5,000,000+ figure for 1960, I don’t believe the 7,000,000+ figure for this year.
I have one very wild theory. Our State Department may see no advantage in
calling them liars on this point. Through several administrations we have been
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extremely careful not to hurt their feelings. I think this is a mistake but I am
neither president nor secretary of state; my opinion is not important and may be
wrong.
(” ‘But the Emperor is not wearing any clothes,’ said the child.”)
The three biggest lies in the USA today:
1) The check is in the mail.
2) I gave at the office.
3) (Big, cheery smile) “Hello! I’m from Washington. I’m here to
help you!”
1~ -Anon.f
FOREWORD
In April 1962 I received a letter from the advertising agents of Hoffman
Electronics: They had a wonderful idea-SF stories about electronics, written by
wellknown SF writers, just long enough to fill one column of Scientific American or
Technology Review or such, with the other two thirds of the page an ad for Hoffman
Electronics tied into the gimmick of the story. For this they offered a gee-whiz
word rate-compared with SF magazines.
A well-wrought short story is twice as hard to write as
a novel; a short-short is at least eight times as hard-but
one that short. . . there are much easier ways of making
a living. I dropped them a postcard saying, “Thanks but
I’m busy on a novel.” (True-GLORY ROAD)
They upped the ante. This time I answered, “Thanks and I feel flattered-but
I don’t know anything about electronics.” (Almost true.)
They wrote back offering expert advice from Hoffman’s engineers on the
gimmick-and a word rate six times as high as The Saturday Evening Post had paid me.
I had finished GLORY ROAD; I sat down and drafted this one-then sweated
endlessly to get it under 1200 words as required by contract. Whereas I had written
GLORY ROAD in 23 days and enjoyed every minute of it. This is why lazy writers
prefer novels.
SEARCHLIGHT
“Will she hear you?”
“If she’s on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship.
If her suit radio wasn’t damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive. Since
the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is unlikely that she or
the pilot lived through it.”
“She’s got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge.”
Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. “Lunar Base,
Commanding General.”
“General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!”
Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. “Sir, do you know how big
the Moon is?”
“No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere-so every man is to search until
she is found. If she’s dead, your precious pilot would be better off dead, too!”
“Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man I
have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave Betsy my best
pilot. I won’t listen to threats against him when he can’t answer back. Not from
anyone, sir! I’m sick of being told what to do by people who don’t know Lunar
conditions. My advice-my official advice, sir-is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe
they can work a miracle.
The answer rapped back, “Very well, General! I’ll
speak to you later. Meridian Station! Report your plans.”
Elizabeth Barnes, “Blind Betsy,” child genius of the piano, had been making
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a USO tour of the Moon. She “wowed ’em” at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep rocket
for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missilemen behind the Moon. She should
have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot; such ships shuttled
unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.
After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho’s
radars. It was. . . somewhere.
Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would
be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed-or made
emergency landing-somewhere on the vastness of Luna.
“Meridian Space Station, Director speaking-” Lag was unnoticeable; radio