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datatime: 2022-09-27 09:23:10 Author:FpXcoHIf

"Have someone in your office get me the names and address or addresses of his next of kin. Today. I'd like to write them personal notes."

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow - hued bobble of his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.

The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow - hued bobble of his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.

Cornell sensed the meeting was over and rose to leave. The President stopped him.

Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now he's off in Nova Scotia, living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where nobody - not even short - memoried editors - can reach him easily.

When Analog magazine was housed over at Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue, our offices were far from plush. In fact, they were grimy. Years worth of Manhattan soot clung to the walls. The windows were opaque with grime. (What has this to do with Spider Robinson? Patience, friend.)

The truth about the exploration of the Titanic's interior is that no human being has ever entered the sunken ship. Thus, the interior scenes, like the characters participating in the two expeditions, are totally imaginary. (However, there really was an 1898 novel called Futility, which uncannily predicted the Titanic's fate.)

And then came Spider Robinson.

He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in the spanking new Conde Nast Building on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to that dream.)

He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in the spanking new Conde Nast Building on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to that dream.)

The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow - hued bobble of his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.

The President sighed. "It will be quite a book. Well, Admiral, it's probably the best course, but let me talk to the CNO before I make a final decision. By the way, what was the name of that diver who was killed?"

Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now he's off in Nova Scotia, living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where nobody - not even short - memoried editors - can reach him easily.

"Have someone in your office get me the names and address or addresses of his next of kin. Today. I'd like to write them personal notes."

Thomas "Speedy" Rice for valuable legal background on the rules of salvage.

Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now he's off in Nova Scotia, living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where nobody - not even short - memoried editors - can reach him easily.

John Chase and William Felix for data on gold value and bullion shipments.

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

"Have someone in your office get me the names and address or addresses of his next of kin. Today. I'd like to write them personal notes."

Mac Plus, which made rewriting easier if not pleasurable. Of the many books on the Titanic disaster I consulted for background material, by far the most valuable was Ballard's own The Discovery of the Titanic (Warner/Madison, 1987).

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

Many times young science fiction fans would come to Manhattan and phone me from Grand Central Station, which connected underground with the good old Graybar. "I've just come to New York and I read every issue of Analog and I'd like to come up and see what a science fiction magazine office looks like," they would invariably say.

Megan Hughes, Todd Ellerman, Joey Arone, and my incredibly patient wife, Priscilla Serling, for their aid with a word processor.

The President sighed. "It will be quite a book. Well, Admiral, it's probably the best course, but let me talk to the CNO before I make a final decision. By the way, what was the name of that diver who was killed?"

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