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         Kress Nancy:     more books (100)
  1. Steal Across the Sky by Nancy Kress, 2010-02-02
  2. Beggars in Spain by Nancy Kress, 2004-12-01
  3. Beggars Ride (Beggars Trilogy) by Nancy Kress, 1997-12-15
  4. Elements of Fiction Writing - Beginnings, Middles & Ends by Nancy Kress, 1999-03-15
  5. Probability Moon (The Probability Trilogy) by Nancy Kress, 2000-07-07
  6. Characters, Emotion & Viewpoint: Techniques and Exercises for Crafting Dynamic Characters and Effective Viewpoints (Write Great Fiction) by Nancy Kress, 2005-03-15
  7. Probability Space (The Probability Trilogy) by Nancy Kress, 2002-09-07
  8. Dynamic Characters by Nancy Kress, 2004-06-15
  9. Probability Sun by Nancy Kress, 2003-02-17
  10. Brain Rose by Nancy Kress, 1990-01-01
  11. Crucible by Nancy Kress, 2004-08-01
  12. An Alien Light by Nancy Kress, 1987-01-01
  13. Maximum Light by Nancy Kress, 1999-01-15
  14. Beginnings, Middles and Ends (Elements of Fiction Writing) by Nancy Kress, 1993-03-15

1. Nancy Kress, Science Fiction And Fantasy Writer
Nancy (Anne Konigisor) Kress January 20, 1948 Novels. Kress, Nancy, The Prince of Morning Bells, 1981. The Golden Grove, 1984. The White Pipes, 1985.
Nancy (Anne Konigisor) Kress
January 20, 1948 -
Kress, Nancy,
The Prince of Morning Bells,
The Golden Grove,
The White Pipes,
An Alien Light,
Brain Rose,
Beggars in Spain, Hugo
Beggars and Choosers,
Oaths and Miracles,
Beggars Ride,
Stinger, Maximum Light, Yanked! Probability Moon,
Original Short Fiction
Kress, Nancy, Analog Black Swan, White Raven Black Thorn, White Rose Crime Through Time ... Snow White, Blood Red Terrors Twilight Zone Universe Xanadu
Collection of Short Fiction
Kress, Nancy, Trinity and Other Stories, The Aliens of Earth,
Sources of Biographical and Bibliographical Information
Nancy Kress: Juggling Realities, in Locus, #474, July, 2000. (interview)

2. Kress, Nancy.rar - - Online File Sharing And Storage - Download
Kress, Nancy download at 4shared. Kress, Nancy is hosted at free file sharing service 4shared. Online file sharing and storage - 15 GB free web space. Easy registration. File

3. Kress, Nancy - Insomnes 02 - Mendigos Y Opulentos.rar - - Online Fil
Kress, Nancy Insomnes 02 - Mendigos y opulentos - download at 4shared. Kress, Nancy - Insomnes 02 - Mendigos y opulentos is hosted at free file sharing service 4shared.

4. Kress, Nancy THE GOLDEN GROVE At
Kress, Nancy THE GOLDEN GROVE New York Bluejay Books, 1984. at

Kress, Nancy. BEGGARS AND CHOOSERS. New York TOR, 1994. at

6. Nancy Kress: - ZoomInfo Business Information
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  • Columbia City Ballet
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  • Board Member Columbia City Ballet
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7. Nancy Kress, President, Lyme Nursery School: - ZoomInfo Business Information
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United States The Lyme Nursery School is a non-profit, cooperative nursery school whose purpose is to promote the social, emotional, physical, intellectual, and artistic growth...
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8. Arts:Books:Authors:Kress, Nancy
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9. Nancy Kress's Home Page
Nancy Kress Official Web Site, Nancy Kress is the author of twelve books three fantasy novels, six SF novels, a thriller, two collections of
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11. Explanations, Inc.
A short story.
The first time Harkavy passed the new storefront on Frazier Street, he didn't notice it. He strode rapidly, arms pumping, long-jawed face scowling so fiercely that an Airedale set to bark at him thought the better of it and slunk away into the shadows. He was furious, was Professor Harkavy, too furious to notice a new shop in an old storefront, dusty despite its newness, identified by a handlettered sign propped against a drooping ficus benjamina. The second time around the block, and still furious. Blocks! Stones! Worse than senseless things! It hadn't been this bad when he had been a student no, it had not. His peers in those dim past days had studied for exam questions. Or at least thought about exam questions. Or at least the very least (pump, pump) been conscious while answering exam questions. But this lot! Intellectually dead! He, Harkavy, was probably in violation of the vice code he was practicing pedagogical necrophilia. The cleverness of this phrase slowed him down actually, it was pretty neat. He would have to remember it for later, for the faculty dining room. Morton, from Anthro, would love it. Harkavy stopped pumping and stopped scowling, and noticed the storefront and its hand-lettered sign: EXPLANATIONS, INC. WE EXPLAIN ANYTHING GRAND OPENING TODAY Harkavy snorted. Explain anything, indeed! The presumption, the intellectual arrogance and the ficus benjamina had mealybug. Harkavy could see it through the window, the ghostly white fibers just beginning to spread across the undersides of the plant's droopy leaves. Harkavy snorted again and, because, pushed open the door and entered the shop. Because he boiled with furious energy, because associate professors without the PhD. taught the dumbest classes, because his own plants, in orderly rows of terra cotta pots that let roots breathe, never developed parasitical diseases. Because. How was that for an explanation? The shop was tiny, dim, and faded, the walls a dingy beige and the floor covered with gritty linoleum. The only furnishings were a cracked brown leather chair and a counter, also brown, across the back. On the wall behind the counter hung a large placard: * Management does not handle questions of existence or non-existence. * If a phenomenon does exist or an event did happen, we can explain it. * Both procedural and causal explanations available. * Not responsible for any consequences of imparting explanations. * Discounts for senior citizens. Valid ID required. Before Harkavy had finished reading this, the single door behind the counter opened and closed and a man stood waiting courteously, a dim thin man in a brown suit and gray expression. He was much shorter than Harkavy. Because of this, and because of the silly placard, and because Harkavy's fury had passed beyond simple frustration into that wide free place where recklessness seems not only permissible but required, Harkavy lit into the inoffensive stranger, who deserved it for being so inoffensive. "Explanation explanation! You're interested in explanations? I am a college teacher, last night I gave my students an examination, this morning I have so-called 'explanations' swirling around my ears. Not explanations swirling out of thin air no, no! Explanations coming out of five weeks of careful lectures on British poetry, of meticulously chosen readings, of class discussions nursed along like intensive-care patients. And what do I read this morning? I'll tell you what I read this morning. I read this morning, in response to a simple question to