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$1,000 A Plate by Jack McKenty - When Marsy Gras shot off its skyrockets, Mars Observatory gave it the works—fireworks! Sunset on Mars is a pale, washed out, watery sort of procedure that is hardly worth looking at. The shadows of the cactus lengthen, the sun goes down without the slightest hint of color or display and everything is dark. About once a year there is one cloud that turns pink briefly. But even the travel books devote more space describing the new sign adorning the Canal Casino than they do on the sunset. The night sky is something else again. Each new crop of tourists goes to bed at sunrise the day after arrival with stiff necks from looking up all night. The craters of the moons are visible to the naked eye, and even a cheap pair of opera glasses can pick out the buildings of the Deimos Space Station. A typical comment from a sightseer is, 'Just think, Fred, we were way up there only twelve hours ago.' At fairly frequent intervals, the moons eclipse. The local Chamber of Commerce joins with the gambling casinos to use these occasions as excuses for a celebration. The 'Marsy Gras' includes floats, costumes, liquor, women, gambling—and finishes off with a display of fireworks and a stiff note of protest from the nearby Mars Observatory.
Jack Mckenty (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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...And It Comes Out Here by Lester Del Ray - There is one fact no sane man can quarrel with ... everything has a beginning and an end. But some men aren't sane; thus it isn't always so! No, you're wrong. I'm not your father's ghost, even if I do look a bit like him. But it's a longish story, and you might as well let me in. You will, you know, so why quibble about it? At least, you always have ... or do ... or will. I don't know, verbs get all mixed up. We don't have the right attitude toward tenses for a situation like this. Anyhow, you'll let me in. I did, so you will. Thanks. You think you're crazy, of course, but you'll find out you aren't. It's just that things are a bit confused. And don't look at the machine out there too long—until you get used to it, you'll find it's hard on the eyes, trying to follow where the vanes go. You'll get used to it, of course, but it will take about thirty years. You're wondering whether to give me a drink, as I remember it. Why not? And naturally, since we have the same tastes, you can make the same for me as you're having. Of course we have the same tastes—we're the same person. I'm you thirty years from now, or you're me. I remember just how you feel; I felt the same way when he—that is, of course, I or we—came back to tell me about it, thirty years ago. Here, have one of these. You'll get to like them in a couple more years. And you can look at the revenue stamp date, if you still doubt my story. You'll believe it eventually, though, so it doesn't matter. Right now, you're shocked. It's a real wrench when a man meets himself for the first time. Some kind of telepathy seems to work between two of the same people. You sense things. So I'll simply go ahead talking for half an hour or so, until you get over it. After that you'll come along with me.
Lester Del Rey (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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11 Kinda Short Sci-Fi Stories from the 1930s, 40s, 50s and 60s - More than 3 hours of vintage sci-fi! This collection of amazing short stories includes stories by several legendary vintage science fiction authors, Ray Bradbury, Robert Silverberg, Harry Harrison and some authors you've probably never heard of. They're kinda short, spooky, unusual, shocking and surprising.
Evan Hunter, Fredric Brown, Harry Harrison, Jack Mckenty, Lawrence F. Willard, Millard V. Gordon, Paul Ernst, Ray Bradbury, Robert Silverberg, William Morrison (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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50 Vintage Sci-Fi Short Stories
50 Vintage Sci-Fi Short Stories from the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s. More than 27 hours of vintage science fiction. These science fiction short stories were written by some of the most influential authors of the time including, Philip K. Dick, Ray Bradbury, Winston Marks, Damon Knight, Mack Reynolds, Frank M. Robinson, Russ Winterbotham, Alan E. Nourse, Charles E. Fritch, Milton Lesser, Evan Hunter, William Morrison, John Massie Davis, Irving Cox Jr., Malcolm B. Morehart Jr., Richard O. Lewis, Stanley Mullen, Richard Magruder, Joseph Slotkin, Alexander Blade, Arnold Castle, Richard S. Shaver and James McKimmey Jr. Included are The Hanging Stranger, Beyond Lies the Wub, The Gun, Beyond the Door, The Eyes Have It, Foster You're Dead, Sales Pitch, Small Town and Piper in the Woods written by Philip K. Dick. Lazarus Come Forth, Asleep in Armageddon and Morgue Ship by Ray Bradbury.
