Harry Harrison - Galactic Dreams (SS Collection)

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Harry Harrison is one of the best known science fiction writers in the world.

For forty years he has written SF ranging from the slambang adventure of

Deathworld to the humour of The Stainless Steel Rat; from the sweeping

grandeur of the Eden novels to the bleak, overcrowded future of Make Room!

Make Room! Not to mention Bill, The Galactic Hero. There is no area of science

fiction to which Harrison has not applied his outstanding writing skills and

considerable energy.

Many of Harrison's finest short stories are collected here in Galactic Dreams,

an Illustrated companion volume to the acclaimed Stainless Steel Visions (also

published by Legend). And as a bonus, there is a brand new Bill, the Galactic

Hero story. Galactic Dreams is a tribute to Harrison's continued mastery of

the art of science fiction writing over forty Years.

Harry Harrison was born in Stamford Connecticut He served in the United States

Army Corps in World War 2 and became a freelance commercial artist in 1946.

Since the early fifties he has written many bestselling books including the

Stainless Steel Rat, the Eden trilogy. Make Room! Make Room! (filmed as

Soylent Green) and the Deathworld novels. The Hammer and The Cross`,

Harrison's excursion into an alternative Ninth Century Britain, has been

published recently by Legend. Harry Harrison lives with his wife, Jean, in

Ireland.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Forthcoming in Legend Books

The Hammer and the Cross

GALACTIC DREAMS by Harry Harrison

Illustrated by Bryn Barnard

and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real

people or events is purely coincidental.

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988 Legend Books Random House Group 20 Vauxhall

Bridge Rd, London SWIV 2SA Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd PO Box 337,

Bergvlei 2012, South Africa Random House Australia Pty Ltd 20 Alfred Street,

Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061 Australia Random House New Zealand Ltd PO Box

40-086, Glenfield, Auckland 10 New Zealand The catalogue data record for this

book is available from the British Library Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Ellesmere

Port, Cheshire Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

CONTENTS

A Writer's Life

1: I Always Do What Teddy Says

2: Space Rats of the CCC

3: Down to Earth

4: A Criminal Act

5: Famous First Words

6: The Pad

7: If

8: Mute Milton

9: Simulated Trainer

10: At Last, the True Story of Frankenstein

11: The Robot Who Wanted to Know

12: Bill, the Galactic Hero's Happy Holiday

A WRITER'S LIFE

I have recently been reading Brian W. Aldiss's autobiographical work titled

Bury My Heart at W. H. Smith's. (Smith's is the largest chain of booksellers

in Great Britain, not a bespoke graveyard, and the heart referred to is a

metaphorical one.) The book wanders like a pleasant stream through green

meadows and dark woods, just as a writer's life does. People enter this life

and leave; there are both good and bad times. But hovering over the physical

life of its author are insubstantial spirits; the books and stories that have

been summoned to life by this fascinating and talented writer. From life comes

art; art becomes life.

From the outside a writer's life might appear uncommonly dull. Rise in the

morning and proceed to the study. Then with pen, pencil, typewriter, computer

sit like a monk in a cell for long hours. The only movement the flashing or

plodding fingers.

But it's not like that at all. It is wildly exciting. The work on the page is

reality, experience, knowledge, imagination transmogrified and transformed

into art. Yes, art, the word should not be shied away from. Anyone can type

"With a gentle sigh . . .” on a sheet of paper. But it ceases to be a typing

exercise when supposedly wise publishers force money upon one for simply

writing those words. It must be an art - a black one perhaps - that makes them

do something like that.

I wrote those words in Mexico in 1956. Then in 1957 and 1958, in London, Italy

and Long Island, New York, I added sixty-four thousand, nine hundred and

ninety-six more words to these four. And John W. Campbell bought these words,

paying three cents for each one, and published them as a serial in his

magazine Astounding Science Fiction.

Within a year Bantam Books bought these same words again and published them as

a paperback book entitled Deathworld. My first novel. There were more to come.

The reasons why I wrote this book are clear enough; science fiction has always

been my pleasure and enthusiasm. But what on earth was I doing in Mexico? Not

to mention London or Anacapri.

And thereby hangs the tale. Life becomes art; art becomes life. One shapes the

other always, forcefully and immutably.