explain the term 'carpe diem' do you know what that means? It means 'seize the day.' That's all just seize the day, as in do it now, tra la la. And what explanations do I get of 'carpe diem'? I get 'sees the day:' s-e-e-s. I get 'cease the day:' c-e-a-s-e, that one undoubtedly from an apocalyptic religious. And I get 'sneeze the dead.' Sneeze the dead poetry! A whole undiscovered school of viral lyricism! What goes through a student's mind when he writes 'this is a sneeze the dead poem'? What? Can you explain that?" The small man said, "Would you like to see a contract?" Taken aback, Harkavy said, "A what?" "A contract," the man said patiently. "We never begin a contract without both a contract and a completed job sheet. We would, for instance, need to know the student's name and, preferably, university ID number. Harkavy stared. "You're serious." "Very," the man said quietly. He did something with his hand under the counter, and a single slot of paper rose upward through a slot Harkavy had not noticed. A little dazed, and also a little sulky that the man had ignored all his fine reckless hyperbole, Harkavy picked up the paper and read it. I, , hereby hire the services of Explanations, Inc., to provide explanation(s) for the question(s) specified below. I agree to accept the stated limits implied by each definition of each key term, and testify that each definition was agreed upon by me and a representative of Explanations, Inc., to our mutual satisfaction. Explanations, Inc. agrees to deliver either a causal or a procedural explanation (circle one) for each question, at no more than a maximum of 10% above estimated cost. (date) (signature) There was also a paragraph granting permission for the signer's name and explanation to be used for advertising purposes. The corners of Harkavy's mouth quirked unpleasantly. "Advertising?" "That portion of out operation is not quite functional." "I'll bet," Harkavy said. "This is merely a branch office," the man said. A great weariness, inevitable after the glow of fury, settled over Harkavy. Charlatans, intellectual poseurs, or unreasoning dolts. Nowhere were there left powerful and honest minds actualy striving for rational clarity. He, Harkavy, was a Diogenes with a cerebral lamp, and all he found was darkness, darkness. Morton from Anthro had the right idea: expect no spark of rationality, and you can never be disappointed. Anticipate fallacy, expect meaningless, presume fraud. "Fraud," Harkavy said. "Certainly not," the small gray man said, not without dignity. The dignity, so unmerited, rekindled Harkavy's anger. "All right then I'll bite. I'll pay for an 'explanation.' Why not? I always pay anyway you don't think the students are the ones pained when I pass forty percent of them because department guidelines discourage flunking more than sixty percent? I'll buy one of your fraudulent little explanations, why not, if meaning is dead then no real explanations are possible anyway!" "Your reasoning is circular," the man said dispassionately. "What specifically would you like explained?" Harkavy cast about for something extravagant yet absurd, the perfect example to illustrate the ironic depths of his disillusionment. He didn't find it. The brown and gray little man took a fresh contract from the slot, Harkavy having crumpled the first one in his fist. "Yes, Professor?" "How do you know I'm a professor?" "You have said so. What would you like explained?" Ironic depths still eluded Harkavy. But unmasking fraud he could manage a question to unmask fraud. "Explain what happened to Amelia Earhart, the aviatrix who disa" "I recognize Miss Earhart's name," the man said. He smiled faintly, his first hint of expression. "As it happens, we are having a special today on Amelia Earhart." "A" "Twenty dollars. Thirty if you wish to request a causal as well as a procedural explanation. Both to include documented proof, of course." Harkavy requested both. Together he and the small man, who gave his name as Stone, defined terms, made out a job sheet, signed a contract. Harkavy paid the thirty dollars. As he wrote out the check a little surprised that such an outfit would accept a check, checks can be traced his anger began to give way to amusement. What a story to tell Morton! It was almost worth the thirty dollars; Morton would love it. He, Harkavy, would become in the telling a wistfully gallant figure, hoping against hope for intellectual value, knowing better all the time. A single-combat idealist who was almost but not quite missing in the existential action. Morton would love it. A pang of genuine wistfulness, unexpected as heartburn, shot through him. Still, he whistled on the walk home, and once there he tore into the rest of the examinations with something close to good humor, not even slowing down when a student explained that Alexander Pope, now deceased, had once been the illegitimate son of a Catholic pontiff. When he had finished with the exams, Harkavy got himself a cold beer and the morning Times, which he hadn't yet seen. The bottom half of page one displayed the photograph of a young woman with badly cut hair and a pretty face, dressed in a flight jacket. AMELIA EARHART FINALLY FOUND REMAINS REVEALED ON SAIPAN The article was quite long, and very thorough. Politicians, medical doctors, anthropologists, and Navy personnel were all quoted extensively. They detailed exactly what had happened to Amelia Earhart. *** "You tricked me," Harkavy said. "Certainly not," said Stone. "As a matter of fact, I have your completed explanation right here." "With documentation from the New York Times!" "Just so." "You had this information before I even signed this ridiculous contract!" "Mr. Harkavy, I am a business man. You offered to buy certain information; I possessed that information. Had Explanations, Inc. been required to obtain information it did not already possess, the price of your explanation would have been much higher. You call yourself a rational man; surely you can see that this is so." Harkavy's eyes narrowed. "I don't like being made a fool of." "No one does," Stone said mildly. Harkavy drummed his fingers on the counter. It was no longer brown; between yesterday afternoon and this morning the counter had been painted a rich, deep blue. With paint bought with his thirty dollars? He studied Stone. The little man gazed back at him from eyes so steady, so serene, that Harkavy felt bile rise in his throat. It was so shameless. At the very least the charlatan could show some shame. A flicker of the eyes, a looking away and he, Harkavy, would be satisfied. No more than that, merely a silent admission that it had been possible, once, to believe the world genuinely explicable, and that this was a shoddy exploitation of that springtime belief... just a flicker of the eyes, a so slight bending of the head... Stone neither flickered nor bent. "All right," Harkavy said quietly, "then let's just see how you do when you don't already possess the information." "Certainly," Stone said. He moved his hand under the counter and a fresh