Damon Knight - Short Stories Vol 1

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Fictionwise Publications

www.fictionwise.com

ISBN 1-930936-06-0

1950

as "An Ancient Madness.")

Company in 1953

Publications, Inc., 1956

Science Fiction, 1983

Publishing Corporation in 1958

Publishing Corporation in 1954

Science Fiction, 1976

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or

distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper

print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe

fines.

Table of Contents

Introduction

To Serve Man

The Enemy

Mary

Anachron

Life Edit

A Likely Story

La Ronde

Thing of Beauty

Special Delivery

I See You

Introduction

Damon Knight is a recognized master of the short story. His career has spanned over 50 years and

continues to this day. His lifetime of achievement has earned him the special title "Grandmaster of Science

Fiction" from Science Fiction Writers of America, a title that few living people hold.

His stories always include vivid characters, interesting plots, mind-boggling ideas, and satisfying (and

often surprising) endings.

The ten stories in this collection span nearly every segment of Knight's career. For example, the horrifying

"To Serve Man," was first published 50 years ago and became the basis of what many fans consider to

be the best episode of the originalThe Twilight Zone TV show. The brilliant story "I See You" was a

Hugo award nominee in the 1970s. His thought-provoking "Life Edit" was written only a few years ago

and was picked as one of the best Science Fiction stories of the year by famed editor David Hartwell.

But from whatever decade they came, we hope you'll enjoy these timeless Damon Knight stories as much

as we did.

To Serve Man

THE KANAMIT were not very pretty, it's true. They looked something like pigs and something like

people, and that is not an attractive combination. Seeing them for the first time shocked you; that was

their handicap. When a thing with the countenance of a fiend comes from the stars and offers a gift, you

are disinclined to accept.

I don't know what we expected interstellar visitors to look like—those who thought about it at all, that is.

Angels, perhaps, or something too alien to be really awful. Maybe that's why we were all so horrified and

repelled when they landed in their great ships and we saw what they really were like.

The Kanamit were short and very hairy—thick bristly brown-gray hair all over their abominably plump

bodies. Their noses were snoutlike and their eyes small, and they had thick hands of three fingers each.

They wore green leather harness and green shorts, but I think the shorts were a concession to our notions

of public decency. The garments were quite modishly cut, with slash pockets and half-belts in the back.

The Kanamit had a sense of humor, anyhow.

There were three of them at this session of the U.N., and, lord, I can't tell you how queer it looked to see

them there in the middle of a solemn plenary session—three fat piglike creatures in green harness and

shorts, sitting at the long table below the podium, surrounded by the packed arcs of delegates from every

nation. They sat correctly upright, politely watching each speaker. Their flat ears drooped over the

earphones. Later on, I believe, they learned every human language, but at this time they knew only

French and English.

They seemed perfectly at ease—and that, along with their humor, was a thing that tended to make me

like them. I was in the minority; I didn't think they were trying to put anything over.

The delegate from Argentina got up and said that his government was interested in the demonstration of a

new cheap power source, which the Kanamit had made at the previous session, but that the Argentine

government could not commit itself as to its future policy without a much more thorough examination.

It was what all the delegates were saying, but I had to pay particular attention to Senor Valdes, because

he tended to sputter and his diction was bad. I got through the translation all right, with only one or two

momentary hesitations, and then switched to the Polish-English line to hear how Grigori was doing with

Janciewicz. Janciewicz was the cross Grigori had to bear, just as Valdes was mine.

Janciewicz repeated the previous remarks with a few ideological variations, and then the

Secretary-General recognized the delegate from France, who introduced Dr. Denis Lévequè, the

criminologist, and a great deal of complicated equipment was wheeled in.

Dr. Lévequè remarked that the question in many people's minds had been aptly expressed by the

delegate from the U.S.S.R. at the preceding session, when he demanded, “What is the motive of the

Kanamit? What is their purpose in offering us these unprecedented gifts, while asking nothing in return?”

The doctor then said, “At the request of several delegates and with the full consent of our guests, the

Kanamit, my associates and I have made a series of tests upon the Kanamit with the equipment which

you see before you. These tests will now be repeated.”

A murmur ran through the chamber. There was a fusillade of flashbulbs, and one of the TV cameras

moved up to focus on the instrument board of the doctor's equipment. At the same time, the huge

television screen behind the podium lighted up, and we saw the blank faces of two dials, each with its

pointer resting at zero, and a strip of paper tape with a stylus point resting against it.

