The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures: Return to the Center of the Earth and Other Extraordinary Voyages, New Tales by the Heirs of Jules Verne
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began in 1908 and had been going on ever since. Joe Smith rose and crossed the room to a small Sheraton bureau, from which he withdrew a sheath of documents. He carried them back to the fire and laid his cargo upon the table. "The original manuscript of Six Weeks in a Balloon, sir, the first typescript, and the second script which included the inserted fictional chapters. I discovered these among my master's papers shortly after his death." I picked up the hand-written manuscript and turned a
that's kind of man-shaped and then isn't, and that's solid for a few seconds, then less solid and then just see-through smoke. And then there's only the big window and the sidewalk, people passing by going this way 116 PETER CROWTHER and that, not one of them appearing to have seen him or seen him disappear." "What then?" is what Cliff Rhodes decides to say to break Jim's pause. "Well, then, I guess I just stood there looking at where the guy had been, looking at the other people, people
ghosts and one-time almost wife-killer, shifts sideways in his chair and stares. With all eyes upon him, Meredith Lidenbrook Greenblat very carefully unfolds the piece of notepaper and, turning it around, holds it up for all to see. "What is it?" is all Jack, suddenly realizing that Dave Brubeck has long since stopped playing, can think of to say. "Is it stick figures?" Edgar offers. "Hieroglyphics?" "That, gentlemen," says Horatio Fortesque, "is a replica of the contents of a second piece of
on. "The next day, sure enough) the man arrives at the same spot and this time he has a camera crew with him plus his assistant editor. The boy is there as well, sitting on the grass at the far side of the lake looking nervous as hell. "The man shouts for the boy to come over and he gets the camera crew pointing in the right direction, film running. The boy starts towards them and . . . he wades out into the water. The journalist shouts for him to stop, tells him to go back and try it again.
which insists it must be fiction. And that, sir, is my tragedy." One Hundred and Thirty Fourth Day. Seven Million, Four Hundred and Seventy Seven Thousand Leagues. The air will be thin and bracing; it will be like a mountain-top on Earth. I must trust that the vegetable and animal life - whose treks and seasonal cycles have been observed, as colour washes, from Earth - provide me with provision compatible with my digestion. I have brought thermometers, barometers, aneroids and hypsometers with