contract arose from the slot. "What would you like explained?" Harkavy did not even think. "Explain about Amy. Amy, my wife explain why she left me. A causal explanation." Stone's hands held still over the paper. He raised his gaze to Harkavy's, and his voice grew softer. "Mr. Harkavy. Sometimes one asks for explanations one does not really want." Harkavy laughed unpleasantly. "Too difficult for you? Not the same as taking on a question already documented in the Times? Just so, Stone?" Stone didn't answer. He gazed down at the newly blue counter, at something Stone couldn't see. When he finally spoke, it was still in that soft voice, gentle as mist. "Let us define our terms, Mr. Harkavy. Your ex-wife's name?" "Amy Loughton Harkavy. Quality Control Supervisor at Lunell Products. Social Security number 090-40-0333. There, Stone name, rank, and serial number, just what is allowed in any war. The rest is up to you. Explain away. Go ahead if you can." "We can," Stone said, but his voice told nothing. *** Explanations, Inc. had stipulated six weeks to complete its labors. By the second day, Harkavy was cursing himself for a fool. To let his outrage get the better of him like that! To be bested by a fly-by-night bunko game! It wasn't the money, it was the humiliation... no, by God, the humiliation was theirs. To pervert the mind's sacred ability to explain into a hootchy-kootch come on for suckers... although, actually, when you looked at it, it was pretty funny. Grim, but funny. He would tell Morton; Morton would absolutely roar. It was really very funny. He didn't tell Morton. The second week, Harkavy strolled past the storefront to see if it was still there. Somewhat to his surprise, it was, although the ficus benjamina with mealybug no longer stood in the window. It had been replaced by three pots of unbloomed passiflora with the greenest leaves Harkavy had ever seen. By the counter a woman stood talking to Stone, who held what looked like a contract in his hands. Unaccountably perturbed, Harkavy left. He did not go back. Occasionally, during the course of the six weeks, Harkavy thought of his contract, the thought popping into his mind while he lectured or shaved or chaired yet another committee meeting, and when it did he scowled fiercely. People began to regard him as a little eccentric. ("Since the break-up, you know, poor fellow...") Harkavy didn't notice. *** "Your wife left you," Stone said neutrally, "because she could no longer tolerate life with 'a man who insists on being right ninety-three percent of the time.' The phrase is hers. Your documentation, Mr. Harkavy." He pushed it across the counter and looked somewhere else. There was a tape recorder. Amy's voice, recalling incidents, discussing motives, explaining to whom? Friend? Priest? Imposter? The other voice never answered. But Harkavy would have recognized Amy's voice anywhere, slightly nasal breathiness with those captivating musical infections: "He could never apologize when he was wrong. Only if he was right, because then, you see, it wasn't threatening. He used to do this thing, if I solved some household problem we'd been discussing, he'd smile and say, 'I'm glad I thought of that!' I can't tell you how crazy it made me!" There was a psychologist's report, fully notarized with shiny seals, recounting the psychologist's post-divorce therapy sessions with one Ms. Amy Loughton. The therapist stated that Ms. Laughton's initiation of divorce had been a positive desire to free herself from a destructive marital situation with a husband who could only feel successful if his judgement was acknowledged to be superior to everyone around him. Ms. Laughton's post-divorce adjustment was descibed as successful. Finally, there was a note from Amy herself, on the stationery Harkavy had given her on her last birthday "...because he wants what nobody can have! He wants everything in the whole damn world to make sense!" Stone still did not look at Harkavy. Harkavy sputtered, "You son of a bitch, you could end up in Leavenworth for this! Breaking into medical files, tampering with the U.S. mails " "Certainly not," Stone said coldly. "Look again." Harkavy looked again. The note from Amy was adressed to Schariar Galt Stone. "How " "The balance of your bill is now due, Mr. Harkavy." Harkavy paid it. The chair of cracked brown leather had been replaced with one of rich purple velvet. Harkavy sank down on it and stared ahead, unseeing. Stone said quietly, "Mrs. Harkavy was wrong in one particular." "Ms. Laughton," Harkavy said, jerking his chin upwards, "she prefers to be called Ms. Laughton." "Ms. Laughton was wrong in one particular. The world does make sense. It is rational." "You son of a bitch. How did you get these documents?" "Revealing our operational methods is not part of your contract, Mr. Harkavy." "If I went to the police with these stolen files " "They are not stolen," Stone said. "The police would find no grounds for criminal charges. None at all. We can, in fact, explain everything." *** Harkavy went back. A week later, ten days he was not exactly sure. After the first return, he went every day, striding over from the university with his head up and his arms pumping, acutely aware of the hollowness of all this vigor. Once in the tiny shop, he sat slumped in the glowing purple chair. A slump was all he could manage; the place turned all his vigor outside in and it centrifuged to his eyes, which never blinked. Harkavy, a tweed-jacketed Argus, watched. A blue-haired woman wanted an explanation of the UFO she had sighted above her barn. Another woman asked for a procedural explanation of how her apartment had been robbed, but she left when she found out the fee would be more than the value of the possessions stolen. An elderly man, thin and with the ascetic face of a figure on a stained-glass window, requested a true explanation of the birth of Christ. After he had received it he left looking thoughtful, and his hand trembled. Who were all these people, where had they come from? A few looked vaguely familiar to Harkavy, like people he might have passed in the supermarket. A middle-aged man, long hair thinning and facial muscles rigidly controlled, wanted to know exactly why his son had joined the Marines. A young boy asked for the causes of the War of Jenkin's Ear. Harkavy blinked. "Homework," Stone said after the boy had left. It was the first time he had spoken to Harkavy. "So now you're in the homework business," Harkavy said, with feeble scorn. He knew the scorn was feeble because it could not warm him. He was always cold now. "Homework, too, can be explained." "I should think it would be beneath your notice. There can't be much profit in children's homework." "You would be surprised where we find profit." "I just bet I would," Harkavy said. "You've had at least two customers this week storm out of here without paying you." "They will be billed. In addition, the corporation has figured standard parameters for the allowance for bad debts. The cost is unfortunately passed on to the consumer." "All