Can anything go wrong?..Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, March 1955 (see first edition).

    This popular classic work by Robert Silverberg is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Robert Silverberg then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

    Helpless, doomed, into the graveyard of space floats the wrecked freighter Pallas.

    ------------- The foul-up starts when the reason-for-wanting -------------- is satisfied ... and the need remains!excerpt from the introductory: THE message was an electronic shout, the most powerful and tightly-beamed short-wave transmission which men could generate, directed with all the precision which mathematics and engineering could offer. Nevertheless that pencil must scrawl broadly over the sky, and for a long time, merely hoping to write on its target. For when distances are measured in light-weeks, the smallest errors grow monstrous. As it happened, the attempt was successful. Communications Officer Anastas Mardikian had assembled his receiver after acceleration ceased-a big thing, surrounding the flagship Ranger like a spiderweb trapping a fly-and had kept it hopefully tuned over a wide band. The radio beam swept through, ghostly faint from dispersion, wave length doubled by Doppler effect, ragged with cosmic noise. An elaborate system of filters and amplifiers could make it no more than barely intelligible. But that was enough. Mardikian burst onto the bridge. He was young, and the months had not yet devoured the glory of his first deep-space voyage. "Sir!" he yelled. "A message ... I just played back the recorder ... from Earth!" Fleet Captain Joshua Coffin started. That movement, in weightlessness, spun him off the deck. He stopped himself with a practiced hand, stiffened, and rapped back: "If you haven't yet learned regulations, a week of solitary confinement may give you a chance to study them." "I ... but, sir-" The other man retreated. His uniform made a loose rainbow splash across metal and plastic. Coffin alone, of all the fleet's company, held to the black garments of a space service long extinct. -

    He wanted to talk about Wells's "Time Machine" but he knew that'd be no use -- these folks didn't read that sort of thing. "If the earth had settled down, we'd have been lower. If it had settled to one side, we'd have been moved one way or another, but as it's settled back in the Fourth Dimension, we're going back in time." "Then --""We're in a runaway skyscraper, bound for some time back before the discovery of America!

    In this toasted tomorrow, the highly-mechanized Puffy Products is bent on producing the supremely lightest loaf. The story is what happens if bread isn't just airy, but pumped full of lighter-than-air helium. Leiber (Ships to the Stars) didn't often bake up such a souffle of spoof, but he's a master in the kitchen. And "Bread Overhead" has just enough to say about human nature to be filling, besides.

    But, logically, there would be times--

    Set in the ancient city of Ujjayani, Mrichchhakatika is "rife with romance, comedy, intrigue and a political subplot detailing the overthrow of the city's despotic ruler by a shepherd, [and] is notable among extant Sanskrit drama for its focus on a fictional scenario rather than on a classical tale or legend. Mrichchhakatika also departs from the traditions enumerated in the Natyashastra that specify that dramas should focus on the alives of the nobility and instead incorporates a large number of middle and lower-caste characters who speak a wide range of Prakrit dialects." Much celebrated in the West because of its plot structure, following several successful nineteenth century translations and stage adaptations, Mrichchhakatika remains the prominent drama in Sanskrit, widely translated, adapted and performed internationally. This volume includes the text translated by M. R. Kale along with relevant background essays and criticism, to enable students of literature to understand the long tradition of theatre in India on one hand; and on the other, its subsequent negotiations with the West, traversing, accommodating, negotiating and becoming what we call Modern Indian Drama today.

    This brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. I looked up from the blotter and shouted at the trucker's vanishing back."What the hell is that?""How should I know?" he said as he swung up into the cab. "I just deliver, I don't X-ray 'em. It came on the morning rocket from earth is all I know." He gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of red dust.

    He wasn't concerned about getting the wrong man. He knew what the man looked like. There was no way he could make a mistake about his target's identity -- he had the man's skull under his shoulder.

    Humor and a somewhat postmodern outlook carried over into his novels as well. One of his stories, "Arena," is officially credited for an adaptation as an episode of the landmark television series, Star Trek. With no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the Red Planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered -- except one of the flaws of human nature. . . ."

    . . ?Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk."I'm not going to ask what you want," he said, in a low, restrained voice. "I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tell him I think it's wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We've had everything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet little play about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast "must" have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest a baker's dozen. Go away."

    In their exile on the ground they have to adapt to vastly different circumstances, fight monsters resembling dinosaurs, and finally happen upon the godly giants, whose existence they had questioned.

    He was too good at panning out the single grain of gold in a raging river of uselessness for me not to like him -- respect him, anyway. But then he found the cowboy trunk. It was two months' rent to me and nothing but some squirrelly alien kitsch-fetish to Craphound. So I did the unthinkable. I violated the Code. I got into a bidding war with a buddy. Never let them tell you that women poison friendships: in my experience, wounds from women-fights heal quickly; fights over garbage leave nothing behind but scorched earth. Craphound spotted the sign -- his karma, plus the goggles in his exoskeleton, gave him the advantage when we were doing 80 kmh on some stretch of back-highway in cottage country. He was riding shotgun while I drove, and we had the radio on to the CBC's summer-Saturday programming: eight weekends with eight hours of old radio dramas: "The Shadow,"

    Louis Post-Dispatch“His stories and novels are part of the American language.” — Washington Post Fahrenheit 451. The Martian Chronicles. The Illustrated Man. Dandelion Wine. Something Wicked This Way Comes… these are just a few of the vast collection of master works by Ray Bradbury, one of the best-known and most beloved of American writers. We’ll Always Have Paris, his new collection of stories gathered together for the first time, is a treasure trove of Bradbury gems—eerie and strange, nostalgic and bittersweet, searching and speculative… and a joyous celebration of the lifelong work of a literary legend.