blue Event Horizon 1980 epub 3 - Heechee Rendezvous 1984 epub 4 - The Annals of the Heechee 1987 fb2 5 - The Gateway Trip 1990 fb2 Contents: The Visit The Merchants of Venus The Gateway Asteroid The Starseekers The Home Planet Other Worlds Heechee Treasures Looking for Company The Age of Gold In the Core 6 - The Boy Who Would Live Forever 2004 fb2 Hatching the Phoenix 1999 fb2 A Home for the Old Ones 2002 fb2

Jim Eden with Jack Williamson 1 - Undersea Quest 1954 fb2 2 - Undersea Fleet 1956 fb2 3 - Undersea City 1958 fb2

Man Plus 1 - Man Plus 1976 fb2 2 - Mars Plus 1994 fb2 with Thomas T. Thomas

Space Merchants 1 - The Space Merchants 1953 epub with C. M. Kornbluth 2 - The Merchants' War 1984 epub

Starchild with Jack Williamson The Starchild Trilogy 1977 fb2 Contents: 1 - The Reefs of Space 2 - Starchild 3 - Rogue Star

NovelsSearch the Sky 1954 fb2 with C. M. KornbluthGladiator-at-Law 1955 fb2 with C. M. KornbluthWolfbane 1959 fb2 with C. M. KornbluthDrunkard's Walk 1960 fb2Plague of Pythons 1965 fb2The Age of the Pussyfoot 1969 epubJem 1979 fb2The Cool War 1981 fb2Syzygy 1982 fb2Starburst 1982 fb2Black Star Rising 1985 fb2The Coming of the Quantum Cats 1986 fb2Narabedla Ltd 1988 epubHomegoing 1989 fb2The World at the End of Time 1990 fb2The Singers of Time 1991 fb2 with Jack WilliamsonThe Last Theorem 2008 fb2 with Arthur C. ClarkeAll the Lives He Led 2011 epub

CollectionsAlternating Currents 1954 epub Contents: The Children of Night The GhostMaker Let the Ants Try Pythias The Mapmakers Rafferty’s Reasons Target One Grandy Devil The Tunnel Under the World What To Do Until the Analyst ComesThe Case Against Tomorrow 1957 fb2 Contents: The Midas Plague The Census Takers The Candle Lighter The Celebrated No-Hit Inning Wapshot’s Demon My Lady Green SleevesThe Wonder Effect 1962 fb2 with C. M. Kornbluth Contents: Critical Mass A Gentle Dying Nightmare With Zeppelins Best Friend The World Of Myrion Flowers Trouble In Time The Engineer Mars-Tube The Quaker CannonThe Frederik Pohl Omnibus 1966 fb2 Contents: The Man Who Ate the World The Seven Deadly Virtues The Day the Icicle Works Closed The Knights of Arthur Mars by Moonlight The Haunted Corpse The Middle of Nowhere The Day of the Boomer Dukes The Snowmen The Wizards of Pung’s Corners The Waging of the Peace Survival Kit I Plinglot, Who You?The Best of Frederik Pohl 1975 fb2 Contents: Introduction: A Variety of Excellence, by Lester del Rey The Tunnel Under the World Punch Three Portraits and a Prayer Day Million Happy Birthday, Dear Jesus We Never Mention Aunt Nora Father of the Stars The Day the Martians Came The Midas Plague The Snowmen How to Count on Your Fingers Grandy Devil Speed Trap The Richest Man in Levittown The Day the Icicle Works Closed The Hated The Martian in the Attic The Census Takers The Children of Night Afterword: WHAT THE AUTHOR HAS TO SAY ABOUT ALL THIS by Frederik PohlIn The Problem Pit 1976 fb2 Contents: Introduction: Science-Fiction Games In the Problem Pit Let the Ants Try To See Another Mountain The Deadly Mission of Phineas Snodgrass (aka The Time Machine of Phineas Snodgrass) Golden Ages Gone Away Rafferty's Reasons I Remember a Winter The Schematic Man What to Do Until the Analyst Comes (aka Everybody's Happy But Me!) Some Joys Under the Star The Man Who Ate the World SF: The Game-Playing LiteratureCritical Mass 1977 fb2 with C. M. Kornbluth Contents: Introduction (Pohl) The Quaker Cannon Mute Inglorious Tam The World of Myrion Flowers The Gift of Garigolli A Gentle Dying A Hint of Henbane The Meeting The Engineer Nightmare with Zeppelins Critical Mass Afterword (Pohl)Before the Universe 1980 fb2 with C. M. Kornbluth Contents: Mars-Tube Trouble in Time Vacant World Best Friend Nova Midplane The Extrapolated DimwitPohlstars 1984 fb2 Contents: The Sweet, Sad Queen of the Grazing Isles The High Test Spending a Day at the Lottery Fair Second Coming Enjoy, Enjoy Growing Up in Edge City We Purchased People Rem the Rememberer The Mother Trip A Day in the Life of Able Charlie The Way It Was