We lived in New York in an air-conditioned apartment. My wife, Joan, was a

successful dancer and dress designer before devoting most of her time to the

family and our son Todd and our daughter Moira. I was a successful commercial

artist, art director, editor, writer.

But I was writing for money not pleasure. It was like being a prison guard or

an elevator operator. You did it to stay alive, not because you enjoyed it.

Only the fiction, particularly the science fiction, gave me any pleasure and

sense of purpose.

But in those penny and two-cent a word days you couldn't live by writing

science fiction. You would have to write - and sell! - at least two stories a

week to earn as much as a shoe salesman. Impossible! As for writing a novel,

earning no money at all for one or two years, that was simply out of the

question. Many writers have written novels in their spare time while holding

down a regular job. I could not do it. It fitted neither my temperament nor my

work patterns. Joan and I discussed the problem at great length and came up

with what appeared to be an obvious solution.

I would quit my job, we would give up the apartment, sell the air conditioner,

put all our goods in storage and drive to Mexico. Todd, aged one, did not seem

bothered about the idea.

His grandparents thought quite differently. As did all our friends. Words like

"insane" and "impossible" were muttered about and occasionally shouted aloud.

Perhaps they were right.

We did it anyway. Padded the backseat of our Anglia Ford 10 to make a playpen,

tied the crib to the roof, filled the trunk with our belongings and drove

south.

The funny part is that it worked. We only had a bit over $200, but that

princely sum went a long way in Mexico in the 50's. We drove farther south

still until the paved road ended, turned back and stopped at the first town.

Cuautla, Morelos. We rented a house there, learned to speak Spanish, drank

Tequila at 75 cents a liter, and employed a full-time maid at $4.53 a month. I

wrote on a tiny screened balcony with a view of growing banana trees just

outside. My magazine articles were selling well back in New York. The income

from one sale, that might have bought a good meal and a night in the theater

in the Apple, supported us in Mexico for a month. Once I was ahead on article

sales, some short science fiction written and sold - I took a deep breath and

started the novel.

Mexico was warm, beautiful and comfortable. But the social life was

nonexistent and the tropics no place to bring up a baby. So after one year,

rich with experiences, tan of skin and slightly more solvent, we drove back to

New York.

And continued on to England.

Many times many people, eyebrows raised, have asked me why I did this or that.

Like driving to Mexico with an infant. Or going to Denmark for a one month

visit and staying for seven years. My answer, quite often, is that it seemed

like a good idea at the time. People with regular jobs, mortgaged homes,

children in school and a pension hovering goldenly in the distance are often

infuriated by this answer.

But it is a true one, not a glib or evasive answer. We were committed to the

freelance life. And enjoyed living someplace else. For a writer it was

paradise. Learning new languages, living in new cultures, responding to new

realities, ideas, experiences. I am more than blessed that Joan shares my

enthusiasms.

On the jacket of the German translation of one of my novels is a German

expression. It refers to me as a Weltenbummler. Was I being called a world

bum? Not nice. Professor T. A. Shippey, science-fiction scholar and linguist,

set me right. "No, not a bum, Harrison - though others may think differently.

It is an ancient and good German term, not too different from our word

`apprentice.’

Or better `journeyman,' as in journeyman printer. A novice working at a

skilled trade would go from workplace to workplace, learning new skills and

crafts.”

I think the Germans are right about me. Weltenbummler indeed. Everything new,

different, interesting, educational becomes part of a writer's life. It is all

grist for the creative mill. Many times the connection is obvious; I wrote

Captive Universe after living in Mexico, seeing the life there in the isolated

villages, discovering how these people understood their world. ‘In Our Hands

the Stars’ uses Denmark as a setting; the people, their attitude towards life,

shape the structure of the novel.

Those are the obvious examples. But there are subtler threads in my writing,

many times things that I am not aware of, that are pointed out by critics or

friends. Or enemies? I do not wish to put down Peoria, home of that fine

writer Philip Jose Farmer, but I do feel that there is more to the world than

Peoria. I have lived for extended periods, for months and years, in a total of

six countries. I have visited at least sixty more. I feel enriched by the

experience. More important - I feel that my work has been enriched.

Circumstance, and residing outside my native country for some thirty-odd

years, have certainly changed me. The way I think, the way I write. I am an

internationalist now, feeling that no single country is better than another.

