Fred Saberhagen - A Spadeful of Spacetime

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A SPADEFUL OF SPACETIME

EDITED BY

FRED SABERHAGEN

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION, Fred Saberhagen

DECYPHERED WITH THE POTSHARDS OF TIME, Robert A. Frazier

GO STARLESS IN THE NIGHT, Roger Zelazny

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN, Chad Oliver

ST. AMY'S TALE, Orson Scott Card

THE FINAL DAYS, David Langford

RECESSIONAL, Fred Saberhagen

ENCASED IN THE AMBER OF TIME, Robert A. Frazier

THE CHILD WHO CRIES FOR THE MOON, Connie Willis

GRAIN OF TRUTH, Charles Spano, Jr

FORWARD, Steve Rasnic Tem

STRATA, Edward Bryant

FOREFATHER FIGURE, Charles Sheffield

EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS, Rivka Jacobs

BANK AND SHOAL OF TIME, R. A. Lafferty

ANIMATED BY THE FOSSILS OF TIME, Robert A. Frazier

NEW WAYS TO TRAVEL THROUGH TIME!

"Those badly addicted to the automobile will never learn or earn the joys of hiking. Similarly, the Time

Machine is a little too easy. It's great when urgent business requires that we get there in a hurry, but we

are shot into the past, or the future, and the pleasures of the journey have been denied us:

"My intention in putting together this book has been to get, from some of the best science fiction writers

alive, their own visions of probing the past without Mr. Wells' all too convenient aid."

-Fred Saberhagen

A SPADEFUL

OF SPACETIME

EDITED BY

FRED SABERHAGEN

ace books

A Division of Charter Communications Inc.

A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY

51 Madison Avenue

New York, New York 10010

A SPADEFUL OF SPACETIME

inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

An ACE Book

First Ace printing: February 1981

Published Simultaneously in Canada

2468097531

Manufactured in the United States of America

INTRODUCTION

Fred Saberhagen

In a world of explosive change, the past seems to offer us a firm handle with which to grip reality, a

model, better than the evanescent present, of what the world should be like. We rest on the past, rely on

it, and by means of memory, science, and the written record, return to it in search of reassurance and of

knowledge.

The Time Machine, popularized as a literary device by H.G. Wells, and used by a thousand writers since,

has done much to satisfy the cravings of imagination and nostalgia. By more or less easily returning

protagonists and readers to the past, it serves the sense that we ought to be able to participate, or

re-participate, in what is gone. But I think the Machine's very effectiveness in this regard has done us all

something of a disservice, too.

Those badly addicted to the automobile will never learn or earn the joys of hiking. Similarly, the Time

Machine is wont to be a little too easy, for writer and reader alike. It's great when urgent business

requires that we get there in a hurry; but we miss something when its routine use becomes a reflex.

Whatever the passenger accommodations of a particular model may be, however fancy the controls or

innovative the special effects, the travel function is served with sterile ruthlessness. We are shot into the

past, or the future, and at once begin to interact with what has become only a different kind of present.

The pleasures of the journey have been denied us.

My intention in putting together this book has been to get, from some of the best science fiction writers

alive, their own visions on the subject of probing the past without Mr. Wells' all too convenient aid. I

have been greatly pleased by the results. And I hope that you, the reader, will share my delight, that print

and paper can bridge the gap of time, small or great, that has necessarily grown up between us.

-Fred Saberhagen

If there were no such concept as science fiction poetry (science poetry?) it would doubtless have to be

invented to accommodate Bob Frazier, whose verse has appeared during the last few years in more than

a dozen magazines and anthologies generally devoted to the more conventional prose form of speculative

fiction.

DECYPHERED WITH THE POTSHARDS OF TIME

Robert A. Frazier

Sifting through the dust of countless permutations,

gleaning the bones of numberless probabilities,

the Arc 9 Regenerator has visions like an indian shaman.

It imagines in binary the missing pieces of a jigsawn yesterday.

Like a Navajo at the loom,

from a mere thread,

it weaves a molecular schematic of complete artifacts.

Given enough fragments, bits and runes,

in bondage to a master computer,

it can generate volumes of history,

colored paintings on the temporal sands,

from a mittful of matter

or a spadeful of spacetime.

It is a truism that what is now our present will become, in our future, someone else's past. What may not

be so obvious, as this sharp story by Roger Zelazny illustrates, is that no matter how intensely personal

the connection, even unto life and death, the alienation can be vast.

