"Judith Merril - Out of Bounds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Merril Judith)

say it in powerful terms—human terms—is what she can do about what is happening around her; and
that she feels it is worth doing with all that she knows best and feels most deeply—motherhood,
childbirth, love, fear, and a uniquely vivid femaleness.
Read the story and the Writer with these things in mind, and then contemplate the fact that this was
Judith Merril's very first sale, and perhaps you'll understand why those of us who knew her, as it were,
before she was born, knew that she was a Writer.
What else is in store for you? There's PEEPING TOM, one of the many stories which result from the
author's profound and informative interest in the peripheral powers of the mind—and a bit about the
powers of the body as well, all tucked in with a neat twist which demonstrates (if I may reach in the box
for another metaphor) that a good laugh must of necessity have teeth in it.
And there's THE LADY WAS A TRAMP. Here's technological science fiction as be-gadgetted as a
radar parts warehouse, plotted like a problem in astronautics—and all, all about people; but I mean in the
saltiest possible terms.
And WHOEVER YOU ARE—again the intricately plotted future world—space ships, alien
invasion—war, weapons, death—and oh, the most poignant message! Did a science fiction story ever
make you cry? No?
Then, CONNECTION COMPLETED—a brief and very real adventure in the here-and-now—a
couple of uncertain and wonderstruck people who know something about each other which they can't be
sure of.
And if you've never read DEAD CENTER—I envy you the first contact. This was the story Martha
Foley chose for one of her annual "best" anthologies. You'll see why.
Finally, DEATH CANNOT WITHER. This is the only true "fantasy" story in the book, in the sense
that one of the characters is a ghost. Ghost or not, he's real —by any test you can think of—and this
concluding tale has as important things to say about life and love, and says them as brilliantly, as the
others.
The whole thing only goes to show, in other words, that Judith Merril, editor, anthologist, teacher,
parent, is a Writer. Which, of course, I knew all along.
Theodore Sturgeon
Woodstock, New York
January, 1960


That Only A Mother
Margaret reached over to the other side of the bed where Hank should have been. Her hand
patted the empty pillow, and then she came altogether awake, wondering that the old habit should
remain after so many months. She tried to curl up, cat-style, to hoard her own warmth, found she
couldn't do it any more, and climbed out of bed with a pleased awareness of her increasingly clumsy
bulkiness.
Morning motions were automatic. On the way through the kitchenette, she pressed the button that
would start breakfast cooking—the doctor had said to eat as much breakfast as she could—and tore
the paper out of the facsimile machine. She folded the long sheet carefully to the "National News"
section, and propped it on the bathroom shelf to scan while she brushed her teeth.
No accidents. No direct hits. At least none that had been officially released for publication. Now,
Maggie, don't get started on that. No accidents. No hits. Take the nice newspaper's word for it.
The three clear chimes from the kitchen announced that breakfast was ready. She set a bright
napkin and cheerful colored dishes on the table in a futile attempt to appeal to a faulty morning appetite.
Then, when there was nothing more to prepare, she went for the mail, allowing herself the full pleasure
of prolonged anticipation, because today there would surely be a letter.
There was. There were. Two bills and a worried note from her mother:
"Darling, why didn't you write and tell me sooner? I'm thrilled, of course, but, well one hates to