according to the Gospel of Business Management," Harkavy sneered. Stone regarded him thoughtfully. The little man had discarded his brown suit; he wore a coat the deep purple-blue of a twilight sky, cut full enough so that sometimes, in some lights, it looked like a cape. It was not a cape. A child requested an explanation for the death of her puppy. A young man, all knobby elbows and tortured dark eyes, wanted a causal explanation for the presence of evil in the world. Another young man wanted to know the procedure for making a killing on the stock market, but he was turned away: Explanations, Inc. did not handle procedural explanations for events that had not yet happened. A woman asked for an explanation of an old and trivial social slight, twenty-three years earlier, for which she was willing to pay a sum greater than Harkavy's yearly salary. She could not be disuaded: "I have to know why she acted like that to me. I have to know why!" After she had left, Harkavy said the first time he had spoken in ten days to Stone, "'The heart has reasons of which the reason knows nothing.'" "Pascal." Harkavy scowled. He had not expected Stone to know. Stone said, "Even the reasons of the heart can be explained. The truth of the causes is not dependent on the absurdity of the results." "Nor on their emotional manageability?" "Certainly not," Stone said. Another customer appeared at the door, hand hesitating on the knob, face peering through the glass storefront. "All these questions," Harkavy said. "All these answers," Stone said. Harkavy scowled and went back to silence. In the deep purple chair Harkavy felt invisible, witness but not participant, a non-combatant temporarily removed from action. Customers ignored him. He was part of the furniture. He was always cold. Between one afternoon and the following morning the gritty linoleum disappeared, replaced by an Oriental carpet luminously and intricately woven in shades of wine, purple, deep blue. The ground beneath Harkavy's feet glowed like jewels. *** "Explain," Harkavy said, "the reason for the universe." Stone went on doing something behind his counter. "Explain," Harkavy said more loudly, rising finally from his chair, "the reason for the universe!" "Mr. Harkavy," Stone said formally, as though Harkavy had just entered the shop. He had, in fact, been sitting in the purple chair for over a month. The cushions bore overlapping imprints of his body, one for each restless position. "I wish a contract," Harkavy said, almost resentfully, "to explain the universe." "Then I take it that you have become convinced of the validity of Explanations, Inc., despite your first impressions?" Harkavy ground his teeth. "Can we get on with it!" "Certainly," Stone said. "How the universe was formed?" "Why." "Ah," Stone said. To Harkavy the word sounded drawn out and sibilant, like a sigh, despite having no s's in it. The twilight non-cape rustled softly. "Well?" Harkavy said. "Can you explain that?" "Yes." "Need we define many terms?" "No. The terms are clear." "Will it be expensive?" "No. Very cheap." "Will it take long to prepare the answer?" "Only a few minutes." "Then," Harkavy said, "it must be a question asked often." "Very often." "And I will receive a stock explanation?" "You will receive a true explanation." "All right then," Harkavy said tonelessly. His face had gone rather gray. Stone's face did not change expression, and as Harkavy wrote out the check he had the sudden thought that, seen through the glass from the sidewalk, they might have been two ordinary businessmen engaged in any of the more well-bred trades, insurance or pharmaceuticals or law. Stone brought his explanation from whatever place lay behind the door beyond the counter. It was very detailed, a sheaf of closely printed papers. Harkavy, unfamiliar with this terminology but familiar with universal academic style, stood quietly as he scanned the abstracts by great physicists. Radial velocities, the Hubble law, the cosmological principle, big bang, microradiation, law of entropy. "This is a procedural explanation, Stone. It explains how the universe came into being. I requested why." "Yes," Stone said simply, and said no more. Harkavy understood. The procedure was the cause. The universe existed because it existed. No more than that. Harkavy said loudly, "I don't really care, you know." Stone said nothing. "It isn't as if it were more than an intellectual exercise, or as if I didn't already know this. My God, man, Sartre I teach sophomores who have figured all this out for themselves, some of them, and not the brightest ones, either!" "Please don't shout," Stone said. "I was right all along!" "Yes ." "God! All those poor saps trailing in here, all those suckers, thinking there was a point to what they choose to do!" Stone was silent. "I suppose the proper philanthropic response is pity, isn't it? But I don't pity ignorance, Stone. Nor illusions. A mind that does not think is an ugly thing. Not pitiful ugly. Does that shock you?" "No." Harkavy's voice rose louder again. "But I suppose you think that just because I asked that question I must be devastated by the answer. I knew the explanation all along. It was you I was testing!" "Then I trust we have proven ourselves reliable." "It doesn't matter to me! The explanation doesn't matter to me!" "Ah," said Stone. "I was right!" Harkavy shrieked. He tore the sheaf of documentation in half, then in half again and yet again. Pieces of paper drifted down onto the carpet. "I was right! There are no real explanations!" "There are two more questions," Stone said, but Harkavy didn't hear him. He was gone, storming out of the shop, leaving the bits of paper littered over the glowing depths of the carpet, scattered as random stars. *** "I would like to apologize," Harkavy said stiffly. He stood holding the counter with both hands. Since yesterday the counter seemed to have deepened in color. "I do not usually behave so badly. I do not usually lose my temper in quite that fashion. Therefore, I would like to apologize." "Your apology is accepted," Stone said gravely. He gazed at Harkavy with a thoughtful intensity. Harkavy felt ridiculous. "I think you should know," he said, "that I have contacted both the Better Business Bureau and the Consumer Protection League." "Yes?" Stone said. He did not look alarmed. "Explanations, Inc. is registered with neither." "No." "But neither organization has received any complaints concerning you." "No." "Until now," Harkavy added. "Ah." "You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe I filed a complaint with the bureaucracy." "No," Stone said. He did not smile. Harkavy leaned over the counter, his back to the purple velvet chair, and waited to see if Stone would say anything that would let him, Harkavy, leave. Stone said nothing. The silence lengthened. Finally Harkavy shifted his weight, crossed one leg over the opposite calf, and tried, desperately, for nonchalance. "So when did you paint the ceiling?" he said heartily. Stone did not look upwards. The ceiling, which by