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The Avram Davidson Treasury

The Avram Davidson Treasury

by Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, Robert Silverberg

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Avram Davidson was one of the great original American writers of this century. He was erudite, cranky, Jewish, wildly creative, and sold most of his wonderful stories to pulp magazines. They are wonderful.

Now his estate and his friends have brought together a definitive collection of his finest work, each story introduced by an SF luminary: writers like


Avram Davidson was one of the great original American writers of this century. He was erudite, cranky, Jewish, wildly creative, and sold most of his wonderful stories to pulp magazines. They are wonderful.

Now his estate and his friends have brought together a definitive collection of his finest work, each story introduced by an SF luminary: writers like Ursula K. Le Guin, William Gibson, Poul Anderson, Gene Wolfe, Guy Davenport, Peter S. Beagle, Gregory Benford, Thomas M. Disch, and dozens of others. This is a volume every lover of fantasy will need to own.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Not merely a treasury, it's a genuine treasure. Some of its pages will carry you away to strange seas and shores, others will show you the marvelous within the merely ordinary, and just about all of them will take your breath away. But that's what magicians do."

—The Washington Post Book World

"The Avram Davidson Treasury may be the most satisfying short-story collection of the decade."—Amazon.com

"Buy this book. it is aply named: a treasure."—Interzone

VOYA - Bonnie Kunzel
According to Silverberg, Davidson was one of the finest short story writers ever to use the English language; Gardner Dozois ranks him with the likes of Saki and John Collier. The stories collected here bear witness to the truth of these statements. Davidson wrote stories in Yiddish until 1954, when his first stories in English appeared. He died in 1993, still writing, after a career that spanned four decades and produced outstanding works in each. During the course of his career he won the Hugo Award (voted on by the fans of science fiction), The Edgar Award for best mystery, the Ellery Queen Award, and three World Fantasy Awards. And as if that were not enough, he was nominated for seven Nebula Awards (voted on by science fiction writers) and another four World Fantasy Awards. Thirty-eight of these stories appear here-all of them award winners, nominated for awards, or chosen to appear in "Best of" collections. Each story is introduced by well-known authors including Ursula K. Le Guin, Harlan Ellison, William Gibson, Peter S. Beagle, Kate Wilhelm, Gene Wolfe, and Alan Dean Foster. The work is arranged by decades: "The Fifties," "The Sixties," "The Seventies," and "The Eighties and Nineties." There are two forewords, one by Silverberg, and one by Davis who at one time was married to Davidson and remained close to him even after she remarried. Afterwords are provided by Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison. In sum, this collection contains mysteries, fantasies, science fiction, and fiction stories that for the most part are brief and to the point. It is a brilliant collection and a loving tribute to an extraordinary author-witty, literate, stylistically challenging, and rewarding to read. VOYA Codes: 5Q 3P S A/YA (Hard to imagine it being better written, Every YA (who reads) was dying to read it yesterday, Senior High-defined as grades 10 to 12 and adults).
Kirkus Reviews
All agree that Davidson (1923þ93) was a gifted and technically accomplished writer with a good ear for dialogue. He won awards in several categories and genres: a Hugo, an Ellery Queen, an Edgar, and a Howard (world fantasy), and he also edited The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, 1962þ64. These 37 tales, arranged in four sections by decade (beginning in the 1950s, ending with the 1980s/þ90s), with each introduced by a more or less famous writer or luminary (such as Gregory Benford, Damon Knight, John Clute, and Ursula K. LeGuin), offer an excellent overview of his output. Many, indeed, are famous, often reprinted, and have appeared in previous anthologies or single-author collections. If some of Davidson's ideas seem familiar today, that's because he invented or reinvented many of them, or adopted an independent and unexpected approach. Some of his most cherished tales, reprinted here: "The Golem," offering Davidson's own slant on the traditional Jewish legend; "Now Let Us Sleep," a devastating commentary on racism; and his most famous yarn, "Or All the Seas with Oysters,"explaining why safety pins and coat hangers disappear. Other immediately recognizable titles include "The Goobers," "Goslin Day," "The Tail-tied Kings," "Take Wooden Indians," "Author, Author," and "Dagon." There are two afterwords that really aren't: Ray Bradbury's is a recycled introduction to a Davidson collection that appeared 25 years ago; and Harlan Ellison's, penned in 1993 after receiving news of Davidson's death, is more revealing of Ellison than of Davidson. Dense, erudite, and literary, these stories seem destined to find a small but highly appreciative audience.