The doctor's assistants were fastening wires to the temples of one of the Kanamit, wrapping a

canvas-covered rubber tube around his forearm, and taping something to the palm of his right hand.

In the screen, we saw the paper tape begin to move while the stylus traced a slow zigzag pattern along it.

One of the needles began to jump rhythmically; the other flipped halfway over and stayed there, wavering

slightly.

“These are the standard instruments for testing the truth of a statement,” said Dr. Lévequè. “Our first

object, since the physiology of the Kanamit is unknown to us, was to determine whether or not they react

to these tests as human beings do. We will now repeat one of the many experiments which were made in

the endeavor to discover this.”

He pointed to the first dial. “This instrument registers the subject's heartbeat. This shows the electrical

conductivity of the skin in the palm of his hand, a measure of perspiration, which increases under stress.

And this—” pointing to the tape-and-stylus device—"shows the pattern and intensity of the electrical

waves emanating from his brain. It has been shown, with human subjects, that all these readings vary

markedly depending upon whether the subject is speaking the truth.”

He picked up two large pieces of cardboard, one red and one black. The red one was a square about

three feet on a side; the black was a rectangle three and a half feet long. He addressed himself to the

Kanama.

“Which of these is longer than the other?”

“The red,” said the Kanama.

Both needles leaped wildly, and so did the line on the unrolling tape.

“I shall repeat the question,” said the doctor. “Which of these is longer than the other?”

The black,” said the creature.

This time the instruments continued in their normal rhythm.

“How did you come to this planet?” asked the doctor.

“Walked,” replied the Kanama.

Again the instruments responded, and there was a subdued ripple of laughter in the chamber.

“Once more,” said the doctor. “How did you come to this planet?”

“In a spaceship,” said the Kanama, and the instruments did not jump.

The doctor again faced the delegates. “Many such experiments were made,” he said, “and my colleagues

and myself are satisfied that the mechanisms are effective. Now—” he turned to the Kanama—"I shall

ask our distinguished guest to reply to the question put at the last session by the delegate of the

U.S.S.R.—namely, what is the motive of the Kanamit people in offering these great gifts to the people of

Earth?”

The Kanama rose. Speaking this time in English, he said, “On my planet there is a saying, ‘There are

more riddles in a stone than in a philosopher's head.’ The motives of intelligent beings, though they may at

times appear obscure, are simple things compared to the complex workings of the natural universe.

Therefore I hope that the people of Earth will understand, and believe, when I tell you that our mission

upon your planet is simply this—to bring to you the peace and plenty which we ourselves enjoy, and

which we have in the past brought to other races throughout the galaxy. When your world has no more

hunger, no more war, no more needless suffering, that will be our reward.”

And the needles had not jumped once.

The delegate from the Ukraine jumped to his feet, asking to be recognized, but the time was up and the

Secretary-General closed the session.

I met Grigori as we were leaving the chamber. His face was red with excitement. “Who promoted that

circus?” he demanded.

“The tests looked genuine to me,” I told him.

“A circus!” he said vehemently. “A second-rate farce! If they were genuine, Peter, why was debate

stifled?”

“There'll be time for debate tomorrow, surely.”

“Tomorrow the doctor and his instruments will be back in Paris. Plenty of things can happen before

tomorrow. In the name of sanity, man, how can anybody trust a thing that looks as if it ate the baby?”

I was a little annoyed. I said, “Are you sure you're not more worried about their politics than their

appearance?”

He said, “Bah,” and went away.

The next day reports began to come in from government laboratories all over the world where the

Kanamit's power source was being tested. They were wildly enthusiastic. I don't understand such things

myself, but it seemed that those little metal boxes would give more electrical power than an atomic pile,

for next to nothing and nearly forever. And it was said that they were so cheap to manufacture that

everybody in the world could have one of his own. In the early afternoon there were reports that

seventeen countries had already begun to set up factories to turn them out.

The next day the Kanamit turned up with plans and specimens of a gadget that would increase the fertility

of any arable land by 60 to 100 per cent. It speeded the formation of nitrates in the soil, or something.

There was nothing in the newscasts any more but stories about the Kanamit. The day after that, they

dropped their bombshell.