GO STARLESS IN THE NIGHT

Roger Zelazny

Darkness and silence all about, and nothing, nothing, nothing within it.

Me?

The first thought came unbidden, welling up from some black pool. Me? That's all.

Me? he thought. Then, Who? What…?

Nothing answered.

Something like panic followed, without the customary physical accompaniments. When this wave had

passed, he listened, striving to capture the slightest sound. He realized that he had already given up on

seeing.

There was nothing to hear. Not even the smallest noises of life-breathing, heartbeat, the rasping of a tired

joint-came to him. It was only then that he realized he lacked all bodily sensations.

But this time he fought the panic. Death? he wondered. A bodiless, dark sentence beyond everything?

The stillness…

Where? What point in spacetime did he occupy? He would have shaken his head…

He recalled that he had been a man-and it seemed that there were memories somewhere that he could

not reach. No name answered his summons, no view of his past came to him. Yet he knew that there had

been a past. He felt that it lay just below some dim horizon of recall.

He strove for a timeless interval to summon some recollection of what had gone before. Amnesia? Brain

damage?

Dream? he finally asked himself, after failing to push beyond a certain feeling of lurking images.

A body then… Start with that.

He remembered what bodies were. Arms, legs, head, torso… An intellectual vision of sex passed

momentarily through his consciousness. Bodies, then…

He thought of his arms, felt nothing. Tried to move them. There was no sense of their existence, let alone

movement.

Breathing… He attempted to draw a deep breath. Nothing came into him. There was no indication of

any boundary whatsoever between himself and the darkness and silence.

A buzzing tone began, directionless. It oscillated in volume. It rose in pitch, dropped to a rumble,

returned to a buzz. Abruptly then, it shifted again, to work-like approximations he could not quite

decipher.

There was a pause, as if for some adjustment. Then "Hello?" came clearly to him.

He felt a rush of relief mingled with fear. The word filled his mind, followed by immediate concern as to

whether he had actually heard it.

"Hello?"

Again, then. The fear faded. Something close to joy replaced it. He felt an immediate need to respond.

"Yes? Hello? Who-"

His answer broke. How had he managed it? He felt the presence of no vocal mechanism. Yet he seemed

to hear a faint echoing of his own reply, feedback-like, tinny. Where? Its source was not localized.

It seemed then that several voices were conversing-hurried, soft, distant. He could not follow the rush of

their words.

Then, "Hello again. Please respond one time more. We are adjusting the speaker. How well do you hear

us?"

"Clearly now," he answered. "Where am I? What has happened?"

"How much do you remember?"

"Nothing!"

"Panic not, Ernest Dawkins. Do you remember that your name is Ernest Dawkins? From your file, we

have it."

"Now I do."

The simple statement of his name brought forth a series of images-his own face, his wife's, his two

daughters', his apartment, the laboratory where he worked, his car, a sunny day at the beach…

That day at the beach… That was when he had first felt the pain in his left side-a dull ache at first,

increasing over ensuing weeks. He had never been without it after that-until now, he suddenly realized.

"I-It's coming back-my memory," he said. "It's as if a dam had broken… Give me a minute."

"Take your time."

He shied away from the thought of the pain. He had been ill, very ill, hospitalized, operated upon,

drugged… He-

He thought instead of his life, his family, his work. He thought of school and love and politics and

research. He thought of the growing world tensions, and of his childhood, and-

"Are you right all, Ernest Dawkins?"

He had lost track of time, but that question caused him to produce something like a laugh, from

somewhere.

"Hard to tell," he said. "I've been remembering-things. But as to whether I'm all right-Where the hell am

I? What's happened?"

"Then you have remembered not everything?"

He noted odd inflections in the questioning voice, possibly even an accent that he could not place.

"I guess not."

"You were quite unwell."

"I remember that much."

"Dying, in fact. As they say."

He forced himself to return to the pain, to look beyond it.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "I remember."

…And it was all there. He saw his last days in the hospital as his condition worsened, passing the point of

no return, the faces of his family, friends and relatives wearing this realization. He recalled his decision to

go through with an earlier resolution, long since set into motion. Money had never been a problem. It

seemed it had always been there, in his family-his, by early inheritance-as ubiquitous as his attitude

toward death after his parents' passing. Enough to have himself frozen for the long winter, to drop off

dreaming of some distant spring…

"I recall my condition," he said. "I know what must finally have occurred."