Though there are certainly some that are worse. I speak Esperanto like a

native, or as Damon Knight once said, "Harry speaks the worst English and the

best Esperanto I have ever heard.”

I have traveled with this international language and made friends right around

the globe.

Fragments from the traveler's life: In Moscow, many years ago, a reader gave

me one of my books in Russian. Not published, but in samizdat. That is, typed

out by hand, circulated privately. Honor enough - and honor is about all an

author can get out of Russia in the foreseeable future. Since the Soviets did

not sign an important international copyright agreement, it is not illegal to

steal foreign books and publish them there. I have recently discovered that I

am the most pirated SF author in Russia. Which means the most popular foreign

author. A boost for the ego; a sigh for the bank account.

Another fragment: Osaka, Japan. I was the first-ever foreign SF writer to be

the Guest of Honor at a Japanese national convention. The twentieth annual

convention. (Honored perhaps because I paid my own way there?) Much signing of

books, signing the back of the jacket of one of the fans. Who, when he thought

I wasn't looking, pressed it to his heart and raised his eye heavenward in

thanks. So much for the inscrutable Orient; a thoughtful look at the way SF

readers prize this form of fiction.

Rio de Janeiro: Meeting a millionaire SF fan. Who never thought he would meet

the author of some of his favorite books. Signing copies of my paperbacks -

bound in leather.

Signing a copy of a Finnish translation of a book in Helsinki. And realizing I

had never signed a contract for this book.

Doing the same in Germany, an ugly-looking translation of Deathworld, retitled

for some obscure Teutonic reason Planet aus die falsch Zauberer, or Planet of

the False Wizards.

Gallic fragment: Joan and I having lunch in Paris with Jacques Sadoul and

important French SF people. Jacques, a camera fiend, clicking away as always.

Within a month he sent a copy of his just-published French encyclopedia of

science fiction, years in production. With our picture in it - looking very

filled with food and wine. The book had already been printed, but not bound

when we had that lunch. He saw to it that the event was immortalized in the

glossy photo section that was bound in.

American fragment: Working on a screenplay in Hollywood, eating alone at an

Italian restaurant and reading a book for company. A talkative headwaiter; do

you like to read, sir? Asked if I was a writer - apparently the only people

who can read in Hollywood-extracted a reluctant yes. Eyes glowing he asked if

I might reveal my name. Reluctant revelation. But what a response! "Not Harry

Harrison-world-famous science fiction author!”

Moment of pure bliss for author. Only tempered slightly by the revelation that

he was a true SF fan, attended conventions, etc.

Most authors are indeed reluctant to reveal their occupation to strangers.

This is not from shyness - never that! - but from sad experience. (When

questioned I usually say that "I'm in publishing," which is indeed true.)

Science fiction fans and readers don't do it - but all mundanes do. There are

two questions that are always asked. And I mean always.

1. Where do you get your ideas from?

2. Under what name do you write?

The second question is a roundabout way of saying "I never heard of you.”

In a fit of pique I once answered "Mark Twain.”

My interlocutor nodded wisely and said that, yes, he thought he had heard of

me.

These are memories that I treasure. Not only for the egoboo - an SF fan term,

contraction of "ego boost" - which is of course pleasurable. But more for the

fact that I am not writing in an ivory tower, that I am writing for an

intelligent readership that values my work, gets satisfaction from it - and is

not ashamed to tell me so.

Yes, I work for money since I am a writer who likes to eat - not to mention

drink - and who enjoys fending for his family. But once you get past the money

you must look at the fulfillment of reader satisfaction. SF writers are

incredibly lucky in their readers. They organize conventions and give feedback

and moral aid when needed. I do not envy Barbara Cartland. She may write a

book every four hours and have as much money as the late Mr. Maxwell. But she

has no BC fans as I have SF fans.

The stories in this book were written over the span of many years. They reread

well - even better once I had taken out all errors that printers let creep

into typeset manuscripts. I admit to a certain amount of polishing; an unkempt

phrase here, a maladroit sentence there. But nothing major; they were written

to the best of my ability the first time around.

I enjoy writing. I shall keep doing it as long as my quavering fingers can

fumble across the keyboard.

I also enjoy the awards that come with a writing career. A few weeks ago I was

in London, in a branch of the booksellers W. H. Smith. Looking at the shelves,

I discovered that I had been awarded one of the greatest prizes in publishing

- and no one had told me about it.