“You now have potentially unlimited power and increased food supply,” said one of them. He pointed

with his three-fingered hand to an instrument that stood on the table before him. It was a box on a tripod,

with a parabolic reflector on the front of it. “We offer you today a third gift which is at least as important

as the first two.”

He beckoned to the TV men to roll their cameras into closeup position. Then he picked up a large sheet

of cardboard covered with drawings and English lettering. We saw it on the large screen above the

podium; it was all clearly legible.

“We are informed that this broadcast is being relayed throughout your world,” said the Kanama. “I wish

that everyone who has equipment for taking photographs from television screens would use it now.”

The Secretary-General leaned forward and asked a question sharply, but the Kanama ignored him.

“This device,” he said, “generates a field in which no explosive, of whatever nature, can detonate.”

There was an uncomprehending silence.

The Kanama said, “It cannot now be suppressed. If one nation has it, all must have it.” When nobody

seemed to understand, he explained bluntly, “There will be no more war.”

That was the biggest news of the millennium, and it was perfectly true. It turned out that the explosions

the Kanama was talking about included gasoline and Diesel explosions. They had simply made it

impossible for anybody to mount or equip a modern army.

We could have gone back to bows and arrows, of course, but that wouldn't have satisfied the military.

Besides, there wouldn't be any reason to make war. Every nation would soon have everything.

Nobody ever gave another thought to those lie-detector experiments, or asked the Kanamit what their

politics were. Grigori was put out; he had nothing to prove his suspicions.

I quit my job with the U.N. a few months later, because I foresaw that it was going to die under me

anyhow. U.N. business was booming at the time, but after a year or so there was going to be nothing for

it to do. Every nation on Earth was well on the way to being completely self-supporting; they weren't

going to need much arbitration.

I accepted a position as translator with the Kanamit Embassy, and it was there that I ran into Grigori

again. I was glad to see him, but I couldn't imagine what he was doing there.

“I thought you were on the opposition,” I said. “Don't tell me you're convinced the Kanamit are all right.”

He looked rather shamefaced. “They're not what they look, anyhow,” he said.

It was as much of a concession as he could decently make, and I invited him down to the embassy

lounge for a drink. It was an intimate kind of place, and he grew confidential over the second daiquiri.

“They fascinate me,” he said. “I hate them instinctively still—that hasn't changed—but I can evaluate it.

You were right, obviously; they mean us nothing but good. But do you know—” he leaned across the

table—"the question of the Soviet delegate was never answered.”

I am afraid I snorted.

“No, really,” he said. They told us what they wanted to do—'to bring to you the peace and plenty which

we ourselves enjoy.’ But they didn't saywhy .”

“Why do missionaries—”

“Missionaries be damned!” he said angrily. “Missionaries have a religious motive. If these creatures have

a religion, they haven't once mentioned it. What's more, they didn't send a missionary group; they sent a

diplomatic delegation—a group representing the will and policy of their whole people. Now just what

have the Kanamit, as a people or a nation, got to gain from our welfare?”

I said, “Cultural—”

“Cultural cabbage soup! No, it's something less obvious than that, something obscure that belongs to

their psychology and not to ours. But trust me, Peter, there is no such thing as a completely disinterested

altruism. In one way or another, they have something to gain.”

“And that's why you're here,” I said. “To try to find out what it is.”

“Correct. I wanted to get on one of the ten-year exchange groups to their home planet, but I couldn't; the

quota was filled a week after they made the announcement. This is the next best thing. I'm studying their

language, and you know that language reflects the basic assumptions of the people who use it. I've got a

fair command of the spoken lingo already. It's not hard, really, and there are hints in it. Some of the

idioms are quite similar to English. I'm sure I'll get the answer eventually.”

“More power,” I said, and we went back to work.

I saw Grigori frequently from then on, and he kept me posted about his progress. He was highly excited

about a month after that first meeting; said he'd got hold of a book of the Kanamit's and was trying to

puzzle it out. They wrote in ideographs, worse than Chinese, but he was determined to fathom it if it took

him years. He wanted my help.

Well, I was interested in spite of myself, for I knew it would be a long job. We spent some evenings

together, working with material from Kanamit bulletin boards and so forth, and with the extremely limited

English-Kanamit dictionary they issued to the staff. My conscience bothered me about the stolen book,

but gradually I became absorbed by the problem. Languages are my field, after all. I couldn't help being

fascinated.