ShortfictionCallistan Tomb 1941 fb2 with C. M. KornbluthEinstein's Planetoid 1942 fb2A Hitch in Time 1947 fb2A Big Man With the Girls 1953 fb2 with Judith MerrilDanger Moon 1953 fb2Stepping Stone 1957 fb2 with William MorrisonA Life and a Half 1959 fb2Under Two Moons 1965 fb2Shaffery Among the Immortals 1972 fb2The Gold at the Starbow's End 1972 fb2Farmer on the Dole 1982 fb2The Servant of the People 1982 fb2The Kindly Isle 1984 fb2Fermi and Frost 1985 fb2Waiting for the Olympians 1988 fb2The Reunion at the Mile-High 1989 fb2Outnumbering the Dead(ill) 1990 fb2Stopping at Slowyear 1992 fb2Generations 2005 fb2

NongenreChernobyl 1987 fb2

NonfictionThe Way the Future Was 1978 epub


Примеры текстов


RAWSON stirred his huge bulk and snapped on the audio set at his elbow. "—bringing to you," it said abruptly, "flashes from the news fronts of the solar system.
"We have received from Earth a steady flow of bulletins on the plague. Our last report announces the death of Commissioner Wheelock, statesman and scholar of New Britain. The Commissioner, said the report, was eased of his pain by an injection of carbon monoxide in solution. His life had been surrendered by his attendant physicians a week ago when drawings were made for distribution of the radium ship's cargo and his group's number did not come up.
"Flashed from Calcutta: Dr. Mohan Shar, member of the Eurasian Presidium, is under treatment made possible by the arrival of Thursday's ore consignment from Callisto. Despite the advanced stage of the disease into which he had passed, it is confidently predicted that Dr. Shar will shortly reach complete recovery. That is all."
The audio fell silent, and Rawson cut off the current. "Hear that, Foley?" he asked.
His bunk-mate, a thin, bald Irishman, sat up. "Sure," he said. "Shar's a fine man. I'm glad he's pulling through the Sickness all right. Have you ever seen a case?"
"Two of them. Haven't you?"
"No—not yet. I'm part of the regular staff on here—I was working on the old five-hour day when the Sickness came to Earth and you extras shoved us out of bed with your three eight-hour shifts. Tell me about the Sickness. What does it do to them?”
Rawson scanned the ceiling evasively. "One of the cases I saw broke out on the Earth-Jupiter ship. The man knew he had it; his number was passed a few times; so he set off to come to the radium as long it wouldn't come to him. I don't know how he came through the cordon—I guess it was bribery."
Rawson hesitated. "They say it’s a kind of cancer, but this man … Well, he didn't look like any cancer patient. It came through his skin, over in tight lumps like apples. He got red and shiny in the face, too. Skipper had to get the surgeon to give him the monoxide and chuck him out . . .”
"Go on, man," urged Foley, noting the big American's pause. "What was the other one?"
"The other one? He was my brother."
"Oh. . . . Sorry," said Foley "Then there's no one who knows better than you what we're doing. I thought it was the pay that brought you—but Lord knows you earn it every second. It's a job for real men down in the mines where we go ...” He trailed off into silence as Rawson stared at him with something indescribable in his eyes.
"Don't talk about it then, Foley,' said the American. "Do you think I don't know what the risk is down bottom? Do you think I don't know why the replacements and extras keep coining in and never going out? Don't talk about it at all, and maybe you and I will get along better while we last."
A bell rang clearly through the cramped quarters. "First notice," said the Irishman. "Get your kit."
The two snapped on respirators—Callista, of course, has an atmosphere, unbreathable but inert; you don't need a space suit, but you do need oxygen—took up their lamps and tools and stepped through their narrow bulkhead.
They walked in the open around the huge bulk of the ore-ship that was waiting to take a full load of crude pitchblende from the little mining settlement to Broadstream, six hundred miles away on the curve of the tiny moon's horizon. There it would be refined into pure radium that was packed into needle-like interplanetary cruisers, flashed to the stricken Earth.
AT the mouth of the mine by the elevator opening twenty men assembled. Shift B was ready to hop into the cage on the split second that shift A was out of it. Some laughed at this at first—but one second meant a cubic yard of ore that would not be wasted on Earth.