My name was posted on the shelf in the science fiction section.

This is for real - like having your name on a star in the sidewalk on

Hollywood Boulevard. There are only ten names on the SF shelves. Which means

that enough people liked my books and bought my books to put me there in the

top ten.

This is a prize that cannot be purchased or fought for. It is given by you,

friendly reader. Thank you very much indeed.

HARRY HARRISON DUBLIN, IRELAND

I ALWAYS DO WHAT TEDDY SAYS

The little boy lay sleeping. The moonlight effect of the picture-picture

window threw a pale glow across his untroubled features. He had one arm

clutched around his teddy bear, pulling the round face with its staring button

eyes close to his own. His father, and the tall man with the black beard,

tiptoed silently across the nursery to the side of the bed.

"Slip it away," the tall man said. "Then substitute the other.”

"No, he would wake up and cry," Davy's father said. "Let me take care of this.

I know what to do.”

With gentle hands he laid the second teddy bear down next to the boy, on the

other side of his head. His sleeping cherub face was framed by the wide-eared

unsleeping masks of the toys. Then he carefully lifted the boy's arm from the

original teddy and pulled it free. This disturbed Davy without waking him. He

ground his teeth together and rolled over, clutching the substitute toy to his

cheek. Within a few moments his soft breathing was regular and deep again. The

boy's father raised his forefinger to his lips and the other man nodded; they

left the room without making a sound, closing the door noiselessly behind

them.

"Now we begin," Torrence said, reaching out to take the teddy bear. His lips

were small and glistened redly in the midst of his dark beard. The teddy bear

twisted in his grip and the black-button eyes rolled back and forth.

"Take me back to Davy," it said in a thin and tiny voice.

"Let me have the thing back," the boy's father said. "It knows me and won't

complain.”

His name was Numen and, like Torrence, he was a Doctor of Government. Despite

their outstanding abilities both DGs had been made redundant, were unemployed

by the present government.

They had no physical resemblance. Torrence was a bear, though a small one, a

black bear with hair sprouting thickly on his knuckles, twisting out of his

white cuffs and lining his ears. His beard was full and thick rising high up

on his cheekbones and dropping low on his chest.

Where Torrence was dark Numen was fair, where short he was tall, thick, thin.

A thin bow of a man, bent forward with a scholar's stoop and, though balding

now, his hair was still curled and blond and very much like the golden

ringlets of the boy asleep upstairs. Now he took the toy animal and led the

way to the shielded room deep in the house where Eigg was waiting.

"Give it here-here!” Eigg snapped when they came in, reaching for the toy.

Eigg was always like that, in a hurry, surly, square and solid with his width

of jaw and spotless white laboratory smock. But they needed him.

"Gently," Numen said, but Eigg had already pulled it from his grasp. "It won't

like it, I know . . .”

"Let me go . . . let me go... !” the teddy bear said with a hopeless shrill.

"It is just a machine," Eigg said coldly, putting in face down on the table

and reaching for a scalpel. "You are a grown man, you should be more logical,

have your emotions under greater control. You are speaking with your childhood

memories, seeing your own boyhood teddy who was your friend and companion.

This is only a machine.”

With a quick slash he opened the fabric over the seam seal and touched it: the

plastic-fur back gaped open like a mouth.

"Let me go . . . let me go . . .” the teddy bear wailed while its stumpy arms

and legs waved back and forth. Both of the onlookers went white.

"Must we... ?”

"Emotions. Control them," Eigg said and probed with a screwdriver. There was a

click and the toy went limp. He began to unscrew a plate in the mechanism.

Numen turned away and found that he had to touch a handkerchief to his face.

Eigg was right. He was being emotional. This was just a machine. It was

singularly stupid of him to get emotional over it. Particularly with what they

had in mind.

"How long will it take?”

He looked at his watch; it was a little past 2100.

"We have been over this before and discussing it again will not change any of

the factors.”

Eigg's voice was distant as he removed the tiny plate and began to examine the

machine's interior with a magnifying probe. "I have experimented on the two

stolen teddy tapes, carefully timing myself at every step. I do not count

removal or restoration of the tape, that is just a few minutes for each. The

tracking and altering of the tape in both instances took me under ten hours.