Alan E. Nourse, Alexander Blade, Arnold Castle, Charles E. Fritch, Damon Knight, Evan Hunter, Frank M. Robinson, Irving Cox Jr., James Mckimmey Jr., John Massie Davis, Joseph Slotkin, Mack Reynolds, Malcolm B. Morehart Jr., Milton Lesser, Philip K. Dick, Ray Bradbury, Richard Magruder, Richard O. Lewis, Richard S. Shaver, Russ Winterbotham, Stanley Mullen, William Morrison, Winston Marks (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Little Journey by Ray Bradbury - She'd paid good money to see the inevitable... and then had to work to make it happen! There were two important things—one, that she was very old; two, that Mr. Thirkell was taking her to God. For hadn't he patted her hand and said: 'Mrs. Bellowes, we'll take off into space in my rocket, and go to find Him together.' And that was how it was going to be. Oh, this wasn't like any other group Mrs. Bellowes had ever joined. In her fervor to light a path for her delicate, tottering feet, she had struck matches down dark alleys, and found her way to Hindu mystics who floated their flickering, starry eyelashes over crystal balls. She had walked on the meadow paths with ascetic Indian philosophers imported by daughters-in-spirit of Madame Blavatsky. She had made pilgrimages to California's stucco jungles to hunt the astrological seer in his natural habitat. She had even consented to signing away the rights to one of her homes in order to be taken into the shouting order of a temple of amazing evangelists who had promised her golden smoke, crystal fire, and the great soft hand of God coming to bear her home. None of these people had ever shaken Mrs. Bellowes' faith, even when she saw them sirened away in a black wagon in the night, or discovered their pictures, bleak and unromantic, in the morning tabloids. The world had roughed them up and locked them away because they knew too much, that was all. And then, two weeks ago, she had seen Mr. Thirkell's advertisement in New York City: COME TO MARS! Stay at the Thirkell Restorium for one week. And then, on into space on the greatest adventure life can offer! Send for Free Pamphlet: 'Nearer My God To Thee.' Excursion rates. Round trip slightly lower.
Ray Bradbury (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Matter of Ethics written by R.R. Winterbotham - Homer was a shy Faderfield bachelor; his visitor was a beautiful Pleiades girl. At any rate she was a girl, and Homer had a problem— A Matter of Ethics The fly rod, the letter and the small jar of paint were, in a sense, half of the problem Homer Hopkins had to solve. The other half rested in his complex mind. Fader's Fadeless Formulae had offered him a position, not a job, to take charge of its research department, at ten thousand a year, twice what he was paid at Faderfield Junior College to teach chemistry. All this was in the letter. 'But I like being a teacher,' said Homer. And he looked at the fly rod. 'And I also like to fish.' Teaching chemistry had left him little time for fishing. The science had advanced with such gigantic strides that Homer was continually catching up on the subject. He spent his vacations going to colleges, and his off days reading literature, orienting himself. The little jar of paint had brought it about. Homer had sent a jar like it to C. J. Fader suggesting that it be placed on the market. All Homer had wanted was a fat check, and a royalty which he could invest so he could retire someday. Instead, C. J. Fader had offered him a job. The Old Man, who ran the principal industry of Faderfield, would expect a new formula a month and Homer was afraid he might not be able to turn one out every month. Homer knew enough about C. J. to realize that if he offered ten thousand, he would expect a ninety-thousand profit. Homer could qualify for the first figure, but he wasn't so sure about the second. And then the door bell rang.
