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datatime: 2022-09-29 02:49:21 Author:FIYdFkVs

My sincere appreciation to the following:

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

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."

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.

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).

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.

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.)

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

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.

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.

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

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).

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

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?"

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.

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.

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.

My sincere appreciation to the following:

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.

My sincere appreciation to the following:

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

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

And then came Spider Robinson.

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