My best time differed from my worst time by less than fifteen minutes, which

is not significant. We can therefore safely say - ahh.” He was silent for a

moment while he removed the capsule of the memory spools. ". . . We can safely

say that this is a ten-hour operation.”

"That is too long. The boy is usually awake by seven, we must have the teddy

back by then. He must never suspect that it has been away.”

"There is little risk, you can give him some excuse for the time. I will not

rush and spoil the work. Now be silent.”

The two government specialists could only sit back and watch while Eigg

inserted the capsule into the bulky machine that he had assembled in the room.

This was not their speciality.

"Let me go . . .” the tiny voice said from the wall speaker, then was

interrupted by a burst of static. "Let me go . . . bzzzzzzt . . . no, no Davy,

Mummy wouldn't like you to do that . . . fork in left, knife in right . . . if

you do you'll have to wipe . . . good boy good boy good boy . . .”

The voice squeaked and whispered and went on and on, while the hours on the

clock went by, one by one. Numen brought in coffee more than once. Towards

dawn Torrence fell asleep up in the chair, only to awake with a guilty start.

Of them all Eigg showed no strain or fatigue, working the controls with

fingers regular as a metronome. The reedy voice from the capsule shrilled

thinly through the night like the memory of a ghost.

"It is done," Eigg said, sealing the fabric with quick surgeon's stitches.

"Your fastest time ever," Numen sighed with relief. He glared at the nursery

viewscreen that showed his son sleeping soundly, starkly clear in the harsh

infrared light. "And the boy is still asleep. There will be no problem getting

the teddy back to him after all. But is the tape... ?”

"It is right, perfect, you heard that. You asked the questions and heard the

answers. I have concealed all traces of my work. Unless you know what to look

for in the alterations you would never find the changes. In every other way

the memory and instructions are like all the others. There has just been this

single change made.”

"Pray God we never have to use it," Numen said.

"I did not know that you were religious," Eigg said, turning to look at him,

his face expressionless. The magnifying loupe was still in his eye and it

stared coldly at him. Five times the size of its fellow, a large and probing

questioner.

"I'm not," Numen said, flushing.

"We must get the teddy back," Torrence broke in. "The boy just moved.”

Davy was a good boy and, when he grew older, a good student in school. Even

after he began classes he kept teddy around and talked to him while he did his

homework.

"How much is seven and five, teddy?”

The furry toy bear rolled its eyes and clapped stubby paws. "Davy knows . . .

shouldn't ask teddy what Davy knows . . .”

"Sure I know - I just wanted to see if you did. The answer is thirteen.”

"Davy . . . the answer is twelve . . . you better study harder Davy . . .

that's what teddy says . . .”

"Fooled you!” Davy laughed. "Made you tell me the answer!”

He was finding ways to get around the robot controls, permanently fixed to

answer the question of a younger child. Teddies have the vocabulary and

outlook of the very young because their job must be done during the formative

years. Teddies teach diction and life history and morals and group adjustment

and vocabulary and grammar and all the other things that enable men to live

together as social animals. A teddy's job is done early in the most plastic

stages of a child's life. By the very nature of its task its conversation must

be simple and limited. But effective. By the time teddies are discarded as

childish toys their job is done.

By the time Davy became David and was eighteen years old, teddy had long since

been retired behind a row of books on a high shelf. He was an old friend who

had outgrown his useful days. But he was still a friend and certainly couldn't

be discarded. Not that David ever thought of it that way. Teddy was just teddy

and that was that. The nursery was now a study, his cot a bed and with his

birthday past David was packing because he was going away to the university.

He was sealing his bag when the phone bleeped and he saw his father's tiny

image on the screen.

"David . . .”

"What is it, Father?”

"Would you mind coming down to the library now. There is something rather

important.”

David squinted at the screen and noticed for the first time that his father's

face had a pinched, sick look. His heart gave a quick jump.

"I'll be right down!”

Dr. Eigg was there, arms crossed and sitting almost at attention. So was

Torrence, his father's oldest friend. Though no relation, David had always

called him Uncle Torrence. And his father was obviously ill at ease about

something. David came in, quickly conscious of all their eyes upon him as he

crossed the room and took a chair. He was a lot like his father, with the same

build and height. A relaxed, easy-to-know boy with very few problems in life.

"Is something wrong?” he asked.

"Not wrong, Davy," his father said. He must be upset, David thought, he hasn't

called me that in years. "Or rather something is wrong, but with the state of

the world, has been for a long time.”