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Tom Doherty Associates
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

My Boy Friend's Name Is Jello


This little story was the science-fiction world's introduction to the art of Avram Davidson. It occupied just four pages of the July, 1954 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, which then was an elegant and fastidious publication edited by the elegant and fastidious Anthony Boucher, a connoisseur of fine wines and opera and mystery stories and fantasy, and his colleague J. Francis McComas. Boucher's brief introduction to the story went like this:

Avram Davidson, scholar and critic, has the most beautiful beard that has ever visited our office, and one of the most attractively wide-ranging minds, full of fascinating lore on arcane and unlikely subjects. For his first fiction outside of specialized Jewish publications, he takes his theme from an offtrail branch of folklore, the baffling rime-games sung by little girls, with distinctive and delightful results.

    Thus the new author was placed perfectly for us as he actually was: the bearded scholar with the wide-ranging off-beat mind. And Avram did the rest, with the dazzling opening paragraph that (while seeming to be bewilderingly diffuse) actually communicates a dozen different significant things about the narrator and his predicament, and then, deftly leading us onward through one circumlocution after another, depositing us less than two thousand words later at the sharply ironic final moment.

    It was all there, right at the outset: the cunning narrative strategy, the mannered prose, the flourish of esoteric erudition, the sly wit, all done up in a four-page marvel of a story. Surely we all saw, right away, that a stream of further masterpieces would follow this introductory tidbit. Surely we did: surely. Oh, Avram, Avram, what a wonder you were!


FASHION, NOTHING BUT FASHION. Virus X having in the medical zodiac its course half i-run, the physician (I refuse to say "doctor" and, indeed, am tempted to use the more correct "apothecary")--the physician, I say, tells me I have Virus Y. No doubt in the Navy it would still be called Catarrhal Fever. They say that hardly anyone had appendicitis until Edward VII came down with it a few weeks before his coronation, and thus made it fashionable. He (the medical man) is dosing me with injections of some stuff that comes in vials. A few centuries ago he would have used herbal clysters.... Where did I read that old remedy for the quinsy ("putrescent sore throat," says my dictionary)? Take seven weeds from seven meads and seven nails from seven steeds. Oh dear, how my mind runs on. I must be feverish. An ague, no doubt.

     Well, rather an ague than a pox. A pox is something one wishes on editors ... strange breed, editors. The females all have names like Lulu Ammabelle Smith or Minnie Lundquist Bloom, and the males have little horns growing out of their brows. They must all be Quakers, I suppose, for their letters invariably begin, "Dear Richard Roe" or "Dear John Doe," as if the word mister were a Vanity ... when they write at all, that is; and meanwhile Goodwife Moos calls weekly for the rent. If I ever have a son (than which nothing is more unlikely) who shows the slightest inclination of becoming a writer, I shall instantly prentice him to a fishmonger or a Master Chimney Sweep. Don't write about Sex, the editors say, and don't write about Religion, or about History. If, however, you do write about History, be sure to add Religion and Sex. If one sends in a story about a celibate atheist, however, do you think they'll buy it?

    In front of the house two little girls are playing one of those clap-handie games. Right hand, left hand, cross hands on bosom, left hand, right hand ... it makes one dizzy to watch. And singing the while:

My boy friend's name is Jello,
He comes from Cincinello,
With a pimple on his nose
And three fat toes;
And that's the way my story goes!

    There is a pleasing surrealist quality to this which intrigues me. In general I find little girls enchanting. What a shame they grow up to be big girls and make our lives as miserable as we allow them, and oft-times more. Silly, nasty-minded critics, trying to make poor Dodgson a monster of abnormality, simply because he loved Alice and was capable of following her into Wonderland. I suppose they would have preferred him to have taken a country curacy and become another Pastor Quiverful. A perfectly normal and perfectly horrible existence, and one which would have left us all still on this side of the looking glass.

    Whatever was in those vials doesn't seem to be helping me. I suppose old Dover's famous Powders hadn't the slightest fatal effect on the germs, bacteria, or virus (viri?), but at least they gave one a good old sweat (ipecac) and a mild, non-habit-forming jag (opium). But they're old-fashioned now, and so there we go again, round and round, one's train of thought like a Japanese waltzing mouse. I used to know a Japanese who--now, stop that. Distract yourself. Talk to the little girls...

