A heavy rain in Scotland had swollen the streams. As one of them subsided, a small bundle was left by the receding waters.　This bundle contained human flesh.　A search revealed more bundles. Some of them were found days apart. Apparently, many of them had been thrown from a bridge into the turbulent flood waters.　Nearly a month after the first discoveries, a left foot was found on the roadside some distance from the stream bed. Nearly a week later, a right forearm with hand was discovered.　All of the recoveries were, of course, in a state of advanced deposition.　When the pieces were assembled　

　TO　STAN, CHRISTOPHER AND MICHELE RICE　TO　SUZANNE SCOTT QUIROZ AND　VICTORIA WILSON　TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN PRESTON　TO　THE IRISH OF NEW ORLEANS　WHO, IN THE 1850S,　BUILT ON CONSTANCE STREET　THE GREAT CHURCH OF ST. ALPHONSUS,　WHILE PASSING ON TO US　THROUGH FAITH, ARCHITECTURE AND ART　A SPLENDID MONUMENT　TO　"THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE　AND　THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME"　　　Of Mrs. Moore and the echo in the Marabar Caves:　...but the echo began in some indescribable way to undermine her hold on life. ing at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued, it had managed to murmur "Pathos, piety, courage - they ex　

　But not for us.　The winter nights are too. The nights of fall, the nights of spring. Not for us, not for us.　The house we live in is so pleasant in Caulfield. The blue-green tint of its lawn, that always seems so freshly watered no matter what the time of day. The sparkling, aerated pinwheels of the sprinklers always turning, steadily turning; if you look at them closely enough they form rainbows before your eyes. The clean, sharp curve of the driveway. The dazzling whiteness of the porch-supports in the sun. Indoors, the curving white symmetry of the banister, as gracious as the dark and gl　

　　LIKE THE THEATER DISTRICTS OF so many great cities across the Imajica, whether in Reconciled Dominions or in the Fifth, the neighborhood in which the Ipse stood had been a place of some notoriety in earlier times, when actors of both sexes had supplemented their wages with the old five-acter-hiring, retiring, seduction, conjunction, and remittance-all played hourly, night and day. The center of these activities had moved away, however, to the other side of the city, where the burgeoning numbers of middle-class clients felt less exposed to the gaze of their peers out seeking more respectable　

　"Now thou art e unto a feast of death."　William Shakespeare Henry VI, Part I, Act 4, Scene 5.　　　　PART ONE　January 1812　　CHAPTER 1　　A pale horse seen a mile away at sunrise means the night is over. Sentries can relax, battalions stand down, because the moment for a surprise dawn attack has passed.　　But not on this day. A grey horse would hardly have been visible at a hundred paces, let alone a mile, and the dawn was shredded with dirty cannon smoke that melded with the snow-clouds. Only one living thing moved in the grey space between the British and French lines; a small, dark bird that hopp　

　Neither do they expect trouble with a cargo that is sewn up tight.　Only a privileged few knew exactly when the Kruxator Collection would arrive in the country. That it was due to e to Britain was mon knowledge, and you had only to read a newspaper to discover that March 15th was the day on which the fabled group of paintings and jewellery were to go on display - for two weeks - at the Victoria and Albert Museum.　The Kruxator Collection is called after its founder, the late Niko Kruxator, whose fabulous wealth arose from sources unknown, for he had arrived penniless in the United States at a　

　1　 With a gentle sigh the service tube dropped a message capsule into the receiving cup. The attention bell chimed once and was silent. Jason dinAlt stared at the harmless capsule as though it were a ticking bomb.　 Something was going wrong. He felt a hard knot of tension form inside of him. This was no routine service memo or hotel munication, but a sealed personal message. Yet he knew no one on this planet, having arrived by spacer less than eight hours earlier. Since even his name was new-dating back to the last time he had changed ships- there could be no personal messages. Yet here one 　

SUMMERCHAPTER ONE　　　　GRADUALLY THE girl came to the conclusion that she was ill. It could not be anything else.　　　　She pushed her way across the pavement, stood with her back against a brick wall, felt the rough surface scraping her skin through her blouse and jeans. The brickwork seemed to move, like a piece of automatically operated emery paper. Up, down, up, down. Her groping fingers found a doorpost, gripped it; it was moving too. Up, down, up, down, gyrating.　　　　People pushed past her, bumped into her. A woman clutched at her, almost pulled her down, but somehow she held on. Everybody　