Men staggered from the elevator, grimy and fagged with their killing pace of the past eight hours. "Get in!" yelled Foley to his crew—he was the foreman—and they snapped onto the unsteady platform. There was a sickening drop that wrenched their stomachs; they snapped on their radium-exciter lamps and clipped them onto their hats. The greenish glare showed the slick, wet, wooden-shored walls of the vein, dripping with water condensed by the pressure that obtains a mile beneath the surface of a planet. The men did not risk "bends," the terrible disease of most high-pressure workers, for their atmosphere was insoluble in their blood. Krypton and neon replaced the nitrogen of Earth that dissolved under pressure and reappeared in great bubbles when the pressure was released.
They picked up the tools abandoned by the last shift and trotted in formation down the long dim corridor, past the mouths of the peristaltic tubes and the heaps of slag, coming to a halt at the jagged tunnel wall of pitch-blende.
"Back up," said Foley, removing a slim metal tube from his kit. "We're going to try a shot."
With a gleaming drill he bit into the wall some dozen feet and rammed home the blasting charge. The men braced themselves against the walls and tensed their muscles as he swung a hammer against the ramrod.
There was the dull, coughing roar characteristic of trinite as the bomb exploded, and a spider's web of cracks and seams spread slowly over the raw face of the rock. As the foreman sprang back the surface collapsed into a pile of rubble. Smoothly the crew shoved wooden shoring into the loose heap and swung heavy beam braces against the roof. A second crew plunged oversized shovels into the ore and dashed their loads into the mouth of the peristaltic tube that led a mile up to the surface. The tube buzzed a warning signal as it went into operation. Its massive bands of metal contracted and expanded rhythmically and the ore flung into its cavity slowly started for the surface; a lift of over a mile.
"Eighteen cubic yards," announced Foley sonorously as he checked the estimate off on his tally-board. He turned on a man savagely. "Batten than timber down," he yelled. "We can't take chances with anything down here." The worker touched his cap ironically, swung a sledge against a plank.
The last of the rubble had vanished into the tube and the tunnel was safe —or as safe as it ever was—for another blast, shored walls already slick with water.
"We're blasting," cried Foley. He picked up the electric drill and cut it into the surface, bearing down as the bit sank into the rock. Another gleaming capsule vanished into the drill-hole, was thrust home by the ramrod. The little Irishman raised a maul and slammed it against the mushroomed end of the rod.
With appalling suddenness the charge exploded and a geyser of rock sprayed out from the mine-face. Rawson spun about as a chunk of ore shot by him. He saw it smash into a great beam that should have held, but didn't.
"Cave-in!" he screamed, and in the greenish glare of his headlamp he saw the beam slowly topple over and a great collapse of the rock ceiling down the whole length of the corridor. Chunks of ore fell about his head and he felt a sickening shock at the base of his skull as he dropped. Screams rang in the air, but he was falling asleep; unconscious.



THE SWEET, SAD QUEEN OF THE GRAZING ISLES

At the World Science Fiction Convention in Chicago in 1982 I was part of a panel discussing the work of the late Cordwainer Smith (pseudonym of the Johns Hopkins political science professor, Paul M. A. Liriebarger). Paul Linebarger was an author whom I published extensively as long as he lived while I was editing Galaxy in the 1960s, and one whose work I greatly admire still. He was not merely a contributor but a friend, for which reason he tolerated my practice of changing almost every title of the Cordwainer Smith stories I published. (Other writers were less forgiving.) While talking about this on the panel, it occurred to me that it was a long time since I had made up a Cordwainer Smith story title. So I amused myself (in the boring periods while other people were talking) by inventing titles for stories Paul had never written, but should have. The one I liked best was this one. . . and so, that afternoon, as part of my self-imposed regime of defacing four pages of clean paper with writing every day of my life, I began to write a story to go with the title. I do not think it is a "Cordwainer Smith story' by any means. But I did borrow one of his favorite devices in the writing of it- perhaps some readers will detect which one.

