Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Collecting six stories in old paradigms, Sleepside features Greg Bear’s outstanding fantasy writing: “Webster,” “The White Horse Child,” “Sleepside Story,” “Dead Run,” “Through Road No Whither,” and the Nebula Award finalist “Petra.” This edition also includes the special introduction by the author: “On Losing the Taint of Being a Cannibal."
for months after Thompson had lost his boat at the Del Mar trials, near San Diego. Still, Thompson was sawing and hammering and reconstructing the slope-roofed structure, possible planning on another boat. Thomas didn’t think much about it. He was already at work and he hadn’t even reached the desk in his office. There was a whole series of TTL chips he could move to solve the interference he was sure would crop up in the design as he had it now. By nine o’clock he was deeply absorbed. He had
you can’t know what you’re seeing.” Oliver stepped closer to the last cylinder and saw a clear glass plate mounted at the head. Reluctant but fascinated, he wiped the dusty glass with two fingers and peered past a single cornered bubble. The coffin was filled with clear liquid. Afloat within, a face the color of green olives in a martini looked back at him, blind eyes murky, lips set in a loose line. The liquid and death had smoothed the face’s wrinkles, but Oliver could tell nonetheless, this
tapping his shoe on the side of the desk. “Lord, yes,” I said, grateful as could be. Then I asked him for his autograph. He smiled real big and gave it to me, God’s right-hand man, who had prayed with presidents. The next time out, I thought about the incredible thing that Charlie Frick had told me. Halfway to Hell, on the part of the run that he had once driven, I pulled the truck onto the gravel shoulder and walked back, hands in pockets, squinting at the faces. Young and old. Mostly old, or
well; these things made him angry. “What maps do you know, crazy woman?” he demanded. “Maps in time,” the old woman said. She let her hands fall to her sides and lowered her head as if, in admitting her specialty, she were suddenly humble. “Then tell us where we are,” Fischer sneered. “Come,” Von Ranke said, but he knew it was too late. There would be an end, but it would be on his friend’s terms, and it might not be pleasant. “On a through road no whither,” the old woman said. “What?”
at being jabbed and pulled and jiggled along the scaffolding of the tower, over the uneven ground, like puppets directed by something trying to mock a process of construction. Olmy’s body had up to this moment sent him a steady bloodwash of fear. He had controlled this emotion as well as he could, but never ignored it; that would have been senseless and wrong, for fear was what told him he came from a world that made sense, that held together and was consistent, that worked. Yet fear was not