Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: December 2013 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #455
Ads: Link
another wide space of only books. She looked about till she saw a sign reading SCIENCE FICTION, and she mouthed the words. Unless all the ambient noise had awakened it, the head would be switched off and thus surprised, which gave her a thrill.
More than a dozen of Richard's titles, multiple copies of most, filled an entire shelf and then some. She crouched before them. This was impressive; she'd had no idea. Another woman was in the aisle, a few steps away, swaying slightly as she stood reading titles. A mountainous, long-bearded man entered the aisle from Karen's other side. He wore a hat that made her think he was a man of the woods, living by his wits in the natural world. She had to stand to let him stride by. She stood and waited, and when the woman—she watched her long enough to see she might be a girl, the face seeming younger the longer she looked—decisively slid a book from the shelf, Karen resumed her crouch and prepared to act.
Times like these try the souls of everybody, she thought, knowing she had gotten that somewhat wrong and that, in any case, the line probably applied to more serious matters than this. Shortly, though, she was alone in the aisle. Karen reached into her bag, pushed aside the concealing sweater and flight attendant jacket, slid her hand under the head, and found she needed two hands for the task. Bringing the head to the lip of the bag, she checked for intruders, then tilted it toward the shelf.
"Richard," she said. "You have to see this."
Under her hand, it whirred and warmed. "Greetings," it said, and she flinched against how loud and strange the voice seemed here.
"We're at the bookstore. These are your books. I brought you to the bookstore. What do you think?"
"Bookstores have given me years of pleasure," it said, the neck wriggling.
"Can't you whisper?"
"That's an interesting thought," it said, just as loud.
"Rrrr," she said, and squeezed the head a little. "Look. They're your books. Can you see them?"
The head continued to fuss.
"Stop moving." It did not. "Please stop moving." She understood that it was looking for her face. "Wait," she said. "Can you read?"
"I've read many books. A lifetime of reading is a life well spent."
"But," she said, and realized her mistake. Why did she think it could read? She turned the face toward her and watched the eyes adjust. "I'll read the titles.
After the World We Knew. Finding Mars. No One Rides This Rocket. Outward Journey.
Oh, they're alphabetical. Which one of those... is one of your books your favorite?"
"The book I'd just written was always my favorite. Then I started another."
"What was the last book you wrote?"
"The last book I wrote was
World Enough But Out of Time."
Two copies. She returned the head to the bag and tugged free one book. For a moment she remained squatting. She'd brought the head all this way. But what else was there to accomplish? When a couple joined her in the aisle, she rose. Bag in one hand, book in the other, she retreated.
Paid, she passed between the panels at the exit and an alarm beeped twice. Even as she looked for what to do, not registering the sweatered man gesturing to her from behind the counter, she thought she would tell them, when they dug through the bag and found the head, "I'm a wigmaker."
The man came around the counter, and she said, "I just paid for this." She pointed into the bag.
"That's okay," he said, his hand signing a blessing to undo the experience. "It happens. Try again."
She did, the alarm sounded, and he said, "Don't worry about it," and she tried to walk in a manner that suggested no haste. Only when she'd reached the escalator to the lower parking level did she wonder at the man's lack of caution. Didn't he know everyone worried about security these days? Wasn't he concerned about what she might have done or what further harm she might cause? Did she really look so obviously above suspicion?
Though no one passing on the sidewalk, or even pressed to the glass, could
More than a dozen of Richard's titles, multiple copies of most, filled an entire shelf and then some. She crouched before them. This was impressive; she'd had no idea. Another woman was in the aisle, a few steps away, swaying slightly as she stood reading titles. A mountainous, long-bearded man entered the aisle from Karen's other side. He wore a hat that made her think he was a man of the woods, living by his wits in the natural world. She had to stand to let him stride by. She stood and waited, and when the woman—she watched her long enough to see she might be a girl, the face seeming younger the longer she looked—decisively slid a book from the shelf, Karen resumed her crouch and prepared to act.
Times like these try the souls of everybody, she thought, knowing she had gotten that somewhat wrong and that, in any case, the line probably applied to more serious matters than this. Shortly, though, she was alone in the aisle. Karen reached into her bag, pushed aside the concealing sweater and flight attendant jacket, slid her hand under the head, and found she needed two hands for the task. Bringing the head to the lip of the bag, she checked for intruders, then tilted it toward the shelf.
"Richard," she said. "You have to see this."
Under her hand, it whirred and warmed. "Greetings," it said, and she flinched against how loud and strange the voice seemed here.
"We're at the bookstore. These are your books. I brought you to the bookstore. What do you think?"
"Bookstores have given me years of pleasure," it said, the neck wriggling.
"Can't you whisper?"
"That's an interesting thought," it said, just as loud.
"Rrrr," she said, and squeezed the head a little. "Look. They're your books. Can you see them?"
The head continued to fuss.
"Stop moving." It did not. "Please stop moving." She understood that it was looking for her face. "Wait," she said. "Can you read?"
"I've read many books. A lifetime of reading is a life well spent."
"But," she said, and realized her mistake. Why did she think it could read? She turned the face toward her and watched the eyes adjust. "I'll read the titles.
After the World We Knew. Finding Mars. No One Rides This Rocket. Outward Journey.
Oh, they're alphabetical. Which one of those... is one of your books your favorite?"
"The book I'd just written was always my favorite. Then I started another."
"What was the last book you wrote?"
"The last book I wrote was
World Enough But Out of Time."
Two copies. She returned the head to the bag and tugged free one book. For a moment she remained squatting. She'd brought the head all this way. But what else was there to accomplish? When a couple joined her in the aisle, she rose. Bag in one hand, book in the other, she retreated.
Paid, she passed between the panels at the exit and an alarm beeped twice. Even as she looked for what to do, not registering the sweatered man gesturing to her from behind the counter, she thought she would tell them, when they dug through the bag and found the head, "I'm a wigmaker."
The man came around the counter, and she said, "I just paid for this." She pointed into the bag.
"That's okay," he said, his hand signing a blessing to undo the experience. "It happens. Try again."
She did, the alarm sounded, and he said, "Don't worry about it," and she tried to walk in a manner that suggested no haste. Only when she'd reached the escalator to the lower parking level did she wonder at the man's lack of caution. Didn't he know everyone worried about security these days? Wasn't he concerned about what she might have done or what further harm she might cause? Did she really look so obviously above suspicion?
Though no one passing on the sidewalk, or even pressed to the glass, could
Similar Books