some trick of lighting now looked very far away, was a deep, glowing wine. Between ceiling and carpet the tiny shop hung suspended, mysterious with jeweled color. In the window the passion flowers had begun to bloom scarlet. "It was painted not long ago," Stone said. "That must mean profits are good." "Profits are good." "People seek after a great many explanations, I imagine. For you to keep in business." "Some do, yes." "But not all?" "No. Not all." "Funny, isn't it, how people do differ in their intellestual curiosity. It doesn't even seem to correlate directly to intelligence, doesn't it? With students, of course, you see all levels of curiosity coupled with all levels of intelligence, no predictability ~ why, I was saying just the other day to Morton, he's in Anthro, he " "Mr. Harkavy," Stone said, not ungently, "ask the next question." The two men stared at each other, one serene and waxing, one nonchalance gone dry. Harkavy could have sworn he caught a whiff of incense just a passing scent, elusive on warm air. "A causal," Harkavy said. "Why do I keep coming back to Explanations, Inc?" "Come into the back room," Stone said. *** There was a computer, as of course there would have to be. There was a couch, hard and severe, upon which Harkavy lay. Most of all, there was a parade of people in white lab coats; the parade went on for three days. Harkavy never left, except to make one phone call to the university, requesting emergency sick leave. Psychiatrist, hypnotist, doctor with a compassionate smile and a wicked hypodermic, Stone with spartan meals, a stenographer who was also a notary public. Documentation, Harkavy thought around the wooziness of the hypodermic; it was his one clear thought in three days. He didn't mind, somehow. Answers awaited at the end. Cleansed and gentled, almost luxuriating in the abandonment of control (the hypodermic?), Harkavy talked, and dozed, and talked some more, and it seemed to him that his words were hard silvery flakes drifting up from his defenseless prone position, and that the flakes coalesced to form a shining mirror in which he saw himself at peace. The fee was enormous. When at last he stood again in the front of the shop and held in his hand the corporation's contract, answer, and documentation, Harkavy felt detached enough to read them. The print was small yet easy to read, a rational choice. The smell of the passion flowers was much stronger. QUESTION: Why has Philip Warren Harkavy returned on thirty-nine separate occasions [Harkavy had not been counting] to the Frazier Street branch of Explanations, Inc.? ABSTRACT: Philip Warren Harkavy exhibits the behavior and thought processes characteristic of metaphobia, a fear of there not being enough meaning in the universe. In this specific case, the basic phobia manifests itself as a counterphobia taking the form of resistance to the idea that the world can be rationally explained at all. This is not an unusual manifestation, here distinguished only by its deep-seatedness and by the subject's conscious awareness of it. In previous ages, metaphobia gave rise to elaborate and rigid religious structures. In modern periods, other manifestations of the phobia are more common. Both the subject's career as an English professor, transmitting knowledge but not creating it, and his basic personality structure, tenacious self-righteousness undercut by irony, are examples of the basic phobia working itself out in life choices. The subject passionately desires the world to be explicable. He is afraid that it is not. Caught between desire and fear, he is drawn to Explanations, Inc. at the same time that he is repelled by it. This is why he has returned on thirty-nine separate occasions. Documentation attached. 6154A38L "What are the numbers at the end for?" Harkavy asked. He looked up from the page. At some point Stone had grown a beard, a lush patriarchal tangle of black curls that deepened his eyes. "The numbers are for office use only, Mr. Harkavy." "I see," Harkavy said. His voice was all tired courtesy, no bluster the last of the bluster had leeched out of him during the three days of research and had not returned. He looked thinner, a tall quiet man swaying in the incense-laden breeze. "Thank you," he said quietly, and turned to leave. "You can't go now!" Stone cried. Emotion, the first Harkavy had heard from him with any vigor to it, swelled his voice to richness. "No?" Harkavy said. "There is one more question!" "I can't think what it could be." "Think is what you can do, Harkavy!" "It does not appear to make much difference." "You are merely confused by your first reaction to your answer this phase will not last. Truly!" "Metaphobia," Harkavy mused. "Many live a full and normal life span, with proper precautions. With proper precautions. Think, Harkavy think." "Thank you," Harkavy said absently, lost in thought, and left the shop. His feet stumbled a little. The window was crowded with passion flowers, all burst into bloom, a riot of scarlet flowers rustling mysteriously in perfumed shadows. *** One day. Two days. A week: seven days. On the seventh day, Harkavy returned. He looked as if he had slept badly and his suit, old and wrinkled, hung on his frame. There was in his face the quiet grayness that is in itself a kind of focus: a great granite boulder whose energies exist perfectly balanced upon one smaller stone beneath, and hence exist motionless. "Philip!" Stone cried. He bustled forward, arms thrown wide in welcome, rich dark beard glistening against the folds of his cape. "You did return!" "Stone," Harkavy said quietly. Stone threw his arms around Harkavy and kissed each cheek, and on his skin Harkavy smelled incense and rich oils. Around them the shop glowed like a jewel-box, its air heavy with the passion flowers, lush with velvety promise. "One question, Stone," Harkavy said, without inflection. "One final question." Of course!" Stone boomed. His black eyes gleamed. "Don't we need a contract?" "Not this time are you not an old and valued customer? Not this time!" The scented air stirred on soft winds. Slowly Harkavy said, "I understand the explanation of metaphobia. It is accurate. The longing for order... for comprehension... it gnaws away at you, gnaws and gnaws... "The question, Philip! The question!" "Explain...I would like to have explained" "Yes? Yes?" "Explain the reason for the existence of Explanations, Inc. Why did it come to Frazier Street?" "Ah!" crowed Stone, and flung his arms wide in a huge, sensuous blessing. "You have it! You have it!" And at just that moment the walls sprung into intricate and subtle designs in the glowing ancient dyes, and the temple bells began to ring, and ring, and ring. *** "So what is this dump?" the young man sneered. "Another tourist trap?" He began to read the sign posted behind the brown counter. "Or just local tea-leaf garbage? What have you got back there, a crystal ball to bilk the yokels with?" "Certainly not," Harkavy said quietly. He moved his hand behind the counter, and a contract rose up from the slot.

