Battlefield Earth

Chrissie and Missie and four horses into an old marine attack plane, and flew to southern Colorado. He disco

For the whole of the next year, rain or shine, Jo

At first Jo

Jo

It was Du

Timmie sprang at them like a small windstorm, shrieking glad shrieks of welcome. “Uncle Du

Jo

Finally, when the children and Chrissie had gone to bed, Du

“What's the bad news?” said Jo

“It isn't any bad news,” grumped Sir Robert. “We've been holding sixteen universes together like glue. Why should there be any bad news?”

It's been a year,” said Du

“You came for something,” said Jo

“Well,” said Du

It made Jo

What kind of father would I be to let my son grow up like an educated savage!” He really let them have it.

Du

Jo

Sir Robert looked at him. “Your year is up, laddie. Doesn't it ever occur to you that your friends miss you?”

So Jo

Doctor MacDermott, the historian who considered himself expendable, lived on and on.

He wrote a book: The Jo

Doctor MacDermott received royalties so far in excess of anything his simple life needed that he endowed the Tyler Museum. It is the first building you see, the one with the golden dome, when you leave the MacLeod Intergalactic Health Organization exit at the Denver terminal.

Not too long after his return from America, Jo

But people in the galaxies do not know that he is gone. If you ask almost anyone on a civilized planet where he is, you are likely to be told that he is there, just over that hill, waiting in case the lords or the Psychlos come back. Try it. You'll see. They will even point.

– The End -

1.[Introduction moved to footnotes, since it have a little relevance to the text (and it’s BORING) – tbma]

Introduction.

Recently there came a period when I had little to do. This was novel in a life so crammed with busy years, and I decided to amuse myself by writing a novel that was pure science fiction.

In the hard-driven times between 1930 and 1950, I was a professional writer not simply because it was my job, but because I wanted to finance more serious researches. In those days there were few agencies pouring out large grants to independent workers. Despite what you might hear about Roosevelt “relief,” those were depression years. One succeeded or one starved. One became a top-liner or a gutter bum. One had to work very hard at his craft or have no craft at all. It was a very challenging time for anyone who lived through it.

I have heard it said, as an intended slur, “He was a science fiction writer, ”and have heard it said of many. It brought me to realize that few people understand the role science fiction has played in the lives of Earth's whole population.

I have just read several standard books that attempt to define “science fiction” and to trace its history. There are many experts in this field, many controversial opinions. Science fiction is favored with the most closely knit reading public that may exist, possibly the most dedicated of any genre. Devotees are called “fans,” and the word has a special prestigious meaning in science fiction.

Few professional writers, even those in science fiction, have written very much on the character of "sf". They are usually too busy turning out the work itself to expound on what they have written. But there are many experts on this subject among both critics and fans, and they have a lot of worthwhile things to say.

However, many false impressions exist, both of the genre and of its writers. So when one states that he set out to write a work of pure science fiction, he had better state what definition he is using.

It will probably be best to return to the day in 1938 when I first entered this field, the day I met John W. Campbell, Jr., a day in the very dawn of what has come to be known as The Golden Age of science fiction. I was quite ignorant of the field and regarded it, in fact, a bit diffidently. I was not there of my own choice. I had been summoned to the vast old building on Seventh Avenue in dusty, dirty, old New York by the very top brass of Street and Smith publishing company– an executive named Black and another, F. Orlin Tremaine. Ordered there with me was another writer, Arthur J. Burks. In those days when the top brass of a publishing company– particularly one as old and prestigious as Street and Smith-'invited" a writer to visit, it was like being commanded to appear before the king or receiving a court summons. You arrived, you sat there obediently, and you spoke when you were spoken to.