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datatime: 2022-10-08 02:25:13 Author:VRpPXkLF

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

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

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

"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."

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

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.

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.

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).

And then came Spider Robinson.

I must pay special thanks to Jared Kieling, an editor of consummate skill, who detoured me away from many false paths as we explored the Titanic together.

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

Still, despite the cramped quarters and the general dinginess, we managed to put out an issue of Analog each month, and more readers bought it than any other science fiction book, magazine, pamphlet, or cuniform tablet ever published.

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).

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?"

Other excellent research sources were John P. Eaton's and Charles Haas's Titanic-Triumph and Tragedy (W. W. Norton, 1986), the most definitive account of them all, and Walter Lord's two brilliant classics, A Night to Remember (Holt, 1955) and The Night Lives On (William Morrow, 1986).

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.

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

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

And then came Spider Robinson.

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).

"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."

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?"

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.

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.

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