R .R. Winterbotham, Russ Winterbotham (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Message From Our Sponsor by Henry Slesar - The foot-in-the-door technique would work perfectly for any salesman—if he had an invisible foot! 'And that was Smoky Donahue's Western Swingsters, playing Red Dust for all you Martian fans out there. Now let's take a look at the new recordings, hot off the presses this week from all over the system. Looks like we have a real treat for you tonight, folks! There's a brand-new label from way out in outer space. Yes, sir, the very first record put on wax by the Martian Recording Company, and it ought to be a lulu. We'll spin it for you in just a minute, but first, here's a message from our sponsor, the Oxygen Corporation of America—Earth's oldest and finest manufacturers of compressed oxygen equipment. 'Friends, when you're scooting around in your little rocket roadster, do you ever stop to think that your fine vehicle deserves nothing but the best in equipment and accessories? Well, next time, take a look at your oxygen tanks. Are you still using the cumbersome, old, outmoded tank, with ugly valves and low capacity? Wouldn't you rather have the new, streamlined Oxco tank that gives you months of service without refilling? Models cost as low as four thousand dollars, and they're guaranteed up to a full year. Call your local rocket supply store today, and get all the facts. When you see the new Oxco, you'll know why we say ... Oxco never leaves you breathless! 'Well, I see Jonesy, our control board operator, waving at me like mad, folks. He wants to hear this new disc from Mars, too. So—without further ado—here we go. It's on the Canal label, and it's called ... Melancholy!' The boss slammed the file drawer shut in disgust. The Martian, standing before his desk, shuffled his feet and rotated his cap with his third hand. 'Displeasing you?' he said. 'Come back other time do?'
Henry Slesar (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Pail of Air by Fritz Leiber - The dark star passed, bringing with it eternal night and turning history into incredible myth in a single generation! Pa had sent me out to get an extra pail of air. I'd just about scooped it full and most of the warmth had leaked from my fingers when I saw the thing. You know, at first I thought it was a young lady. Yes, a beautiful young lady's face all glowing in the dark and looking at me from the fifth floor of the opposite apartment, which hereabouts is the floor just above the white blanket of frozen air. I'd never seen a live young lady before, except in the old magazines—Sis is just a kid and Ma is pretty sick and miserable—and it gave me such a start that I dropped the pail. Who wouldn't, knowing everyone on Earth was dead except Pa and Ma and Sis and you? Even at that, I don't suppose I should have been surprised. We all see things now and then. Ma has some pretty bad ones, to judge from the way she bugs her eyes at nothing and just screams and screams and huddles back against the blankets hanging around the Nest. Pa says it is natural we should react like that sometimes. When I'd recovered the pail and could look again at the opposite apartment, I got an idea of what Ma might be feeling at those times, for I saw it wasn't a young lady at all but simply a light—a tiny light that moved stealthily from window to window, just as if one of the cruel little stars had come down out of the airless sky to investigate why the Earth had gone away from the Sun, and maybe to hunt down something to torment or terrify, now that the Earth didn't have the Sun's protection. I tell you, the thought of it gave me the creeps. I just stood there shaking, and almost froze my feet and did frost my helmet so solid on the inside that I couldn't have seen the light even if it had come out of one of the windows to get me. Then I had the wit to go back inside.