We got the title worked out in a few weeks. It wasHow to Serve Man , evidently a handbook they were

giving out to new Kanamit members of the embassy staff. They had new ones in, all the time now, a

shipload about once a month; they were opening all kinds of research laboratories, clinics and so on. If

there was anybody on Earth besides Grigori who still distrusted those people, he must have been

somewhere in the middle of Tibet.

It was astonishing to see the changes that had been wrought in less than a year. There were no more

standing armies, no more shortages, no unemployment. When you picked up a newspaper you didn't see

H-BOMB or SATELLITE leaping out at you; the news was always good. It was a hard thing to get used

to. The Kanamit were working on human biochemistry, and it was known around the embassy that they

were nearly ready to announce methods of making our race taller and stronger and healthier—practically

a race of supermen—and they had a potential cure for heart disease and cancer.

I didn't see Grigori for a fortnight after we finished working out the title of the book; I was on a

long-overdue vacation in Canada. When I got back, I was shocked by the change in his appearance.

“What on earth is wrong, Grigori?” I asked. “You look like the very devil.”

“Come down to the lounge.”

I went with him, and he gulped a stiff Scotch as if he needed it.

“Come on, man, what's the matter?” I urged.

“The Kanamit have put me on the passenger list for the next exchange ship,” he said. “You, too,

otherwise I wouldn't be talking to you.”

“Well,” I said, “but—”

“They're not altruists.”

I tried to reason with him. I pointed out they'd made Earth a paradise compared to what it was before.

He only shook his head.

Then I said, “Well, what about those lie-detector tests?”

“A farce,” he replied, without heat. “I said so at the time, you fool. They told the truth, though, as far as it

went.”

“And the book?” I demanded, annoyed. “What about that—How to Serve Man? That wasn't put there

for you to read. Theymean it. How do you explain that?”

“I've read the first paragraph of that book,” he said. “Why do you suppose I haven't slept for a week?”

I said, “Well?” and he smiled a curious, twisted smile.

“It's a cookbook,” he said.

Back to Table of Contents

The Enemy

THE SPACESHIP lay on a rockball in the middle of the sky. There was a brilliance in Draco; it was the

sun, four billion miles away. In the silence, the stars did not blink or waver: they burned, cold and afar.

Polaris blazed overhead. The Milky Way hung like a frozen rainbow above the horizon.

In the yellow circle of the airlock, two figures appeared, both women, with pale, harsh faces behind the

visors of their helmets. They carried a folding metal disk a hundred yards away and set it up on three tall

insulators. They went back to the ship, moving lightly on tiptoe, like dancers, and came out again with a

bulky collection of objects wrapped in a transparent membrane.

They sealed the membrane to the disk and inflated it by means of a hose from the ship. The objects inside

were household articles: a hammock on a metal frame, a lamp, a radio transceiver. They entered the

membrane through its flexible valve and set the furniture in order. Then, carefully, they brought in three

last items—three tanks of growing green things, each in its protective bubble.

They unloaded a spidery vehicle with six enormous puffed wheels and left it standing on three insulators

of its own.

The work was done. The two women stood facing each other beside the bubble house. The elder said,

“If your finds are good, stay here till I return in ten months. If not, leave the equipment and return in the

escape shell."

They both glanced upward, where a faint spark was moving against the field of stars. The parent ship had

left it in orbit before landing. If needed, it could be called down to land automatically by radio; otherwise,

there was no need to waste the fuel.

“Understood,” said the younger one. Her name was Zael; she was fifteen, and this was her first time

away from the space city alone. Isar, her mother, went to the ship and entered it without another glance.

The lock door closed; the spark overhead was drifting down toward the horizon. A short burst of flame

raised the parent ship; it drifted, rising and turning as it went. Then the torch blazed out again, and in a

few moments the ship was only a brighter star.

Zael turned off her suit light and stood in the darkness under the enormous half-globe of the sky. It was

the only sky she knew; like her mother's mother before her, she was space-born. Centuries ago, driven

out of the fat green worlds, her people had grown austere, like the arid fields of stars they roamed

among. In the five great space cities, and on Pluto, Titan, Mimas, Eros and a thousand lesser worlds,

they struggled for existence. They were few; life was hard and short; it was no novelty for a

fifteen-year-old child to be left alone to mine a planetoid.