"Oh, the Panstentialists," David said, and relaxed a little. He had been

hearing about the evils of Panstentialism as long as he could remember. It was

just politics; he had been thinking something very personal was wrong.

"Yes Davy, I imagine you know all about them by now. When your mother and I

separated, I promised to raise you to the best of my ability and I think that

I have. But I am a governor and all of my friends work in government so I'm

sure you have heard a lot of political talk in this house. You know our

feelings and I think you should share them.”

"I do - and I think I would have no matter where I grew up. Panstentialism is

an oppressing philosophy and one that perpetuates itself in power.”

"Exactly. And one man, Barre, is at the heart of it. He stays in the seat of

power and will not relinquish it and, with the rejuvenation treatments, will

be good for a hundred years more.”

"Barre must go!”

Eigg snapped. "For twenty-three years now he has ruled - and forbidden the

continuation of my experiments. Young man, he has stopped my work for a longer

time than you have been alive, do you realize that?”

David nodded, but he did not comment. What little he had read about Dr. Eigg's

proposed researches into behavioral human embryology had repelled him:

secretly, he was in agreement with Barre's ban on the work. But on this only.

For the rest he was truly in agreement with his father. Panstentialism was a

heavy and dusty hand on the world of politics - as well as the world at large.

"I'm not speaking only for myself," Numen said, his face white and strained.

"But for everyone in the world, everyone who is against Barre and his

philosophies. I have not held a government position for over twenty years -

nor has Torrence here - but I think he'll agree that this is a small thing. If

this were a service to the people we would gladly suffer it. Or if our

persecution was the only negative result of Barre's evil works I would do

nothing to stop him.”

"I am in complete agreement.” Torrence nodded. "The fate of two men is of no

importance in comparison to the fate of us all. Nor is the fate of one man.”

"Exactly!”

Numen sprang to his feet and began to pace agitatedly up and down the room.

"If that wasn't true, wasn't the heart of the problem, I would never consider

being involved. There would be no problem if Barre suffered a heart attack and

fell dead tomorrow.”

The three older men were all looking at David now, though he didn't know why,

and he felt they were waiting for him to say something.

"Well, yes - I agree. A little coronary embolism right now would be the best

thing for the world that I can think of. Barre dead would be of far greater

service to mankind than Barre alive has ever been.”

The silence lengthened, became embarrassing, and it was finally Eigg who broke

it with his dry mechanical tones.

"We are all then in agreement that Barre's death would be of immense benefit.

In that case, David, you must also agree that it would be fine if he could be

. . . killed. . . .”

"Not a bad idea," David said, wondering where all this talk was going. "Though

of course that is a physical impossibility. It must be centuries since the

last . . . what's the word, `murder' took place. The developmental psychology

work took care of that a long time ago. As the twig is bent and all that sort

of thing. Wasn't that supposed to be the discovery that finally separated man

from the lower orders, the proof that we could entertain the thought of

killing and discuss it, yet still be trained in our early childhood so that we

would not be capable of the act. Surely, if you can believe the textbooks, the

human race has progressed immeasurably since the curse of killing has been

removed. Look-do you mind if I ask you what this is all about... ?”

"Barre can be killed," Eigg said in an almost inaudible voice. "There is one

man in the world who can kill him.”

"Who?” David asked and in some terrible way he knew the answer even before the

words came from his father's trembling lips.

"You, David . . . you....” He sat, unmoving, and his thoughts went back

through the years, and a number of things that had been bothering him were now

made clear. His attitudes so subtly different from his friends', and that time

with the airship when one of the rotors had killed a squirrel. Little puzzling

things - and sometimes worrying ones that had kept him awake long after the

rest of the house was asleep. It was true, he knew it without a shadow of a

doubt, and wondered why he had never realized it before. But, like a hideous

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摘要：

HarryHarrisonisoneofthebestknownsciencefictionwritersintheworld.ForfortyyearshehaswrittenSFrangingfromtheslambangadventureofDeathworldtothehumourofTheStainlessSteelRat;fromthesweepinggrandeuroftheEdennovelstothebleak,overcrowdedfutureofMakeRoom!MakeRoom!NottomentionBill,TheGalacticHero.Thereisnoarea...

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Harry Harrison - Galactic Dreams (SS Collection)

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