12. Buy Kress Nancy
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In a world where the slightest edge can mean the difference between success and failure, Leisha Camden is beautiful, extraordinarily intelligent ... and one of an ever-growing number of human beings who have been genetically modified to never require sleep. Once considered interesting anomalies, now Leisha and the other "Sleepless" are outcasts victims of blind hatred, political repression, and shocking mob violence meant to drive them from human society ... and, ultimately, from Earth itself. But Leisha Camden has chosen to remain behind in a world that envies and fears her "gift" a world marked for destruction in a devastating conspiracy of freedom ... and revenge. Many of us wish we could get by with less sleep.

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14. People Like Us
A short story.
Parker brought the car around at seven; George was going to meet the dinner guests at the station. Sarah said incredulously, "They're coming up by train?" "Buddy Calucci broke his wrist last week and can't drive," George said, "and his wife has some kind of phobia about it. And the alien of course can't drive either." Of course. Of course not. Couldn't drive, couldn't wear pants, probably couldn't eat anything Sarah had had Cook prepare for dinner either. All the alien could do was put her poor old George's firm out of business with its strange advanced fuel products, whatever they were. Sarah stood before the fireplace and regarded her husband as he picked up his coat from a leather chair. "If it's supposed to be such a discreet meeting that you can't have it in the city, why are they taking the train? Why didn't your Mr. Calucci order a car and driver?" "I don't think it would occur to him." "This is going to be horrible, George. It really is. I'd just as soon have Parker and Cook and Cook's criminal brother-in-law. The one in Attica." George shrugged into his coat, crossed the room, and put his hands on Sarah's shoulders. "I know, darling; it's too bad. But necessary. And if they come by train, they can't stay late. The last train back is the 10:42. That's something, at least." "At least," Sarah said. But she made herself smile at George; it wasn't his fault, after all, and whining like this was really terribly unattractive. These... people were coming, and that was that. Just the same, with George's florid face inches from her own, she suddenly remembered something Louise Henderson had said to her just last week at the gallery. You know, darling, George is getting awfully fat. He should go back to tennis instead of golf. If he's not careful, he'll start to look like that man that runs the hardware store. Sarah had laughed; Louise had a wicked eye. But Sarah had been stung, too: George did look a little like the man in the hardware store. The same shape to the brow, the same chin. Friends had joked about it before. After George had left for the station, Denise brought in a tray of canapes and fresh ice. Sarah made herself a Scotch and water, drank half of it, poked at the fire, finally settled on a chair. The living room looked well by firelight, she thought. She loved this house, even if it had seemed a little empty since Emily had gone off to Rosemary Hall four years ago. Brass and mahogany gleamed in the firelight; wainscotting and molding took on subtle curves; the colors of the old Orientals glowed. In the bookcases leather bindings and Chinese vases jumbled comfortably against each other, both slightly dusty. Emily's violin leaned against one corner. Had Emily, home for the weekend, practiced today? Probably not; too busy with the horses. Sarah smiled. finished her Scotch, and considered moving a pile of old Smithsonians and Forbes off the wing chair beside the violin. She decided against it. She heard the car, and they were here. Sarah rose to meet her guests. "Hello." "My wife Sarah," George said. "Darling, Mr. Calucci, Mrs. Calucci, Mr. C'Lanth." "Call me Buddy," Calucci boomed at the same moment that his wife said, "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. I'm Mabel." Buddy Calucci seized Sarah's hand and pumped it. He wore a coat with hugely padded shoulders and a bright yellow tie, carefully knotted, printed with daisies. Mabel Calucci wore heart-shaped glasses and a red satin dress cut so low that Sarah blinked. She avoided altogether looking at the alien. Not just yet. "Nice place you got here," Calucci boomed. "Looks real homey." His eyes, Sarah saw, missed nothing, scrutinizing the portaits as if appraising them. "My, yes", Mabel Calucci said. Her mouth pursed slightly at the magazines tossed on the wing chair. Sarah said, "Would you like a drink?" and started towards the sideboard. Calucci's words stopped her. "No, no, Mabel and I never touch the stuff. Christian Temperance. But you folks go right ahead feel free. "You don't drink?" "Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine," Mabel said roguishly. "This must be your dog let him right into the living room, do you?" Her eyes moved to the spot by the fireplace where Brandy usually lay; Labrador hair clung to the Oriental. "We got a dog, too," Calucci said. "Doberman. Meanest guard dog you ever saw. Not that we need it now with the new security system on the country home. Del EverGuard. Seven thousand for the fencing alone." "How interesting", Sarah murmured. George threw her a warning glance. She poured herself another Scotch and water, then one for George. The alien said, "I'd like one, too, please." Sarah turned in surprise. She had assumed that an alien wouldn't drink alcohol. Not that she actually knew much about the aliens, really she hadn't kept up. The television set, a small black and white, had broken a few months ago, and with Emily only home occasional weekends Sarah hadn't yet gotten around to getting it repaired. She didn't watch TV. "Scotch and water is fine", the alien said. He had a deep, slightly hoarse voice. Sarah made herself look at him. Standing with his back to the fire, balancing with what looked like careless ease on both legs and the curving, muscular tail, he wasn't quite as bad as Sarah had expected. The aliens she had seen on the now-dead TV had worn odd-looking, shiny clothes on the top halves of their bodies, nothing below. But this one wore a soft white shirt, no tie, and a tweed jacket cut long enough to cover all but his hairy legs. His head hair, too, didn't look as strange as on the TV aliens; she supposed that a barber must have cut it. It fell thickly from a side part to just over the tops of his ears. Sarah handed him the drink. "Didn't know you folks imbibed," Calucci said to the alien. He sat on the sofa, pulling up his pant legs at the knees: preserving the crease. "Didn't see that on TV." "We just got a new set," Mabel Calucci said. "Sony. Hundred-inch screen, remotes, stereo, everything." "Have to have you all to our big Superbowl party in January," Calucci said. "C'Lanth, your folks like football?" "No," C'Lanth said. Calucci waited, but the alien said no more, sipping his drink and smiling faintly. Sarah smothered a grin. "Probably not your native pastime," Calucci said. "Stands to reason. What sports do you guys like? Earth sports, I mean. When in Rome, I always say." "I like tennis." "Tennis?" George said, looking surprised. C'Lanth smiled. "Yes. I'm afraid I've become something of a fanatic. But I'm also afraid I have an unfair advantage something about the joints of our thumbs. Do you play?" "Not as much as I used to," George said ruefully. "Mrs. Atkinson?" "Yes," Sarah said, wondering where C'Lanth had learned such good English. But didn't she remember something in the papers about the aliens being natural mimics as well as shrewd businessmen? And about their avidly studying just everything? "I play, but not very seriously, I'm afraid. I prefer sailing." "Buddy and I bowled in a league," Mabel Calucci said. Her plump rouged face clouded over. "In St. Pete I mean. Before we moved to New York. Now I don't know." "Are there bowling alleys in this cute little country town of yours, George?" Calucci asked. