A mysterious warrior woman approaches Northwest Smith, with a tantalizing proposition, "Come with me to the green hills of earth in the distant past of 1500."excerptThe rivet-studded oaken door crashed open, splintering from the assault of pikebutts whose thunderous echoes still rolled around the walls of the tiny stone room revealed beyond the wreck of the shattered door. Jirel, the warrior-maid of Joiry, leaped in through the splintered ruins, dashing the red hair from her eyes, grinning with exertion, gripping her two-edged sword. But in the ruin of the door she paused. The mail-clad men at her heels surged around her in the doorway like a wave of blue-bright steel, and then paused too, staring.For Franga the warlock was kneeling in his chapel, and to see Franga on his knees was like watching the devil recite a paternoster. But it was no holy altar before which the wizard bent. The black stone of it bulked huge in this tiny, bare room echoing still with the thunder of battle, and in the split second between the door's fall and Jirel's crashing entry through its ruins Franga had crouched in a last desperate effort at-at what?His bony shoulders beneath their rich black robe heaved with frantic motion as he fingered the small jet bosses that girdled the altar's block. A slab in the side of it fell open abruptly as the wizard, realizing that his enemy was almost within sword's reach, whirled and crouched like a feral thing. Blazing light, cold and unearthly, streamed out from the gap in the altar."So that's where you've hidden it!" said Jirel with a savage softness.
Androids were obviously not human... so they claimedExcerptBradley looked at the Director's head. His stomach tried' to crawl up into his throat. He felt suddenly dizzy. He knew that he was betraying himself, and that would be absolutely fatal.He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a few coins, and let the coins drop, as though by accident, to the airfoam carpet."Oh-oh," he said, and immediately crouched down to recover the money. It's a basic principle of first aid, in cases of shock or faintness, to lower the head, and Bradley was doing just that. The giddiness began to pass as his circulation picked up. In a moment, he knew, he'd have to stand up and face the Director, and by that time he was determined to have his feelings under control. But how the devil could the Director's head be where it was-after last night?And then sanity came back. He remembered that, last night, the Director couldn't possibly have recognized him through the rubber-plastic false-face he had worn. On the other hand, after last night, the Director of New Products, Inc., should have been incapable of living or breathing, not to speak of using his memory-centers. Bradley had left the man's body in one corner of the room and his head in another.Man?With a violent effort he controlled himself. He recaptured the last coin and stood up, his face flushed. "Sorry," he said. "I came in to deliver that report on the induced mutation project, not to act like a horn of plenty." His fascinated stare moved down to the Director's neck and flicked away. The high collar concealed any- any mark. Any mark, such as might have been left by razor-sharp steel shearing through flesh and bone. . . . Was there a reason for the high collar? Bradley couldn't be sure. In the fall of 2060, men's fashions had changed considerably from the uncomfortable styles of a few years before, and the Director's flaring half-cape, with its gilt-braided, close-fitting collar, was far from extreme. Bradley owned one like that himself.Lord, he thought in white panic-can't the-the things even be killed?
Northwest Smith embarks on a dangerous trip to learn the secrets of the moon and a lost civilization.excerpt"I'll bet you the next drinks," murmured Yarol, his wise black eyes twinkling under long lashes, "that you can't guess what race that little fellow's from, or where it originated.""The next drinks are on me anyhow," grinned Smith. "No I can't guess. Does it matter?""Oh-curious, that's, all. I've seen a member of that race only once before in my life, and I'll bet you never saw one. And yet it's an Earth race, perhaps the very oldest. Did you ever hear of the Seles?"Smith shook his head silently, his eyes on the little figure below, which was slowly drawing out of sight beneath the overhang of the terrace on which they sat."They live somewhere in the remotest part of Asia, no one knows exactly where. But they're not Mongolian. It's a pure race, and one that has no counterpart anywhere in the solar system that I ever heard of. I think, even among themselves their origin has been forgotten, though their legends go back so far it makes you dizzy to think of it. They're queerlooking, all white-haired and fragile as glass. Keep very much to themselves, of course. When one ventures out into the world you can be sure it's for some tremendously important reason. Wonder why that fellow--oh well, not that it matters. Only seeing him reminded me of the queer story that's told about them. They have a Secret. No, don't laugh; it's supposed to be something very strange and wonderful, which their race life is dedicated to keeping quiet. I'd give a lot to know what it is, just for curiosity's sake.""None of your business, my boy," said Smith sleepily."Like as not it's better for you that you don't know. These secrets have a way of being uncomfortable things to know.""No such luck," Yarol shrugged. "Let's have another drink-on you, remember-and forget it.