    Well, that was a pleasant interlude. We discussed (quite gravely, for I never condescend to children) the inconveniences of being sick, the unpleasantness of the heat; we agreed that a good rain would cool things off. Then their attention began to falter, and I lay back again. Miss Thurl may be in soon. Mrs. Moos (perfect name, she lacks only the antlers) said, whilst bringing in the bowl of slops which the medicine man allows me for victuals, said, My Sister Is Coming Along Later And She's Going To Fix You Up Some Nice Flowers. Miss Thurl, I do believe, spends most of her time fixing flowers. Weekends she joins a confraternity of over-grown campfire girls and boys who go on hiking trips, comes back sunburned and sweating and carrying specimen samples of plant and lesser animal life. However, I must say for Miss Thurl that she is quiet. Her brother-in-law, the bull-Moos, would be in here all the time if I suffered it. He puts stupid quotations in other people's mouths. He will talk about the weather and I will not utter a word, then he will say, Well, It's Like You Say, It's Not The Heat But The Humidity.

    Thinking of which, I notice a drop in the heat, and I see it is raining. That should cool things off. How pleasant. A pity that it is washing away the marks of the little girls' last game. They played this one on the sidewalk, with chalked-out patterns and bits of stone and broken glass. They chanted and hopped back and forth across the chalkmarks and shoved the bits of stone and glass--or were they potshards--"potsie" from potshard, perhaps? I shall write a monograph, should I ever desire a Ph.D. I will compare the chalkmarks with Toltec emblems and masons' marks and the signs which Hindoo holy men smear on themselves with wood ashes and perfumed cow dung. All this passes for erudition.

    I feel terrible, despite the cool rain. Perhaps without it, I should feel worse.

    Miss Thurl was just here. A huge bowl of blossoms, arranged on the table across the room. Intricately arranged, I should say; but she put some extra touches to it, bumming to herself. Something ever so faintly reminiscent about that tune, and vaguely disturbing. Then she made one of her rare remarks. She said that I needed a wife to take care of me. My blood ran cold. An icy sweat (to quote Catullus, that wretched Priapist), bedewed my limbs. I moaned. Miss Thurl at once departed, murmuring something about a cup of tea. If I weren't so weak I'd knot my bedsheets together and escape. But I am terribly feeble.

    It's unmanly to weep....

    Back she came, literally poured the tea down my throat. A curious taste it had. Sassafrass? Bergamor? Mandrake root? It is impossible to say how old Miss Thurl is. She wears her hair parted in the center and looped back. Ageless... ageless...

    I thank whatever gods may be that Mr. Ahyellow came in just then. The other boarder (upstairs), a greengrocer, decent fellow, a bit short-tempered. He wished me soon well. He complained he had his own troubles, foot troubles... I scarcely listened, just chattered, hoping the Thurl would get her hence.... Toes... something about his toes. Swollen, three of them, quite painful. A bell tinkled in my brain. I asked him how he spelt his name. A-j-e-l-l-o. Curious, I never thought of that. Now, I wonder what he could have done to offend the little girls? Chased them from in front of his store, perhaps. There is a distinct reddish spot on his nose. By tomorrow he will have an American Beauty of a pimple.

    Fortunately he and Miss Thurl went out together. I must think this through. I must remain cool. Aroint thee, thou mist of fever. This much is obvious: There are sorcerers about. Sorceresses, I mean. The little ones made rain. And they laid a minor curse on poor Ajello. The elder one has struck me in the very vitals, however. If I had a cow it would doubtless be dry by this time. Should I struggle? Should I submit? Who knows what lies behind those moss-colored eyes, what thoughts inside the skull covered by those heavy tresses? Life with Mr. and Mrs. Moos is--even by itself--too frightful to contemplate. Why doesn't she lay bet traps for Ajello? Why should I be selected as the milk-white victim for the Hymeneal sacrifice? Useless to question. Few men have escaped once the female cast the runes upon them. And the allopath has nothing in his little black bag, either, which can cure.

