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“Chow’s on, monsters. Updecks on the double!”
The children came tumbling from their rooms and the play area, and threw themselves into the sucking force of the invisible riser-beam that lived in the dropshaft. In a second they were whisked up the shaft and stepped out in the living room:
First came Polly with her golden braids tied atop her round little head in the Swedish style. Her hands were clean. Then Bartholemew-Aaron, whose nose was ru
Do
All but Verushka, the children ran laughing to the dining hall which ran parallel to the tiled front hall of the house. Dark-haired Verushka clung to her daddy’s hand and walked slowly with him. “Daddy, are you goin’ to the moon tomorra’?”
“That’s right, baby. Why?”
“Cause Stacy Garmonde down the block says her old ma—”
“Father, not old man!” he corrected her.
“—her father’s go
Do
“Blacks are good. Whites are bad. That’s the truth, sweetie. And nobody’s going to kilt daddy, because he’s going to rip it up come tomorrow. Now do you believe that?”
She bobbled her bead very quickly.
“Blacks is good, an’ Whites is big stinks.”
He patted her head with affection. “The grammar is lousy, baby, but the sentiment is correct. Now. Let’s eat.”
They went in, and the children were silent with heads only half-bowed—half staring at the hot dishes that popped out of the egress slot in the long table—while Do
“Dear God above, thank you for this glorious repast. and watch over these people, and insure a victory where a victory is deserved. Preserve us and our state of existence…Amen. “
“Amen.” Massaro.
“Amen.” Lotus Massaro.
“Aye-men!” the children.
Then the forks went into the food, and mouths opened and di
“Listen, Bill,” Massaro jabbed the fork into the air, punctuating his words, “next Sunday you and Yo and the kids come on over to our hovel. It’ll cost you for a robositter next week. We’re sick of laying out the credits.” They smiled and nodded and the di
The commuter platforms. The ships racked one past another, pointed toward the faint light they could not see. The light of the dead battlefield. Moon. The Blacks in their regal uniforms queueing up to enter the vessels, the Whites in splendid array, about to board ship.
A Black ship lay beside a White one.
Bill Do
They boarded the ships. The flight was short. Batteries opened that day—the five thousand and fifty-ninth day of the war—at 0550. Someone had chopped down the eagerbeaver.
At 1149 precisely, a blindbomb with a snooper attachment was launched by 2/Lt William Larkspur Do
Later that evening, Bill Do
Deal From The Bottom
The pun, a sadly-misunderstood delicacy in the confectionary of humor, holds for me the same kind of infectious hilarity as a vision of three brothers named Marx, chasing a turkey around a hotel room, or wiry Le
There was really quite a simple reason for Maxim Hirt’s presence in the death cell. He had bungled the murder badly. The reason for his bungling was even simpler. Maxim Hirt was awfully stupid.
He had fancied himself an actor, and for a while, had even managed to convince a few people that such was the case. Then came the advent of television, and he had taken a healthy swing at appearing weekly in the homes of the nation. The paucity of his talent was painfully apparent to anyone viewing Clipper Ship, his series (where. in he played a clipper ship pilot for hire, the networks being anxious to avoid the hackneyed soldier-of-fortune for hire theme) for a famous beer concern.
It was only after the first thirteen weeks, when signs of sponsors on the horizon were dim, very dim, for renewal, that Maxim Hirt took to the telephones, to call the critics.
“Hello, Sid?”
“Who’s this?”
“Max, Sid. Old Maxie Hirt, out in Coldwater Canyon.”
“Yeah, Max. What can I do ya?”
“Just wanted to call, let you know my new series, y’know Clipper Ship—”
“Yeah, Max, I know.”
“—let you know it’s got a real winger comin’ up this Thursday night. Filmed it down in Balboa. Real coo- coo, see it’s about this broad, she’s got an uncle who found a cache of diam—”
“What is it ya want, Max? A plug? So all right, so I’ll give you a plug. Now…anything else, Max, I’m busy.” “No, no, nothing else, Sid. Just thanks a lot. I, uh, I need this plug, Sid.”
“So okay, Maxie, okay, so take it easy. G’bye.”
The review, ghosted by a writer of true action adventures for the hairy-chested men’s magazines, read: We caught Maxim Hirt’s new series Clipper Ship last night. Somehow we got the impression it was about a rugged, handsome guy who rents his plane and his talent to the highest bidder. Now that the light from the idiot box has faded, we don’t know where we could have gotten that idea, because the paunchy, punchy bumbling of Hirt indicates no talent whatsoever. With luck, this abomination will not see renewal and Hirt can fold his tent…
Etcetera. The use of the word “bumbling” seemed almost mandatory when speaking of Maxim Hirt. Which was the reason, when he killed Sidney Gross, the columnist (after Clipper Ship folded its chocks and silently so forth), that he was apprehended. It was also the reason he managed to bungle away his lawyer’s defense, and talked himself right into the death house.