Robert Silverberg has been a professional writer since 1955, the year before he graduated from Columbia University, and has published more than a hundred books and close to a thousand short stories. His books and stories have been translated into forty languages. Among his best-known novels are LORD VALENTINE’S CASTLE, DYING INSIDE, THE BOOK OF SKULLS, NIGHTWINGS, THE WORLD INSIDE, and DOWNWARD TO THE EARTH.
His collaboration with Isaac Asimov, The Bi-Centennial Man, was made into a movie starring Robin Williams.
He is a many-time winner of the Hugo and Nebula awards, was Guest of Honor at the World Science Fiction Convention in Heidelberg, Germany in 1970, was named to the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 1999, and in 2004 was named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America, of which he is a past president.
Silverberg has also been the editor of dozens of science fiction and fantasy anthologies including THE SCIENCE FICTION HALL OF FAME. In addition, he has written archaeological, historical, and scientific nonfiction. He is currently a columnist for ASIMOV’S SCIENCE FICTION magazine.
Silverberg was born in New York City, but he and his wife Karen have lived for many years in the San Francisco Bay Area. They and an assortment of cats share a sprawling house of unusual architectural style, surrounded by exotic plants.
Robert Silverberg has been a professional writer since 1955, the year before he graduated from Columbia University, and has published more than a hundred books and close to a thousand short stories. His books and stories have been translated into forty languages. Among his best-known novels are LORD VALENTINE’S CASTLE, DYING INSIDE, THE BOOK OF SKULLS, NIGHTWINGS, THE WORLD INSIDE, and DOWNWARD TO THE EARTH.
His collaboration with Isaac Asimov, The Bi-Centennial Man, was made into a movie starring Robin Williams.
He is a many-time winner of the Hugo and Nebula a...
Carmichael flew in from New Mexico that morning, and the first thing they told him when he put his little plane down at Burbank was that fires were burning out of control all around the Los Angeles basin. He was needed bad, they told him. It was late October, the height of the brushfire season in Southern California, and a hot, hard, dry wind was blowing out of the desert, and the last time it had rained was the fifth of April. He phoned the district supervisor right away, and the district supervisor told him, “Get your ass out here on the line double fast, Mike.”
The dog snarled, and ran on. Katterson watched the two lean, fiery-eyed men speeding in pursuit, while a mounting horror grew in him and rooted him to the spot. The dog suddenly bounded over a heap of rubble and was gone; its pursuers sank limply down, leaning on their clubs, and tried to catch their breath.
“It’s going to get much worse than this,” said a small, grubby-looking man who appeared from nowhere next to Katterson.
(21660 words, 109 minutes) Awards: Nebula Award Nominee, Hugo Award Nominee
Our world was now truly theirs. All the way across Eyrop I could see that the invaders had taken everything, and we belonged to them as beasts in a barnyard belong to the farmer.
In the shimmering lemon-yellow October light, Cunningham touches the keys of his terminal and summons angels. An instant to load the program, an instant to bring the file up, and there they are, ready to spout from the screen at his command: Apollyon, Anauel, Uriel, and all the rest. Uriel is the angel of thunder and terror; Apollyon is the Destroyer, the angel of the bottomless pit; Anauel is the angel of bankers and commission brokers. Cunningham is fascinated by the multifarious duties and tasks, both exalted and humble, that are assigned to the angels. “Every visible thing in the world is put under the charge of an angel,” said St. Augustine in The Eight Questions.
It had taken him five years, but it was worth it. The insurance money from the crashed Space Needle had just barely covered the down payment on the new ship, and it had taken five years to pay for the rest of it. But now—the ship was his. And he was celebrating. The only trouble was the final payment had nearly left him penniless, and the only place he could afford to bend an elbow was a dive like the Vestend.
For a while in those years we were calling great ones out of the past, to find out what they were like. This was in the middle twelves—12400 to 12450, say. We called up Caesar and Antony, and also Cleopatra. We got Freud and Marx and Lenin into the same room and let them talk. We summoned Winston Churchill, who was a disappointment (he lisped and drank too much), and Napoleon, who was magnificent. We raided ten millennia of history for our sport.
I shall write the history of that strange and unique woman, the mother of my thirty brothers and myself, Miss Donna Mitchell. She was a person of extraordinary strength and vision, our mother.
He stopped and watched the smoke. The first thought that came to him was to hang back cautiously, but then he shook his head and kept moving. This was his world, and he was going to keep the upper hand.
They saw him first, though, and before he was aware of anything, ten blue-skinned men had stepped out of the woods and were kneeling at his feet.
Ben Azai was deemed worthy and stood at the gate of the sixth palace and saw the ethereal splendor of the pure marble plates. He opened his mouth and said twice, “Water! Water!” In the twinkling of an eye they decapitated him and threw eleven thousand iron bars at him. This shall be a sign for all generations that no one should err at the gate of the sixth palace.
She hurries down the dirty street toward the tall brick building. This is the place. Upstairs. Fifth floor, apartment 5-J. As she starts to ring the doorbell, a tall, lean man steps out of the shadows and clamps his hand powerfully around her wrist. “Time Patrol,” he says crisply, flashing an identification badge. “You’re under arrest for contemplated temponautic murder, Mrs. Porter.”
“You see,” Mahler said, tapping his desk. “They’ve just found another one. We’re constantly bombarded with you people. When you get to the Moon, you’ll find a whole Dome full of them. I’ve sent over four thousand there myself since I took over the bureau. And that was eight years ago—in 2776. An average of five hundred a year. Hardly a day goes by without someone dropping in on us.”
The barker said, “Come, then, let me show you this splendid wizardry! It attracts men to women, women to men, and makes virgins rush out of their homes to find lovers!” He reached behind him, snatched up a rolled parchment scroll, and waved it in front of Menandros’s nose. “Here, friend, here! You take a pure papyrus and write on it, with the blood of an ass, the magical words contained on this…”
(21650 words, 109 minutes) Awards: Hugo Award Winner...
He narrowed his eyes and stared into the distance, searching for this day’s prey. His bow of several fine woods, the bow that no man but he was strong enough to draw–no man but he and Enkidu his beloved thrice-lost friend–hung loosely from his hand. His body was poised and ready. Come now, you beasts! Come and be slain! It is Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, who would make his sport with you this day!
There was a mingling of traits in her that I found instantly irresistible: she seemed both shy and steel-strong, passionate and vulnerable, confident and ill at ease.
I have revealed myself, thinking to drive her away in terror; she is no longer aghast, and smiles at my strangeness. She will accept the evidence of her eyes.
Amanda had always had a good eye for detail. And at the particular moment she had spotted the alien on South Main she had been unusually alert, sensitive, all raw nerves, every antenna up.
Listen to me, Temujin. Think of another world far from yours. There is a Temujin in that world too, son of Yesugei, husband to Bortei who is daughter of Dai the Wise. He is a great warrior, that other Temujin. No one can withstand him.
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