    Blessed association of words! Allopath--Homeopath--homoios, the like, the same, pathos, feeling, suffering--similia similibus curantur--

    The little girls are playing beneath my window once more, clapping hands and singing. Something about a boy friend named Tony, who eats macaroni, has a great big knife and a pretty little wife, and will always lead a happy life... that must he the butcher opposite; he's always kind to the children.... Strength, strength! The work of a moment to get two coins front my wallet and throw them down. What little girl could resist picking up a dime which fell in front of her? "Cross my palm with silver, pretty gentleman!"-- eh? And now to tell them my tale...

    I feel better already. I don't think I'll see Miss Thurl again for a while. She opened the door, the front door, and when the children had sung the new verse she slammed the door shut quite viciously.

    It's too bad about Ajello, but every man for himself.

    Listen to them singing away, bless their little hearts! I love little girls. Such sweet, innocent voices.

    My boy friend will soon be healthy.

    He shall be very wealthy.

    No woman shall harry

    Or seek to marry;

    Two and two is four, and one to carry!

    It will be pleasant to be wealthy, I hope. I must ask Ajello where Cincihello is.

The Golem


"The Golem" was the second Avram Davidson story that sf readers ever saw. The first was "My Boy Friend's Name Is Jello," which appeared a few months before it in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. The title of "My Boy Friend's Name Is Jello" is memorable, but although I have read the story many times, I never remember anything else about it.

    One of my many theories about short stories is that their titles and first lines ought to be memorable, because if not memorable they will not be remembered, and if not remembered the stories will not be reprinted (because no one can find them). Well, according to this theory it's no wonder that "The Golem" is Davidson's most-reprinted story. It is full of memorable lines; if they were any more memorable than they are, the story would be just a bunch of quotations strung together, as someone said of Hamlet.

    But really "The Golem" is memorable for a different reason: because it is a perfect story. I know this seems like gross hyperbole, but the statement has a literal meaning and is true. There isn't a word in "The Golem" that a sympathetic reader would want to change; one word more would be too many, one less would be too few. There is nothing labored about "The Golem," it does not falter or wamble; it flows like clear syrup down a tablecloth, and by the way it is very funny. One imagines that the author stared at it in a wild surprise.

    He (the author) was twenty-nine or thirty years old, and he had almost forty years of creative triumphs ahead of him. He was then, I take it, living in San Francisco; Anthony Boucher, the editor of F&SF, said he had "the most beautiful beard that has ever visited this office." Later he moved to New York, where I once visited him in a ground-floor apartment with a china cabinet in which there was a half-eaten sandwich. Before that he had been a yeshiva student, a Navy corpsman, and a pioneer in Israel, where he tried to teach the herdsmen to milk their goats from the side, in order to keep the goat-shit out of the milk. (This is the way I remember it, but it may have been sheep.)


THE GRAY-FACED PERSON came along the street where old Mr. and Mrs. Gumbeiner lived. It was afternoon, it was autumn, the sun was warm and soothing to their ancient bones. Anyone who attended the movies in the twenties or the early thirties has seen that street a thousand times. Past these bungalows with their half-double roofs Edmund Lowe walked arm-in-arm with Leatrice Joy and Harold Lloyd was chased by Chinamen waving hatchets. Under these squamous palm trees Laurel kicked Hardy and Woolsey beat Wheeler upon the head with codfish. Across these pocket-handkerchief-sized lawns the juveniles of the Our Gang Comedies pursued one another and were pursued by angry fat men in golf knickers. On this same street--or perhaps on some other one of five hundred streets exactly like it.

    Mrs. Gumbeiner indicated the gray-faced person to her husband.

    "You think maybe he's got something the matter?" she asked. "He walks kind of funny, to me."

    "Walks like a golem," Mr. Gumbeiner said indifferently.

    The old woman was nettled.

    "Oh, I don't know," she said. "I think he walks like your cousin Mendel."

    The old man pursed his mouth angrily and chewed on his pipestem. The gray-faced person turned up the concrete path, walked up the steps to the porch, sat down in a chair. Old Mr. Gumbeiner ignored him. His wife stared at the stranger.

    "Man comes in without a hello, goodbye, or howareyou, sits himself down and right away he's at home.... The chair is comfortable?" she asked. "Would you like maybe a glass tea?"

    She turned to her husband.

    "Say something, Gumbeiner!" she demanded. "What are you, made of wood?"

    The old man smiled a slow, wicked, triumphant smile.

    "Why should I say anything?" he asked the air. "Who am I? Nothing, that's who."