KINGDREAMCATCHERHodder & StoughtonGrateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the followingcopyrighted material:"Dying Man" (c) 1956 bv Atlantic Monthly Co. The Waking (c) 1953 by Theodore Roethke from Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke bv Theodore Roethke, used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc."Scooby Doo Where Are You" by David Mook and Ben Raleigh (c) 1969 (renewed) Monk Bros. West & Ben Raleigh Music Co. All rights reserved o/b/o Mook Bros. West in the United States, administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights o/b/　

　　IT WAS nothing out of the ordinary that Mrs. Barry Rackham had made the appointment with her finger pressed to her lips. That is by no means an unusual gesture for people who find themselves in a situation where the best thing they can think of is to make arrangements to see Nero Wolfe.　　With Mrs. Barry Rackham the shushing finger was only figurative, since she made the date speaking to me on the phone. It was in her voice, low and jerky, and also in the way she kept telling me how confidential it was, even after I solemnly assured her that we rarely notified the press when someone requeste　

　　This darkness troubles me. I yearn for the light.　　This silence is so deep. I long for voices, the drumming of rain, the whistle of wind, music.　　Why are you being so cruel to me? Let me see. Let me hear. Let me live. I beg of you.　　I am so lonely in this bottomless darkness.　　So lonely.　　Lost.　　You think I have no heart. But if I have no heart, what is this ache? What is this anguish? If I have no heart, what is it that threatens to break inside me?　　This darkness is haunted. I am afraid here. I am lost and afraid here.　　Have you no passion?　　I only wanted to be like you. To walk in the su　

　　　　LUCY LOOKS INTO A WARDROBE　　　　ONCE there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war because of the air-raids. They were sent to the house of an old Professor who lived in the heart of the country, ten miles from the nearest railway station and two miles from the nearest post office. He had no wife and he lived in a very large house with a housekeeper called Mrs Macready and three servants. (Their names were Ivy, Margaret and Betty, but they do not e into the stor　

　　ACKNOWLEDGMENTS　　 There are a lot of people to thank for helping me bring this one home. It was a devil of a book to write, for a host of reasons. For one thing, I began writing it the week before my father passed away, and inevitably the long shadow of that event dimmed the joy of writing, at least for the first six months or so, slowing it to a crawl.　 Paradoxically, even as my production of useable text diminished, I could feel the scale of the story I wanted to tell getting bigger. What had originally begun life as an idea for a short, satiric stab at Hollywood began to blossom into som　

　　　I am a vampire, and that is the truth. But the modern meaning of the word vampire, the stories that have been told about creatures such as I, are not precisely true. I do not turn to ash in the sun, nor do I cringe when I see a crucifix. I wear a tiny gold cross now around my neck, but only because I like it. I cannot mand a pack of wolves to attack or fly through the air. Nor can I make another of my kind simply by having him drink my blood. Wolves do like me, though, as do most predators, and I can jump so high that one might imagine I can fly. As to blood-ah, blood, the whole subject fa　

　work as a tribute to　Her Britannic Majesty,　Elizabeth II, to the people　of Her Crown Colony of　Hong Kong - and perdition to their enemies.　　　Of course this is a novel. It is peopled with imaginary persons and panies and no reference to any person or pany that was, or is, part of Hong Kong or Asia is intended.　I would also like to apologize at once to all Hong Kong yan - all Hong Kong persons - for rearranging their beautiful city, for taking incidents out of context, for inventing people and places and streets and panies and incidents that, hopefully, may appear to have existed but have ne　

　　　　Like an uncoiling serpent, a line of fighting chariots wound swiftly down the gut of the valley. From where he clung to the dashboard of the leading chariot the boy looked up at the cliffs that hemmed them in. The sheer rock was pierced by the openings to the tombs of the old people that honeybed the cliff. The dark pits stared down at him like the implacable eyes of a legion of djinn. Prince Nefer Memnon shuddered and looked away, furtively making the sign to avert evil with his left hand.　　　　Over his shoulder he glanced back down the column and saw that from the following chariot Taita