“He’s a Mad Scientist and I’m his Beautiful Daughter.”
That’s what she said: the oldest cliché in pulp fiction. She wasn’t old enough to remember the pulps.
The thing to do with a silly remark is to fail to hear it. I went on waltzing while taking another look down her evening formal. Nice view. . . . → Read More: Robert Heinlein, The Number of The Beast
Throughout the past thousand years of history it has been traditional to regard the Alderson Drive as an unmixed blessing. Without the faster-than-light travel Alderson’s discoveries made possible, humanity would have been trapped in the tiny prison of the Solar System when the Great Patriotic Wars destroyed the CoDominium on Earth. Instead, we had already . . . → Read More: Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle: The Mote in God’s Eye
Wars do not end neatly. While treaties may be signed and victories declared, there’s always room around the edges and in the grey spaces away from cameras and central command for those more interested in brutality than resolution.
Such is the starting premise of Alastair Reynolds’ novella Slow Bullets, which puts protagonist Scur in the . . . → Read More: Literary Matters: Alastair Reynolds: Slow Bullets
Four looks at short stories this outing; two are author collections and two are anthologies. None grabbed my interest, but maybe something will capture yours!
We lead off with Deathbird, a collection of stories by one of the Grumpy Old Men of New Wave SF, a man who elevated being testy to an art form. . . . → Read More: Words: Short Fiction Considered