    The stranger spoke. His voice was harsh and monotonous.

    "When you learn who--or, rather, what--I am, the flesh will melt from your bones in terror." He bared porcelain teeth.

    "Never mind about my bones!" the old woman cried. "You've got a lot of nerve talking about my bones!"

    "You will quake with fear," said the stranger. Old Mrs. Gumbeiner said that she hoped he would live so long. She turned to her husband once again.

    "Gumbeiner, when are you going to mow the lawn?"

    "All mankind--" the stranger began.

    "Shah! I'm talking to my husband.... He talks eppis kind of funny, Gumbeiner, no?"

    "Probably a foreigner," Mr. Gumbeiner said, complacently.

    "You think so?" Mrs. Gumbeiner glanced fleetingly at the stranger. "He's got a very bad color in his face, nebbich. I suppose he came to California for his health."

    "Disease, pain, sorrow, love, grief--all are naught to--"

    Mr. Gumbeiner cut in on the stranger's statement.

    "Gall bladder," the old man said. "Guinzburg down at the shule looked exactly the same before his operation. Two professors they had in for him, and a private nurse day and night."

    "I am not a human being!" the stranger said loudly.

    "Three thousand seven hundred fifty dollars it cost his son, Guinzburg told me. `For you, Poppa, nothing is too expensive--only get well,' the son told him."

    "I am not a human being!"

    "Ai, is that a son for you!" the old woman said, rocking her head. "A heart of gold, pure gold." She looked at the stranger. "All right, all right. I heard you the first time. Gumbeiner! I asked you a question. When are you going to cut the lawn?"

    "On Wednesday, odder maybe Thursday, comes the Japaneser to the neighborhood. To cut lawns is his profession. My profession is to be a glazier--retired."

    "Between me and all mankind is an inevitable hatred," the stranger said. "When I tell you what I am, the flesh will melt--"

    "You said, you said already," Mr. Gumbeiner interrupted.

    "In Chicago where the winters were as cold and bitter as the Czar of Russia's heart," the old woman intoned, "you had strength to carry the frames with the glass together day in and day out. But in California with the golden sun to mow the lawn when your wife asks, for this you have no strength. Do I call in the Japaneser to cook for you supper?"

    "Thirty years Professor Allardyce spent perfecting his theories. Electronics, neuronics--"

    "Listen, how educated he talks," Mr. Gumbeiner said, admiringly. "Maybe he goes to the University here?"

    "If he goes to the University, maybe he knows Bud?" his wife suggested.

    "Probably they're in the same class and he came to see him about the homework, no?"

     "Certainly he must be in the same class. How many classes are there? Five in ganzen: Bud showed me on his program card." She counted off on her fingers. "Television Appreciation and Criticism, Small Boat Building, Social Adjustment, The American Dance ... The American Dance--nu, Gumbeiner--"

    "Contemporary Ceramics," her husband said, relishing the syllables. "A fine boy, Bud. A pleasure to have him for a boardner."

    "After thirty years spent in these studies," the stranger, who had continued to speak unnoticed, went on, "he turned from the theoretical to the pragmatic. In ten years' time he had made the most titanic discovery in history: he made mankind, all mankind, superfluous: he made me."

    "What did Tillie write in her last letter?" asked the old man.

    The old woman shrugged.

    "What should she write? The same thing. Sidney was home from the Army, Naomi has a new boy friend--"

    "He made ME!"

    "Listen, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is," the old woman said; "maybe where you came from is different, but in this country you don't interrupt people the while they're talking.... Hey. Listen--what do you mean, he made you? What kind of talk is that?"

    The stranger bared all his teeth again, exposing the too-pink gums.

    "In his library, to which I had a more complete access after his sudden and as yet undiscovered death from entirely natural causes, I found a complete collection of stories about androids, from Shelley's Frankenstein through Capek's R.U.R. to Asimov's--"

    "Frankenstein?" said the old man, with interest. "There used to be Frankenstein who had the soda-wasser place on Halstead Street: a Litvack, nebbich."

    "What are you talking?" Mrs. Gumbeiner demanded. "His name was Frankenthal, and it wasn't on Halstead, it was on Roosevelt."

    "--clearly shown that all mankind has an instinctive antipathy towards androids and there will be an inevitable struggle between them--"

    "Of course, of course!" Old Mr. Gumbeiner clicked his teeth against his pipe. "I am always wrong, you are always right. How could you stand to be married to such a stupid person all this time?"