"Yes," came the reply. "That is what happened."

"How much time has passed?"

"Considerable."

He would have licked his lips. He settled for the mental equivalent.

"My family?" he finally inquired.

"It has been too long."

"I see."

The other gave him time to consider this information. Then, "You had, of course, considered this

possibility?"

"Yes. I prepared myself-as much as a man can-for such a state of affairs."

"It has been long. Very long…"

"How long?"

"Allow us to proceed in our fashion, please."

"All right. You know your business best."

"We are glad that you are so reasonable a being."

"Being?"

"Person. Excuse we."

"I must ask something, though-not having to do with the passage of time: Is English now spoken as you

speak it? Or is it not your native language?"

There was a sudden consultation, just beyond the range of distinguishability. There followed a

high-pitched artifact. Then, "Also let us reserve that question," the reply finally came.

"As you would. Then will you tell me about my situation? I am more than a little concerned. I can't see or

feel anything."

"We are aware of this. It is unfortunate, but there is no point in misrepresenting to you. The time has not

yet come for your full arouse."

"I do not understand. Do you mean that there is no cure for my condition yet?"

"We mean that there is no means of thawing you without doing great damage."

"Then how is it that we are conversing?"

"We have lowered your temperature even more-near to the zero absolute. Your nervous system has

become superconductor. We have laid induction field upon your brain and initiated small currents within.

Third space, left side head and those movement areas for talk are now serving to activate mechanical

speaker here beside we. We address you direct in the side of brain places for hearing talk.''

There came another wave of panic. How long this one lasted, he did not know. Vaguely, he became

aware of the voice again, repeating his name.

"Yes,'' he finally managed. "I understand. It is not easy to accept…"

"We know. But this does you no damage," came the reply. "You might even take a heart from it, to know

that you persist."

"There is that. I see your meaning and can take it as hope. But why? Surely you did not awaken me

simply to demonstrate this?"

"No. We have interest in your times. Purely archaeologic."

"Archaeological! That would seem to indicate the passage of a great deal of time!"

"Forgive we. Perhaps we have chose wrong word, thinking of it in terms of ruins. But your nervous

system is doorway to times past."

"Ruins! What the hell happened?"

"There was war, and there have been disasters. The record, therefore, is unclear."

"Who won the war?"

"That is difficult to say."

"Then it must have been pretty bad."

"We would assume this. We are still ourselves learning. That is why we seek to know time past from

your cold remains."

"If there was all this chaos, how is it that I was preserved through it?"

"The cold-making units here are powered by atomic plant which ran well untended-save for

computer-for long while, and entire establishment is underground.''

"Really? Things must have changed quite a bit after my-enrollment-here. It wasn't set up that way at the

time I read the prospectus and visited the place."

"We really know little of the history of this establishment. There are many things of which we are ignorant.

That is why we want you to tell us about your times."

"It is difficult to know where to begin…"

"It may be better if we ask you questions."

"All right. But I would like answers to some of my own afterwards."

"A suitable arrangement. Tell us then: Did you reside at or near your place of employment?"

"No. Actually, I lived halfway across town and had to drive in every day."

"Was this common for the area and the country?"

"Pretty much so, yes. Some other people did use other means of transportation, of course. Some rode on

buses. Some car-pooled. I drove. A lot of us did."

"When you say that you drove, are we to understand that you refer to four-wheeled land vehicle

"Yes, that is correct. They were in common use in the latter half of the twentieth century.''

"And there were many such?"

"Very many."

"Had you ever problems involving presence of too many of them on trails at same time?"

"Yes. Certain times of day-when people were going to work and returning-were referred to as 'rush

hour.' At such times there were often traffic jams-that is to say, so many vehicles that they got in one

another's way."

"Extremely interesting. Were such creatures as whales still extant?"

"Yes."

"Interesting, too. What sort of work did you do?"

"I was involved in research on toxic agents of a chemical and bacteriological nature. Most of it was

classified."

"What does that indicate?"

"Oh. It was of a secret nature, directed toward possible military application."

"Was war already in progress?"

"No. It was a matter of-preparedness. We worked with various agents that might be used, if the need

ever arose."

"We think we see. Interesting times. Did you ever develop any of efficient nature?"

"Yes. A number of them."

"Then what would you do with them? It would seem hazardous to have such materials about during

peace."

"Oh, samples were stored with the utmost precaution in very safe places. There were three main caches,

and they were well-sheltered and well-guarded."