In Twenty and Three, born at sea,
Her daddy endowed her a legacy.
In Twenty and Ten her brother
Ben Stole the inheritance back again.
She loves but she loses, she weeps as she smiles,
The sweet, sad queen of the grazing isles

BECAUSE I DID THE OLD COMMODORE A FAVOR, he promised I would always have a job with the Fleet. I always did. I always do still, because even now I have the job. The title and the pay and the working conditions have changed a dozen times, and these times not the best of them. But even Jimmy Rex knows I have that right to a job, and grants it. Meanly.
The favor I did for Commodore Mackenzie was done long before he was a Commodore, and I could have gone to jail for it. Jason, he said, give me a month. I need an extension on my loans, thirty days at most, and if you give it me, you'll never have to worry again as long as you live. I will worry, though, I said-a boy still in his twenties, just a keypuncher in the records section of a bank-I'll worry about the law, at least until the statute of limitations runs out, because buggering the records is a penal offense. Only if they catch you, he said, laughing, and that they can't do. For you'll be at sea, where the land law cannot reach. It was his first oaty-boat that was building at the time, you see, and he had used up all his wife's money and all he could cajole out of his first two financial backers, and the third one, the big one, was trying to make up his mind to plunge.
He was a powerful man even then, James Mackenzie. No older than forty. no gigger than most but the blue eyes flashed and the smile was sure, and he knew how to talk a person toward any place he chose. But what decided me was not Mackenzie. It was his young wife, the lady Ella. She loved him. So I worked overtime one night, and displayed his file, and changed a few dates, sweating with fear. He had his thirty days. And the backer did, at the last minute, come through with the money to finish the boat, and so James William Mackenzie became the Commodore.
He was a son of a bitch, Commodore Mackenzie, but he had style. Fifty shares of stock I got and a title: Executive Assistant to the Fleet Captain. Very grand. Even if the fleet was still only a single vessel. But even one oaty-boat is a huge and costly machine, two hundred thousand metric tons of hull and works, towing twenty kilometers of tubes and pumps, with a deck the size of a township. The Commodore did something you won't believe with that deck, or at least with the part forward of the bridge. He planted it. He pumped aboard half a million cubic meters of San Francisco Bay bottom muck while the boat was still at the builder's dock. The water ran off through the scuppers, and the soil remained. He sailed it up toward Tacoma for the deep-water fitting and steamed slowly around the wettest, stormiest part of the Pacific Coast until the rain had rinsed it clean. Seeds and slips and bulbs and saplings came aboard, and by the time we were on our first cruise there was grass there, and gardens, and the beginnings of a grove. For his dear lady Ella hated the sea. So Owner's Quarters were an apartment below deck and a terrace above, and if you looked only forward you could think you were in some fine manor house with the weather always balmy and the lawn as steady as any on Earth. The weather was always fine because oaty-boats are never in bad weather. That is why they are boats, instead of drilling platforms or moored barges, so that they can seek out the places where sea and air are best to do their work.
And for four years they were happy, and I was happy, and the great boat steamed slowly through the fruitful patches of the southern ocean, sucking up the cold and pitting it against the warm, and, oh, how the money rolled in! And we were happiest of all in the fourth year, when Ella was pregnant. She was a tiny, frail woman, all spirit and no stamina, and there were times when in even the calmest seas she seemed unwell. Yet as a pregnant woman she bloomed, prettier than ever and glowing with the child inside. The baby was born, even prettier than her mother. It was in the month of May, and so they called her May, and then the happiness stopped because Ella died. It was not childbirth alone-she had the best of doctors, flown in from Sydney and San Francisco. It was cancer. She had known she had it, and kept it secret, and wouldn't let them cut it away because it would have cut away the unborn child as well. Childbirth merely finished her off.