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know." There was a slight pause. Then Calucci and the alien spoke simultaneously: "Well, now, let's get down to business!" and "I met a friend of yours, Mrs. Atkinson, at an art gallery board meeting Tuesday. Louise Henderson." George said to Calucci. "Oh, I rather think later might be better, Buddy." Sarah said to C'Lanth, "You were at the gallery board meeting?" "Not as a member, of course. Kyle Van Dorr was just showing me around. A tourist." He smiled; Sarah would have sworn it was a self-deprecating smile. "When do we get down to business then?" Calucci said. His big body shifted restlessly. When he lowered his head like that, Sarah thought, it was the exact shape of a garden trowel. "We have to act fast on this one, George, if we're going to have any kind of alliance here. Before your pals " he nodded at C'Lanth " have their little rule-making meeting on mergers." "We believe in competition," C'Lanth said mildly. He finished his drink and held out the glass, mouthing "Please? George made him another Scotch and water. In front of the fireplace Brandy stretched, turned in a circle, and farted. Mabel Calucci looked delicately away, mouth pursed; C'Lanth smiled. Sarah found herself smiling back. What kind of nitwit acted so affected as to be offended by a dog? Denise came to the door and announced dinner. Sarah ate little. She watched. C'Lanth also ate sparingly, but he tried everything. Mabel Calucci, in the presence of food, turned garrulous; each course seemed to swell her verbally, words coming out at the same rate that calories went in. She talked about her little grandson "Cute as a button, and smart as a whip! He can already tell a Caddy from a Buick;" about the redoration of her kitchen in apple-blossom pink; about a woman on a game show who had won $l00,000, had a heart attack, and had to sell the prizes to pay her medical bills; about the street they used to live on in St. Pete when Buddy and her were first married, where people were so friendly they didn't even knock on each others' doors before visiting. Not like here, where you couldn't even see the houses from the street. Not that that was true in New York, of course, where they had their new penthouse, with the cutest terrace you ever saw twelve stories up and just filled with fresh flowers. Buddy Calucci let his wife talk, his eyes appraising the room's furniture, pictures, wallpaper, silver. George, good host that he always was, listened to Mabel Calucci, nodding and smiling. The five of them had just returned to the living room when Emily came in with her boyfriend, the Walker boy, both of them in jeans and sweaters, laughing. Emily's dark hair had escaped its barette and fallen around her face, thick and shining. She showed no reaction to finding an alien in her parents' living room beyond a friendly smile. Sarah felt her heart swell. Her daughter was beautiful, and smart, and mannerly. She was very lucky in Emily. Some of her friends' daughters had turned just impossible, but Emily was wonderful. George made the introductions. "Enjoying Princeton, Taylor?" "It's wicked, sir. Especially calculus." Taylor Walker smiled, an attractive easy flash of teeth. "No head for figures, I'm afraid. Professor Boyden is just out of control." "Hughes Boyden?" C'Lanth asked. "Yes, sir," Taylor sald. "Do you know him?" "Slightly. I did a lot of reading at Princeton when I first came here. Some of the professors were very helpful. In fact, I was up to Princeton this year for Bicker and Sign-ins." Taylor and Emily grinned at each other: some private joke. Emily said, "Totally paralytic. I didn't get to bed until 7 a.m." Mabel Calucci looked at her. Her voice went slightly shrill. "I was always glad that my daughter Tammy had the chance to attend Bob Jones University. The moral standards there are very high." Fury rose in Sarah. The sheer smug stupidity... Emily, who was Dean's List and honor committee... this horrible stupid woman... But all she said was, "Can I get anyone a drink? Taylor? Emily?" "No, thanks, we're off," Taylor said. "We'll be at the club, Mrs. Atkinson. Nice to have met you, Mr. C'Lanth." "Pleased, I'm sure" Mabel Calucci said coldly. Taylor and Emily left. "I liked the young people Hughes Boyden introduced me to at Princeton," C'Lanth said, almost musingly. "There was about them a sort of... playful ease." Calucci said brusquely, "Not supposed to be easy, is it? Toney school like that. Probably has real high admission standards. Now, George, I really think we got to get down to business. I'm sure the ladies will excuse us." Sarah looked at Mabel Calucci. She saw that the woman was staring at Brandy, now curled in the wing chair on top of the Forbes and Smithsonians, half of which had tumbled to the floor. She knew that Mabel Calucci as surreptitiously tugging at her red satin neckline, which had slipped even lower. She even knew that in a moment Mabel Calucci would say something conciliatory, bright and sweet and cheerful, from lips still pursed like lemons. "I'll come and listen," Sarah said. George looked relieved. Calucci looked annoyed. C'Lanth smiled. "Glad to have you" the alien said. *** When George came back from the short drive to the station, Sarah was already in bed. She sat up against the pillows and watched George undress. George said nothing until he had flung his coat on a chair, loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes. Finally it burst out. "That C'Lanth is a cut-throat." "Oh, I don't know, I thought he was rather amusing." "Amusing?" "I thought of seeing if he'd come down the weekend of the third, when we have the Talcotts and the Hendersons." George turned slowly towards her. "You know how John Talcott is always complaining that no one he meets can ever give him a really good tennis game. And Louise so enjoys talking to people who actually know something about art. Really, George. don't look at me like that it's not such a bizarre idea." "Sarah he's an alien. And you heard how the business talk went, the part of it you stayed for anyway where the devil did you go? Mabel Calucci complained in the car that you never came back to the living room. C'Lanth is going to ruin me if we don't get this deal moving." "Well, wouldn't a chance to get to know him better help that?" Sarah said reasonably. George went on staring at her; after a moment she looked away. He was a dear, but he got so worked up. Unnecessarily, really. After all, they had her money, which was much more than the firm brought in. And when George wrinkled his face like that, he did look like the hardware store man. "It would be more useful to get to know Buddy Calucci better," George said heavily. "He's the one holding the real clout here. Although C'Lanth might " "Oh, really, darling, do come to bed. It's late, and I don't want to argue. You haven't signed any papers yet, after all. Anything could happen." George didn't answer. He finished undressing, climbed into bed, turned out the light. Sarah waited. When a few minutes had passed, she said softly, "You might be a little nicer to me, George. I did just spend an evening for you with those two dreadful people." "I know," George said. She felt him reach for her in the darkness, and she put her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't go back to the living room, darling. Truly I am. But her smugness. And that inane chatter. And those little frizzy dyed curls. And him that eager hard-eyed grin." "I know", George said again. "I did try." "Yes, you did." "And you'll think about having C'Lanth down on the third?" "Might be a good idea," George said sleepily. Sarah snuggled in closer against his shoulder. She was glad George thought she had tried, glad he wasn't angry. Because of course the truth was that she had been rude to those terrible Caluccis, rude with a sort of reverse-English rudeness of not having been polite enough, not having picked up the cues, not having tried at all to enter into their territory. But, really, with some people you just couldn't, and it was no good pretending. Everybody knew that, really. With some people, do what you might, the gap was just too wide.