There was a pause. Then, "We find this somewhat distressing," the voice resumed. "Do you feel they

might have survived-a few, some centuries?"

"It is possible."

"Being peace-loving, we are naturally concerned with items dangerous to human species-"

"You make it sound as if you are not yourself a member.''

There came another high-pitched artifact. Then, "The language has changed more even than we realized.

Apologies. Wrong inference taken. Our desire, to deactivate these dangerous materials. Long have we

expected their existences. You perhaps will advise? Their whereabouts unknown to us."

"I'm-not-so sure-about that," he answered. "No offense meant, but you are only a voice to me. I really

know nothing about you. I am not certain that I should give this information."

There was a long silence.

"Hello? Are you still there?" he tried to say.

He heard nothing, not even his own voice. Time seemed to do strange things around him. Had it stopped

for a moment? Had he given offense? Had his questioner dropped dead?

"Hello! Hello!" he said. "Do you hear me?"

"…Mechanical failure," came the reply. "Apologies for. Sorry about yesterday."

"Yesterday!"

"Turned you off while obtaining new speaker. Just when you were to say where best poisons are."

"I am sorry," he stated. "You have asked for something that I cannot, in good conscience, give to you."

"We wish only to prevent damage."

"I am in the terrible position of having no way to verify anything that is told me."

"If something heavy falls upon you, you break like bottle."

"I could not even verify whether that had occurred."

"We could turn you off again, turn off the cold-maker.''

"At least it would be painless," he said with more stoicism than he felt.

"We require this information."

"Then you must seek it elsewhere."

"We will disconnect your speaker and your hearer and go away. We will leave you thinking in the middle

of nothing. Good-bye now."

"Wait!"

"Then you will tell us?"

"No. I-can't."

"You will go mad if we disconnect these things, will you not?"

"I suppose so. Eventually…"

"Must we do it, then?"

"Your threats have shown me what you are like. I cannot give you such weapons."

"Ernest Dawkins, you are not intelligent being."

"And you are not an archaeologist. Or you would do future generations the service of turning me off, to

save the other things that I do know."

"You are right. We are not such. You will never know what we are."

"I know enough."

"Go to your madness."

Silence again.

For a long while the panic held him. Until the images of his family recurred, and his home, and his town.

These grew more and more substantial, and gradually he came to walk with them and among them. Then,

after a time, he stopped reporting for work and spent his days at the beach. He wondered at first when

his side would begin to hurt. Then he wondered why he had wondered this. Later, he forgot many things,

but not the long days beneath the sun or the sound of the surf, the red rain, the blue, or the melting statue

with the fiery eyes and the sword in its fist. When he heard voices under the sand he did not answer. He

listened instead to whales singing to mermaids on migrating rocks, where they combed their long green

hair with shards of bone, laughing at the lightning and the ice.

If the Zelazny story is intensely personal, this one is broadly human; all the more so, I think, because it

reaches out to something that is beyond human, to define humanity by what is at once a boundary and a

connection.

Chad Oliver is a professional anthropologist working out of a university in Texas. He's written a lot of

fiction, too, though not so much in recent years. One of the reasons I feel good about this book is that the

prospectus for it induced Professor Oliver to write one story more.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

Chad Oliver

Call it a hunt.

If that is too simple, call it a quest.

They were coming.

They had searched through an ocean of darkness, a night sea that floated worlds upon worlds, stars

beyond number, universes that began and ended and flowed into yet other universes.

They were after something. Otherwise, they would not have been there.

They needed something. Not technology, certainly. They had plenty of that. They understood technology

and respected it, but that was not enough. Endurance was the problem. Call it continuity.

They would know it when they found it. They would know what to do with it. They had a wisdom that

went deeper than intelligence. They had other senses.

They were not beyond self-interest. They were driven by their own needs. Otherwise, they would not

have been there.

But there was room for others. They knew they were not alone. They knew that it was all linked

together.

The seeking was urgent. The journey had been long.

They were ready. They would not quit. They could not afford to miss.

They were coming. Call it a hunt.

Jerry Hartshorn felt rotten. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a sand-streaked hand. He said, "So

this is how it ends."

Nobody heard him, of course. He was talking to himself again, which was not a particularly good sign.

He tugged his stained hat down more tightly over his damp hair and squinted into the African sun. It was

the same old sun that rolled around the sky everywhere else. Nothing special. It wasn't the sun that was

getting to Jerry Hartshorn. It was a bug, despite all the pills and all the shots. He was sick. Not sick

enough to go down. Just sick enough to be miserable.