Stephen Avedon, B.Sc., M. Ed.
The truth of the matter is that I knew Sheila Carrington was out of my class from the first moment I saw her. That was when we were stuck in the waiting area at LAX, made to mark time until our plane, which had been delayed getting in because of bad weather, would open its doors. What I noticed first, of course, was that she looked very trim and blonde and pretty. The other thing I noticed was that she was busy fending off a plump guy in the next seat who was hitting on her.
I could see right away that she was definitely first class.
And first class is where she went when we boarded the plane, too. I didn’t. I was back in steerage, where the seats are constructed for nobody over five feet five and there’s always a line for the toilets. Even when the flying is smooth, which this time it wasn’t.
The captain turned the seat-belt sign off at cruising altitude, but five minutes later he turned it back on again. “Folks,” he said on the horn, his voice deep and, of course, basically Texan, “I really hate to say it but the radar’s telling us that this next little bit of air’s going to be kind of bumpy. So what we have to ask you to do is return to your seats and fasten your belts. Hopefully the turbulence won’t be that long. Then I’m looking for a smooth ride all the way to JFK.”
He didn’t get what he was looking for, though. The sign was off for maybe ten minutes or so over Arizona, and then it was back on all the way over New Mexico. Even when the sign was off the ride wasn’t really smooth.
That didn’t bother me much. I don’t get airsick, and I was watching the movie, anyway. I barely noticed when the stews began to stagger around and slop us our lunch, choice of some kind of chicken or some kind of beef, until all of a sudden the whole damn airplane took a kind of unexpected roller-coaster dip and slide. Somebody’s salad went flying across the aisle and landed in the lap of the lady next to me. So did the stew who was trying to serve it. She caught herself just as she was following the salad into the lady’s lap.
Then it got worse.
I’d never had a ride quite like that. For a pretty long time after that first scary drop, the stews were scurrying around to get their carts locked down and themselves strapped into their seats, and nobody from the cockpit was saying anything to us at all. Meanwhile the plane was flopping this way and that and making unpleasant little squeaky and scrapy noises. When the bouncing around eased off a little we got the captain back on the horn. He was more apologetic than ever. There was nothing in the world to worry about, he told us, but there were rules they had to follow. One of the rules was that when an aircraft had been subjected to that much turbulent stress they were supposed to land and check it out before proceeding, so our first landing wasn’t going to be at JFK but at Kansas City International. When we got there—the passengers clapped like crazy as we touched down—they made us all get off and sit in the waiting area by the gate.
That was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
The thing is, just as I was reaching for a magazine to read, that nice-looking blonde woman from first class plunked herself down into the seat beside me. “May I?” she asked. But she was already there, and anyway there wasn’t any real question about whether she might or might not.
Actually, one of the reasons I’d taken that package tour to Yosemite was that I was sort of hoping to meet some nice, maybe kind of Helen-Hunt-looking, woman to replace the one who’d dumped me at Easter. That hadn’t happened.
It wasn’t entirely because of my good looks and savoir faire that the woman from first class had joined me, though. Mostly she was trying to get away from the plump little fellow I’d noticed with her before, who was in paper products and had a company hotel suite waiting for him in New York ... and had already been refused a fourth Cosmopolitan by the stew, even before the worst of the turbulence hit us. I didn’t care why she picked that seat. I was just happy to have her there.
I stayed happy, too. Even when I learned that she was some kind of Wall Street lawyer, and so really, definitely out of the class of a physics teacher from Brooklyn Technical High School. Putting it in numerical terms, that’s to say about a quarter of a million dollars a year out of my class. Only, because God was being good to me that day, it turned out that her own high school had actually been Brooklyn Tech. She had been majoring in the civil engineering courses, before she changed her mind and decided she was never in this world going to be happy as an engineer and so wound up in Harvard and Harvard Law and the kind of a job that kept flying her all over the place to negotiate merger contracts and IPOs.
She remembered some of her old Tech teachers. I was able to tell her which ones were still there and which ones were retired, and how Mrs. Einborg was still as fat as ever and Miss Kornfeld never did get married, and that the food in the cafeteria was all different now—not so much of the french fries any more, more two-percent milk than Coke—but not really a lot better.
We were there in that airport for nearly three hours. There was plenty of nonstop pissing and moaning from most of the stranded passengers, but those were three very good hours for me. They finally let us get back on the plane—”Good as new, folks, they’ve checked everywhere and there’s no trace of structural damage at all”—and by that time I had her name—”Just call me Sheila”—and she had given me her phone number.


2013-12-28 23:38
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