Smith was stolen away in the night, to be sacrificed to the great Julhi a mysterious being who controlled the denizens of Vonng.excerptThe tale of Smith's scars would make a saga. From head to foot his brown and sunburnt hide was scored with the marks of, battle. The eye of a connoisseur would recognize the distinctive tracks of knife and talon and rayburn, the slash of the Martian drylandercrwg, the clean, thin stab of the Venusian stiletto, the crisscross lacing of Earth's penal whip. But one or two scars that he carried would have baffled the most discerning eye. That curious, convoluted red circlet, for instance, like some bloody rose on the left side of his chest just where the beating of his heart stirred the sun-darkened flesh....In the starless dark of the thick Venusian night Northwest Smith's pale steel eyes were keen and wary. Save for those restless eyes he did not stir. He crouched against a wall that his searching fingers had told him was stone, and cold; but he could see nothing and he had no faintest idea of where he was or how he had come there. Upon this dark five minutes ago he had opened puzzled eyes, and he was still puzzled. The dark-piercing pallor of his gaze flickered restlessly through the blackness, searching in vain for some point of familiarity. He could find nothing. The dark was blurred and formless around him, and though his keen senses spoke to him of enclosed spaces, yet there was a contradiction even in that, for the air was fresh and blowing.He crouched motionless in the windy dark, smelling earth and cold stone, and faintly-very faintly-a whiff of something unfamiliar that made him gather his feet under him noiselessly and poise with one hand against the chill stone wall, tense as a steel spring. There was motion in the dark. He could see nothing, hear nothing, but he felt that stirring come cautiously nearer. He stretched out exploring toes, found the ground firm underfoot, and stepped aside a soundless pace or two, holding his breath. Against the stone where he had been leaning an instant before he heard the soft sound of hands fumbling, with a queer, sucking noise, as if they were sticky. Something exhaled with a small, impatient sound. In a lull of the wind he heard quite distinctly the slither over stone of something that was neither feet nor paws nor serpent-coils, but akin to all three.
The present age has seen an explosion of verse novels in many parts of the world. Australia is a prolific producer, as are the USA and the UK. Novels in verse have also appeared in Canada, New Zealand, India, South Africa, Jamaica and several other countries. A novel written in verse contradicts theories that distinguish the novel as essentially a prose genre. The boundaries of prose and verse are, however, somewhat fluid. This is especially evident in the case of free verse poetry and the kinds of prose used in many Modernist novels. The contemporary outburst may seem a uniquely Postmodernist flouting of generic boundaries, but, in fact, the verse novel is not new. Its origins reach back to at least the eighteenth century. Byron’s Don Juan, in the early nineteenth century, was an important influence on many later examples. Since its first surge in popularity during the Victorian era, it has never died out, though some fine examples, most of them from the earlier twentieth century, have been neglected or forgotten. This book investigates the status of the verse novel as a genre and traces its mainly English-language history from its beginnings. The discussion will be of interest to genre theorists, prosodists, narratologists and literary historians, as well as readers of verse novels wishing for some background to this apparently new literary phenomenon.
These two volumes list late-and mid-Victorian poets, with brief biographical information and bibliographical details of published works. The major strength of the works is the 'discovery' of very many minor poets and their work, unrecorded elsewhere.
An alphabetical listing of some 1,500 US television and radio series and international films that featured live and animated animals. Entries include information on directors, cast, animal trainers, and plot descriptions. Includes subject and star indexes. Annotation copyright Book News, Inc. Portla
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