He also did not like what he was seeing.

He swung up his camera, noting that the brown strap across his shoulder was fraying to the danger point.

He checked the settings-always the same at this time of the day, but Jerry was a careful man-and

snapped a couple of shots. He hated the photography angle; taking pictures made him feel like a tourist.

It was a part of his job, but the plain truth was that he was always disappointed with his slides and prints.

They were clear enough, barring a disaster here and there, but the magic eluded him. The pictures were

flat and literal. The significance and the emotion never got through the camera lens; they stayed behind,

locked up in his head and his gut.

In any case, how did you photograph the end of a world? It didn't end with a bang and it didn't end with

a whimper. It just stopped.

"Chins up," he said. "Duty and all that. Posterity and tenure."

This is what he photographed:

There was a battered thick-trunked baobab tree that cut the glaring sunlight enough to provide a puddle

of shade. There was the flat rust-red earth of southern Kenya, mottled by bedraggled flat-topped acacia,

the cactus-caricature of euphorbia, and very ordinary dusty brush.

There was a lot of open country-plains, really-and an enormous bowl of blue sky. It was as though

clouds hadn't been invented yet. And there were the people.

They did not seem to be doing anything dramatic. Small, brown, and leather-tough, they had gathered in

the dubious shade of the baobab. It was the last day, and they were spending it as they had spent so

many others. Waiting.

Most of them were there, clustered near the camp. Jerry did not have to count them. Fifteen people: old

men, women that ran the gamut from ancient Klu to the young smooth-skinned Twee, a few children who

were blissfully unaware both of what they were and what they were about to become. Three men were

not present. They had left before dawn, smearing poison on the foreshafts of their arrows and joking

loudly. They were not likely to find anything, but their spirits were always good at the start of a hunt.

Even the last one. George Ndambuki, Jerry's African colleague, was with them.

Taking pictures, Jerry thought ruefully. Good ones. He shut the protective case over his camera and

adjusted the shoulder strap. He had photographed what there was to see.

Nothing much. Even the clothing would have discouraged the true devotee of the supposed romance of

primitive life. For the most part, the people were dressed in what might politely be called contemporary

fashion. Torn shorts and carefully washed undershirts for the men, long cotton dresses and

bandana-turbans for the women. Only the youngest children had style. They wore nothing at all.

The People. That is what they called themselves, in common with God only knew how many human

societies that had lived and died on this planet. In what was pompously referred to as the scientific

literature, they were the Kwaruma. It was not the right name. In their own language, the word for People

was Xhagit. The first sound was a click phoneme. However, they had been dubbed the Kwaruma by

their Bantu-speaking neighbors, and they were stuck with it.

Tomorrow, the trucks would come. The Kwaruma were going to be "resettled" on farming plots in a

development scheme. The television crews would be on hand, because this was no small matter.

As far as anyone knew, the Kwaruma were the last hunters and gatherers left on earth.

A jet smashed through the African sky. The symbolism was so pat that Jerry Hartshorn tried to ignore the

racket. He had lived with these people for nearly a year. He did not need a jet aircraft to remind him of

what was happening.

He still felt rocky. No matter; a couple of aspirins would get him through the remaining hours. Ah,

wonder drugs! The true blessing of civilization…

He checked his field notebook and moved in closer to do what had to be done.

The last camp of the Kwaruma was like most of the camps that Jerry had seen. It had a slapdash quality

to it and it had temporary written all over it. Compared to the camp, the scarred baobab tree looked

eternal.

The structures weren't houses. They were simple lean-tos made of crooked poles and brush. There was

almost nothing in them: a few iron pots the Kwaruma had scrounged, some digging sticks, traditional

ostrich eggs used as water containers, small cracked hide bundles of treasured heirlooms, a few trade

knives and two old wood-pointed spears.

The People lived outside. In any case, when you have to move frequently and do it on foot you get down

to essentials. The People did not even have dogs to help them.

Old Klu already had a small fire going. It was partly a sign of confidence and a show of respect for the

departed hunters. But Jerry knew that there was another reason. Warm as it was in the African sun, Klu

was thinking about the coming night. She suffered from the cold, and it took more than memories to

sustain her.

