By Robert Silverberg
The tales the following, them all written among March of 1972 and November of 1973, mark a severe turning element in my profession. those that comprehend the 3 prior volumes have traced my evolution from a able journeyman, very younger and as a lot excited about paying the hire as he used to be to advancing the cutting-edge, right into a critical, devoted craftsman now trying to go away his mark on technology fiction in a few major method. through the decade of the Sixties I had tried to develop and evolve in the box of writing I enjoyed development at the most sensible that went ahead of me, the paintings of Theodore Sturgeon and James Blish and Cyril Kornbluth and Jack Vance and Philip okay. Dick and part a dozen others whose nice tales have been beacons beckoning me onward after which, as I reached my very own adulthood, now attempting to carry technological know-how fiction in addition to me right into a new realm of improvement, hauling it alongside even farther out of its pulp-magazine origins towards what I considered as a extra resonant and evocative form of visionary storytelling.
Robert Silverberg, from his creation
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Additional resources for Trips (Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg)
What he heard was the ticking of his watch. He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. " As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round—spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color—that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies.
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf—he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig.