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datatime: 2022-10-06 12:32:48 Author:ZcGSAXqo

Aaron Priest, agent and old friend, for his usual support, encouragement, and advice.

To all Titanic buffs, I recommend a work I found not only valuable but stirring: Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic (McGraw-Hill, 1988).

Aaron Priest, agent and old friend, for his usual support, encouragement, and advice.

Additional reference material included: The Titanic, End of a Dream by Wyn Craig Wade (Rawson Wade Publishers, 1979); The Maiden Voyage by Geoffrey Marcus (Viking, 1969); and Titanic, The Death and Life of a Legend by Michael Davie (Henry Holt, 1986).

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll do that."

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

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 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?"

Aaron Priest, agent and old friend, for his usual support, encouragement, and advice.

"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."

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

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.)

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.)

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll do that."

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll do that."

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

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll do that."

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.

"Admiral, how about the next of kin for the other fellow who died? A similar letter might be in order."

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).

I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His mouth would sag open.

"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."

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