Jerry was working-taking notes-but he found the time to exchange small-talk with everyone. He

speculated with the elder men about the possible success of the hunt. He joked with Twee, confining

himself to acceptable brother-sister themes. He admired the roots the women had gathered. It made him

feel somewhat better. The Kwaruma were a friendly people and they had more or less accepted him. He

was proud of that. Who knew? Maybe they even liked him.

If he could help them, later-

Well, he would not forget. But this was not the time. There were so few hours left…

He walked over to Jane's tent, which was pitched a short distance from the camp. He could hear the

clicking of the portable typewriter inside.

Not for the first time, he reflected on the percentages. Eighteen Kwaruma and three anthropologists. It

was a peculiar world.

The tent was open, of course. There was no breeze, and it was like an oven in there.

"It's Tarzan," he said. "Jane busy?"

Jane Schubauer went right on with her typing. "Come on in," she said.

Jerry picked his way through the clutter and perched on a camp chair that had one slat missing. He

removed his hat and used it to fan himself.

Jane finished a paragraph-she always typed up her notes with indecent speed-and turned to face him.

Her eyes widened slightly. "You look like a walking corpse," she said.

He shrugged. "Beastly tropical heat. The throb of native drums. You know."

"You can't die now. You're cooking the feast tonight."

"I will not falter. Two aspirins would help the ape-man.''

Jane rooted around and produced the aspirin bottle. She handed it to him with a canteen of water. The

water was warm and tasted ominous but he got the pills down.

"Just wanted to check," he said. "You go over the life-history with Klu, I measure the amounts of plant

foods and meat after the hunters get in, and George writes up the last hunt. Then we eat and kick it

around to see if we've forgotten anything. That cover it?"

She nodded. "Sounds okay to me. We've just run out of time, that's all. Jerry, you do look awful."

"I'll make it."

They eyed each other. There were other words to be said between them, but they might never be

spoken. They were either beyond that or had never gotten there.

No computer would ever have put them in the same pile, Jerry thought. Jane-she loathed the name-was a

tall raw-boned woman who could look attractive when she bothered. She was brilliant and she was

difficult. When she laughed, Jerry chalked it up as a triumph.

Jerry was short, wiry, and thin. He had a brownish beard that itched. He had a bad habit of cracking

jokes at the wrong times. Even those who knew him well had trouble telling when he was serious-which

was all too often-and when he was kidding. He believed in what he was doing.

They were competitors, of course. Back at the University, they were on the Harvard system. Hire six,

terminate five, keep one. They were also friends: they liked and respected each other. Once, they had

even been lovers. It had been a mutual disaster.

"See you later," Jerry said.

Jane went back to the typewriter. The clicking resumed. "Be careful, Tarzan," she said.

The hunters returned in the late afternoon. Jerry could hear them coming, and knew that the hunt had

been good. When the hunters had been successful, they made a lot of noise. When they failed, they came

silently back to the camp and nobody ever asked them what had happened.

Jerry went to meet them.

They came out of the earth, shadows among shadows. Kwi, still walking lightly after a long day in the

bush. Tuwa, who could be spotted at a distance because of his limp. Gsawa, taller than the others,

walking a little apart, lost in his private world as usual.

George Ndambuki brought up the rear. Incredibly, he still had a tie on. He was visibly tired, but he had

his camera out and ready. He was going to photograph the end of the hunt or perish in the attempt.

The women began to ululate. It was a haunting sound. It seemed as ancient as humanity itself.

Jerry stayed out of the way until George had his final pictures. Then he moved in to examine the kill.

Kwi, who was the nearest thing to a leader that the Kwaruma had, gave him a big smile. Kwi had an

upper incisor tooth missing; he liked to tell the story of how he had lost it. He also had a safety pin in his

ear. He was a delightful man, solid as a rock but with a consistent good humor that was contagious. Kwi

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ASPADEFULOFSPACETIMEEDITEDBYFREDSABERHAGENCONTENTSINTRODUCTION,FredSaberhagenDECYPHEREDWITHTHEPOTSHARDSOFTIME,RobertA.FrazierGOSTARLESSINTHENIGHT,RogerZelaznyTOWHOMITMAYCONCERN,ChadOliverST.AMY'STALE,OrsonScottCardTHEFINALDAYS,DavidLangfordRECESSIONAL,FredSaberhagenENCASEDINTHEAMBEROFTIME,RobertA.Fr...

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Fred Saberhagen - A Spadeful of Spacetime.pdf

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Fred Saberhagen - A Spadeful of Spacetime

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