The ship was a dim spark, climbing up the long slant toward the ecliptic. Up there, Isar and her daughters

had deliveries to make and cargoes to take on at Pluto. Gron, their city, had sent them down this long

detour to make a survey. The planetoid was now approaching the sun, on its eccentric cometary orbit,

for the first time in twenty thousand years. Once here, it would be folly not to surface-mine the planetoid

for whatever it might be worth. One child could do that, and survey the planetoid as well.

Alone, Zael turned impassively to the six-wheeled crawler. She might have rested awhile in the bubble

house, but she had some hours of suit time left, and there was no need to waste it. She lifted herself easily

against the slight gravity into the cab, turned on the lights and started the motor.

The spidery vehicle crawled ahead on its six individually sprung wheels. The terrain was astonishingly

broken; giant spires and craters alternated with ravines and with fissures, some of them forty feet wide

and thousands of feet deep. The planetoid's orbit passed near the sun, according to the astronomers,

perhaps nearer than the orbit of Venus. Even now, the temperature of the rocks was a few degrees

above absolute zero. This was a cold beyond anything Zael had ever experienced. She could feel it

drawing at her feet through the long insulator spikes of her boot soles. The molecules of every stone were

slowed to stillness; the whole world was one frozen yawn of hunger.

But once it had been a hot world. The record was here. At every perihelion passage, the rocks must

have split, again and again, to make this nightmare of tumbled stone.

The surface gravitation was only one tenth g, almost like free-fall; the light, puffy-wheeled vehicle crawled

easily up slopes within a few degrees of the vertical. Where it could not climb, it went around. Narrow

fissures were bridged by the crawler's extensible legs; when she came to larger ones, Zael fired a

harpoon which soared across the gap and embedded itself on the other side. The crawler edged forward,

toppled and swung at the end of its cable; but while the slight gravity drew it toward the far side of the

fissure, the crawler's winch motor was reeling in the cable. It arrived with a faint jar at the opposite side

and, without pausing, inched up and over.

Sitting erect behind her instruments, Zael was charting the mineral deposits she passed over. It was a

satisfaction to her to find they were rich enough to repay surface mining. The cities could make almost

anything out of anything, but they needed a primary source: they had to have metals.

Methodically, she spiraled outward from the bubble house, charting a region no more than thirty miles in

diameter. In the unpressurized crawler, it was not feasible to take in a larger area.

Laboring alone, hour after hour under the unchanging sky, she identified the richest lodes, marked them

and established routes. Between times, she ate and slept in the bubble house, tended her necessary

plants, serviced her equipment. Out of her armor, she was slender and spare, quick in her movements,

with the harsh, thin-lipped comeliness of her people.

When her chart was made, she rode out again. At each marked spot, she dropped two widely separated

poles. Self-embedding, each pair generated a current which ionized the metals or metallic salts and would

slowly deposit pure metal around the cathode. Eventually the concentration would be such that the metal

could be sawed out in blocks for convenient loading.

Only then did she turn her attention to the traces of shaped metal that clung here and there to the rocks.

They were fragments, for the most part, such as were commonly found on cold satellites like Mimas and

Titan, and occasionally on stony asteroids. It was not a matter of any importance; it simply meant that the

planetoid had been inhabited or colonized at one time by the same pre-human civilization that had left its

traces throughout the solar system.

But she had been sent to see whatever was to be seen. Her real work was almost done; she

conscientiously examined the traces, photographed some, took others for specimens. She beamed

regular radio reports to Gron; sometimes, five days later, there would be a curt acknowledgment waiting

for her in the printer; sometimes not. Regularly she made the rounds of the poles, testing the

concentration of metal. She was ready to replace any faulty poles she might find, but the occasion did not

arise; Gron equipment seldom failed.

The planetoid hung in its millennial arc. The sky imperceptibly turned around it. The moving spark that

was the escape shell traced its path, again and again. Zael grew restless and took the crawler on wider

explorations. Deep in the cold crannies of the mountains, she found some metal constructions that were

not mere fragments but complete works—dwellings or machines. The dwellings, if they were that, were

made for some creature smaller than man; the doorways were ovals not more than a foot across. She

dutifully radioed this information back to Gron and received the usual acknowledgment.

