Alan Dean Foster
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For three decades science fiction legend Alan Dean Foster has captivated readers around the world, from his debut classic The Tar-Aiym Krang and his inspired scenario for the first Star Trek movie to a host of New York Times bestsellers, including Splinter of the Mind’s Eye and Flinx in Flux.
In this collection of twenty brilliant odysseys of the imagination, Foster once again soars beyond the limits of reality—where the real thrills begin. . . .
NASA Sending Addicts to Mars!: It was the most insane idea in the annals of space travel—and the only one that would work.
Diesel Dream: Sometimes on dark, lonely highways dreams do come true, and this trucker’s hope was the best one of all.
Sideshow: Flinx hadn’t a clue about the alien dancer, but Pip knew trouble when she saw it.
Empowered: A magnificent male discovers the not-so-super part about being a superhero.
The Question: A bold adventurer determines to solve one of life’s profound mysteries.
. . . and fifteen other amazing stories!
were almond-shaped. Though she looked almost Mongolian, he knew she was not. He had seen her people before, though more often in the southern part of the country. She had a beautiful voice, though he recognized neither her words nor the language from which they sprang. Arms outstretched, she was half singing, half chanting. At first he thought she was singing to the moon, but she was too far beneath the arch for that indolent disc to be visible from where she stood. She had to be singing to the
long-forgotten things. Not bad things. Simply . . . so strange. “A ship.” She heard herself whispering aloud. “I remember a little, now. Olden of memories comes back. Tamrul spoke sometimes of such a thing. He said—he said that we were on a ship, going to undying iron. He never could make it clear to me.” Again came that gentle, all-knowing laugh. “Do not blame poor old Tamrul. He did his best. His job was to keep your psyches clear and healthy. Despite serious degeneration of his reasoning
time to rest, eventually returning tiredly to their own segregated quarters. As the water level went down the people gradually emerged. They chatted excitedly, commenting on the damage and how the unprecedented deluge had altered the landscape in the vicinity of the Home. Having nothing better to do, Lach’an joined them. As was his wont, he ranged farther than his companions, wandering alone to the farthest reaches of the Home as he strove to memorize every detail of the terrain beyond the Wall.
building supplies, just as he spent little time poking through the incomprehensible depths of the kitchen cabinets. The cats followed him, rubbing up against his legs and meowing for attention. Absently, he would bend to scratch one or the other behind the ears, or smooth out a fluffy tail. The heavy-duty paper sack was not hidden. There was no reason to hide it. He kept it near the back of the workshop, propped up between some salvaged one-by-six planks and splattered cans of paint. It was
“Is it going to bite me?” The muzzle of his pistol came up. “No,” Flinx told him. “She doesn’t have to.” The owner nodded. Turning to the man on his left, he uttered a single brusque command. “Kill it.” Sensing the man’s intent by reading the homicidal emotion that rose suddenly and sharply within him, Pip darted forward and spat. Striking the would-be killer in his right eye, the gob of corrosive poison ate immediately into the soft ocular jelly and entered his bloodstream, the incredibly