    "I don't know," the old woman said. "Sometimes I wonder, myself. I think it must be his good looks." She began to laugh. Old Mr. Gumbeiner blinked, then began to smile, then took his wife's hand.

    "Foolish old woman," the stranger said; "why do you laugh? Do you not know I have come to destroy you?"

    "What!" old Mr. Gumbeiner shouted. "Close your mouth, you!" He darted from his chair and struck the stranger with the flat of his hand. The stranger's head struck against the porch pillar and bounced back.

    "When you talk to my wife, talk respectable, you hear?"

    Old Mrs. Gumbeiner, cheeks very pink, pushed her husband back in his chair. Then she leaned forward and examined the stranger's head. She clicked her tongue as she pulled aside a flap of gray, skin-like material.

    "Gumbeiner, look! He's all springs and wires inside!"

    "I told you he was a golem, but no, you wouldn't listen," the old man said.

    "You said he walked like a golem."

    "How could he walk like a golem unless he was one?"

    "All right, all right.... You broke him, so now fix him."

    "My grandfather, his light shines from Paradise, told me that when MoHaRaL--Moreynu Ha-Rav Low--his memory for a blessing, made the golem in Prague, three hundred? four hundred years ago? he wrote on his forehead the Holy Name."

    Smiling reminiscently, the old woman continued, "And the golem cut the rabbi's wood and brought his water and guarded the ghetto."

    "And one time only he disobeyed the Rabbi Low, and Rabbi Low erased the Shem Ha-Mephorash from the golem's forehead and the golem fell down like a dead one. And they put him up in the attic of the shule and he's still there today if the Communisten haven't sent him to Moscow.... This is not just a story," he said.

    "Avadda not!" said the old woman.

    "I myself have seen both the shule and the rabbi's grave," her husband said, conclusively.

    "But I think this must be a different kind golem, Gumbeiner. See, on his forehead: nothing written."

    "What's the matter, there's a law I can't write something there? Where is that lump clay Bud brought us from his class?"

    The old man washed his hands, adjusted his little black skullcap, and slowly and carefully wrote four Hebrew letters on the gray forehead.

    "Ezra the Scribe himself couldn't do better," the old woman said, admiringly. "Nothing happens," she observed, looking at the lifeless figure sprawled in the chair.

    "Well, after all, am I Rabbi Low?" her husband asked, deprecatingly. "No," he answered. He leaned over and examined the exposed mechanism. "This spring goes here ... this wire comes with this one ..." The figure moved. "But this one goes where? And this one?"

    "Let be," said his wife. The figure sat up slowly, and rolled its eyes loosely.

    "Listen, Reb Golem," the old man said, wagging his finger. "Pay attention to what I say--you understand?"


    "If you want to stay here, you got to do like Mr. Gumbeiner says."

    "Do-like-Mr.-Gumbeiner-says ..."

    "That's the way I like to hear a golem talk. Malka, give here the mirror from the pocketbook. Look, you see your face? You see on the forehead, what's written? If you don't do like Mr. Gumbeiner says, he'll wipe out what's written and you'll be no more alive."

    "No-more-alive ..."

    "That's right. Now, listen. Under the porch you'll find a lawnmower. Take it. And cut the lawn. Then come back. Go."

    "Go ..." The figure shambled down the stairs. Presently the sound of the lawnmower whirred through the quiet air in the street just like the street where Jackie Cooper shed huge tears on Wallace Beery's shirt and Chester Conklin rolled his eyes at Marie Dressler.

    "So what will you write to Tillie?" old Mr. Gumbeiner asked.

    "What should I write?" old Mrs. Gumbeiner shrugged. "I'll write that the weather is lovely out here and that we are both, Blessed be the Name, in good health."

    The old man nodded his head slowly, and they sat together on the front porch in the warm afternoon sun.

Meet the Author

Avram Davidson was born in Yonkers, New York, in 1923. After spending some time at New York University, he served in the Marines from 1942 till 1946—and again saw action during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. For two years in the early 1960s, Davidson edited Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine. He earned awards and accolades throughout his life for his SF writing, including the Hugo Award, the Edgar Award, the Ellery Queen Award, and three World Fantasy Awards. Davidson died in 1993.

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