Then, one day the printer came to life out of season. The message read, I AM COMING. ISAR.

The ship would be three months slower than the message. Zael kept her calendar, rode her rounds, her

starlit face impassive. Above her the escape shell, unneeded now, made its monotonous passage over

and over. Zael was tracing the remnants of a complex of surface structures that had miraculously

survived, some half buried, others naked to the stars. She found where they led, in a crater only forty

miles from her base, a week before the ship was due.

In the crater was a heavily reinforced globe of metal, dented and scarred, but not broken. As Zael's light

shone steadily on it, a sudden puff of vapor went out; the globe seemed to haze over briefly. Zael peered,

interested: the minute warmth of the light beam must have thawed some film of frozen gas.

Then it happened again, and this time she could see distinctly: the jet escaped from a thin, dark seam that

had not been there before.

The seam widened as she watched. The globe was splitting. In the narrow gap between the two halves,

something moved. Startled, Zael threw the crawler into reverse. The cab lights dipped as the crawler

retreated up-slope. In the dimness outside the light beams, she saw the globe expanding still more. There

was an ambiguous motion between the barely visible halves of the globe, and she wished she had not

taken the light away.

The crawler was tilting sidewise up a steep, broken slab of rock. Zael turned downward, still backing at

a sharp angle. The light swung away from the globe altogether, then came back to it as she leveled out.

The two halves of the globe had separated completely. In the middle, something jerked as the light struck

it. She could see nothing but a thick, gleaming coil of metal. While she hesitated, there was new motion

between the halves of the globe. Something gleamed briefly; there was a short ground shock, and then

something struck the cab a hard, resonant blow. The lights whirled bewilderingly and went out.

In the darkness, the cab was tipping. Zael clutched at the controls, but she was too slow. The crawler

went over on its back.

Zael felt herself being flung out of the cab. As she rolled over, ears ringing, her first and sharpest

impression was of the cold that struck through her armor at gauntlet and knee. She scrambled up quickly

to a squatting position, supporting herself on the brushlike spiked soles of her boots.

Even the brief contact had made her fingers smart with cold. She searched automatically for the crawler,

which meant safety and warmth. She saw it smashed on the mountainside. Even so, her instinct drew her

toward it, but she had hardly taken a first step before the wrecked machine leaped again and rolled

another dozen yards down the slope.

She turned now, for the first time fully realizing that something down there was shooting at the crawler.

Then she saw a glimmering shape that writhed up toward the wrecked machine. Her helmet light was not

turned on; she crouched still and felt two grinding, metallic shocks transmitted through the rock.

The moving thing appeared again on the other side of the crawler, vanished inside, and after a long time

came out again. Zael caught a glimpse of a narrow head upraised, and two red eyes gleaming. The head

dropped; the sinuous form glided down into a ravine, coming toward her. Her only thought was to get

away. She scrambled up in the dark, circled a spire. She saw the gleaming head upraised farther down,

among a tangle of boulders, and went at a headlong, dangerous run across the slope to the wrecked

crawler.

The control board was ruined, levers bent off or flattened down, dials smashed. She straightened to look

at the engine and transmission, but saw at once that it was no use; the heavy drive shaft was bent out of

true. The crawler would never run again without shop repairs.

Down in the bowl, she caught sight of the silvery shape casting along the edge of a fissure. Keeping it in

view, she examined her suit and instruments all over. As far as she could tell, the suit was tight, her

oxygen tanks and recirculation system undamaged.

She was thinking coldly and clearly as she looked at the split globe, gaping empty under the stars. The

thing must have been coiled in there, inert, for thousands of years. Perhaps there had been a

light-sensitive device in the globe, designed to open it when the planetoid approached the sun again. But

her light had broken the globe prematurely; the thing inside was awake before its time. What was it, and

what would it do, now that it was alive again?

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FictionwisePublicationswww.fictionwise.comISBN1-930936-06-0"ToServeMan"byDamonKnightcopyright©1950,1976byDamonKnight.OriginallypublishedinGalaxyMagazine,1950"TheEnemy"byDamonKnightcopyright©1957,1976DamonKnight.FirstpublishedbyMercuryPressin1957"Mary"copyright©1964,1976DamonKnight.FirstpublishedbyGa...

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Damon Knight - Short Stories Vol 1

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