By Walter M. Miller
Walter M. Miller Jr is healthier remembered because the writer of A Canticle for Leibowitz, universally well-known as one of many maximum novels of contemporary SF. yet in addition to writing that deeply felt and eloquent e-book, he produced many shorter works of fiction of lovely originality and tool. His profound curiosity in faith and his innate literary presents mixed completely within the construction of such works because the Darfstellar, for which he received a Hugo in 1955, Conditionally Human, I, Dreamer and the large starvation, all of that are incorporated during this terrific and crucial assortment.
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Additional resources for Dark Benediction (SF Masterworks)
The feeling came over her gradually. " She stiffened slowly, but remained in place, letting her eyes probe about her in the shadows. If only the drippings would stop so she could listen! She peered along the hedge, and along the shadows by the garden wall, toward the dark windows of the house, up toward the low-hanging mist faintly illuminated from below by street lights. She saw nothing, heard nothing. There was no movement in the night. Yet the feeling lingered, even though she scoffed. “If anyone is here," she thought, "I'll call them gently, and if anyone appears, I'll scream so loud that Mrs.
He's no devil, Mama. He's no man, but he's better than a man. " "It's all right. He wouldn't want you to believe. Then you'd be warned. " "Humans—white and black and yellow. " "Sons? " Doodie shook his head. "I got brothers, Mama—half brothers. " She was silent a long time. "Doodie, you better go to sleep," she said wearily at last. "Nobody'll believe . . " "He ain't comin', Doodie. " "Not with my eyes," he said. She shook her head slowly, peering at him with brimming eyes. "Poor little boy. " Doodie sighed.
I didn't want to lie . . " I heard him slipping quickly away through the brush—back toward the pasture. I hurried to the fork and climbed up out of the knee-deep water, pausing to strike a match. Something gleamed in the grass; I picked it up. Cleo's kitchen clock, always a few minutes slow. What had he wanted with the clock? By the time I tore through the brush and found the path, there was no sound to, indicate which way he had gone. I walked gloomily back toward the house, half-heartedly calling to Kenny .