15. "Bibliographie De Kress Nancy"
Récompenses et prix littéraires de Science-fiction décernés à Nancy Kress :
  • Asimov's Readers' Poll : en 1992, 1994, 1994 et 1997 Hugo Award : en 1992 Nebula Award : en 1985, 1991 et 1997 SF Chronicle Award : en 1992 et 1994 Sturgeon Award : en 1997
Paul Denis
Mise à jour : 29/07/2002.

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New York, Bantam/Spectra, 1996. Ed.: Reprint, 18 x 11 cm. Mass Market Paperback. 0553561871. Lightly dinged wraps. Spine reading creases. Slightly off-square.. Very Good/No Jacket.
Offered for US$ 4.57 by: George Cross Books - Book number: 11015
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17. Crescent Blues Book Views | Nancy Kress: Yanked
Lauren Rabb reviews the 1999 young adult novel.
Nancy Kress: Yanked
(Book One of David Brin's Out of Time Series)

Avon Books (Paperback), ISBN: 0380799685
In the year 2339, humankind is well on its way to creating a utopia. A mysterious alien civilization, the Gift Givers, bequeathed humanity the key to a perfect lifestyle. Unfortunately, the key came in the form of a nine-step puzzle, and the solution to the third step was left on a planet called Jump, at the edge of the universe. Six years ago, a group of space settlers attempted to colonize Jump, but the adults all died on the trip through the t-port. Too late they learned that only humans under the age of 16 can survive t-port space travel. The settlers' failure stranded a group of youngsters on Jump, along with the solution to the third step. To make matters worse, the Panurish (an unfriendly species also seeking the solution to the third step) already occupy Jump. Somehow, a team of teenagers must travel to Jump, retrieve the third key and the youngsters, and get home again without being vaporized by the Panurish. If all this sounds complicated, don't worry. Author Nancy Kress makes it easy for her characters and readers to understand. Her effortless explanations become all the more remarkable when you consider that most of her main characters don't come from the year 2339 but were "yanked" from earlier times and recruited for this mission.

18. Beaker's Dozen | Books | Kress, Nancy | 9780312865375 | Rent Buy Sell Textbook Book Rent Buy Sell Beaker's Dozen by Kress, Nancy - 9780312865375, Price $14.67. Textbooks - Easy. Fast. Cheap!

19. Nano Comes To Clifford Falls - Kress, Nancy
Libro de Kress, Nancy Golden Gryphon Press, U.S. 9781930846500 340p. 39,15 €. Explores the pathos of the human condition in such stories as
Nano Comes to Clifford Falls
  • Kress, Nancy Golden Gryphon Press, U.S. ISBN: 1930846509 ISBN-13: 9781930846500 Entrega de 1 a 15 días contra reembolso por agencia urgente* Explores the pathos of the human condition in such stories as 'My Mother, Dancing,' in which seedlings are planted and those responsible must decide if they will play God with them, or let natural selection progress; or in 'Nano Comes to Clifford Fall ...
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20. Dark Planet: Review Of Beggars And Choosers
A review of the 1994 sequel to Beggars in Spain.
Text 1995 by Dora Knez. Dora is a Canadian writer and a graduate of Clarion 1995. I n Beggars in Spain Nancy Kress gave us a thoughtful exploration of class and wealth in society and the ways in which both are affected by technology, particularly the technology of genetic modification. Beggars and Choosers extrapolates biotechnology even farther in order to continue this exploration. While it is a sequel, Choosers can be read independently of Beggars in Spain . In fact, the question that was central to the preceding novel does not occur explicitly in Choosers : what are the obligations of the wealthy toward the poor? Nevertheless, Choosers is to a great extent the description of a particular answer to this question. Three characters tell the story of Beggars and Choosers: Diana Covington, Billy Washington, and Drew Arlen. Diana is a "donkey," genetically modified before birth to produce greater intelligence and beauty. She belongs to the new working class, the managers of the economy and of the state. Diana is moved by self-disgust to go undercover for the Genetics Standards Enforcement Agency, a kind of FBI, in order to find out what Miranda Sharifi, chief of the SuperSleepless, is up to. Billy is a Liver (a member of the new leisure class) whose needs are provided for by the state (the donkeys) out of an economic surplus generated by the invention of a cheap energy source, Y-energy. Billy is old enough to remember the times before the present system, when the poor had to work hard for very little, yet he is slightly ambivalent about the new way of life.

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