Fritz Leiber (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Traveler in Time by August Derleth - You can't always escape evils by running away from them... but it may help! 'Tell me what time is,' said Harrigan one late summer afternoon in a Madison Street bar. 'I'd like to know.' 'A dimension,' I answered. 'Everybody knows that.' 'All right, granted. I know space is a dimension and you can move forward or back in space. And, of course, you keep on aging all the time.' 'Elementary,' I said. 'But what happens if you can move backward or forward in time? Do you age or get younger, or do you keep the status quo?' 'I'm not an authority on time, Tex. Do you know anyone who traveled in time?' Harrigan shrugged aside my question. 'That was the thing I couldn't get out of Vanderkamp, either. He presumed to know everything else.' 'Vanderkamp?' 'He was another of those strange people a reporter always runs into. Lived in New York—downtown, near the Bowery. Man of about forty, I'd say, but a little on the old-fashioned side. Dutch background, and hipped on the subject of New Amsterdam, which, in case you don't know, was the original name of New York City.' 'Don't mind my interrupting,' I cut in. 'But I'm not quite straight on what Vanderkamp has to do with time as dimension.' 'Oh, he was touched on the subject. He claimed to travel in it. The fact is, he invented a time-traveling machine.'
August Derleth (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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A Zloor For Your Trouble written by Mack Reynolds Prescott stood to make a young fortune if he could capture a martian zloor—dead or alive! Was there a catch to it? Only for the hunter! 'Keep my size out of it,' I snapped. I indicated with a thumb a little statuette on my desk. 'The guy my mother named me after was pint size too. He got along all right.' He looked over at Bonaparte. 'Ummm,' he said. 'Napoleon was a big name once—but he's only a bust now.' 'Listen, you're asking for a bust yourself. Why don't you run along? I'm busy.' He ignored me, found a chair that had nothing but a few magazines on it, tossed them to the floor and sat down. 'Your name was brought up because you're the smallest professional hunter on Earth. It'd save a few thousand credits in getting you to Mars and back.' 'What in kert are you talking about?' I growled. 'The government wants a specimen, at least one, of a zloor.' 'A what?' 'A zloor. A small Martian animal.' I scowled at him. 'And just why does the government want a zloor?' 'That's a secret.' 'Okay. I'll tell you another secret. Somebody else can catch the government a zloor. I've never been off Earth and I haven't any particular hankering to go now.' 'I doubt if you could have got one anyway.' I said easily, 'If anyone else could catch it, I could.' He reached for the doorknob, 'I'd lay a thousand credits against that,' he said. He began to leave. 'Wait a minute, buddy. Are you just sounding off or have you got a thousand credits you don't care what happens to?' He turned and faced me. 'I am willing to wager a thousand credits that you can't capture a zloor.' 'How big are they?' 'About the size of a rabbit.' I glowered at him. 'They very fast, or very poisonous, or what?' He shrugged. 'They can't run quite as fast as a common Terran hare, and I understand they're quite gentle.' 'Then why haven't they been captured?'
Mack Reynolds (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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Acres of Diamonds was originally delivered by Russell H. Conwell in a speech in Philadelphia more than 100 years ago. He enlisted in the Army during the civil war and rose to the rank of Colonel. He’s also known for being the founder and first president of Temple University in Philadelphia. Conwell shared this timeless classic more than 6,000 times around the world.
Russell H. Conwell (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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Adjustment Team by Philip K. Dick - Something went wrong... and Ed Fletcher got mixed up in the biggest thing in his life It was bright morning. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and sidewalks, reflecting off the sparkling parked cars.The clerk came walking hurriedly, leafing through his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He stopped in front of the small green stucco house for a moment, and then turned up the walk, entering the back yard. The dog was asleep inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail showed. 'For Heaven's sake,' the clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped his mechanical pencil noisily against his clipboard. 'Wake up, you in there.' The dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking and yawning in the morning sunlight. 'Oh, it's you. Already?' He yawned again. 'Big doings.' The clerk ran his expert finger down the traffic-control sheet. 'They're adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly nine o'clock.' He glanced at his pocket watch. 'Three hour alteration. Will finish by noon.' 'T137? That's not far from here.' The clerk's thin lips twisted with contempt. 'Indeed. You're showing astonishing perspicacity, my black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why I'm here.' 'We overlap with T137.' Exactly. Elements from this Sector are involved. We must make sure they're properly placed when the adjustment begins.'
Philip K. Dick (Author), Scott Miller (Narrator)
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