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Martindale s hand in hers.
Reaching out, to grasp his hand, voluntarily. I love Helga, I am sure of that,
but I cannot make sense of my other emotions;
fear, jealousy, resentment, hope, excitement. She was touching him. Did she
do it because she wanted to go through the portal, wanted it so much
that every fear was insignificant? Or had she, after thirty years, finally
found someone whom she could touch without cringing and loathing?
The pilot has arrived. My glass is empty. Tomorrow I will know.
NANCY KRESS
Nancy Kress is the author of twenty-one books: thirteen novels of science
fiction or fantasy, one young-adult novel, two thrillers, three story
collections, and two books on writing. Her books include
Probability Space
the conclusion of a trilogy that began with
Probability Moon and
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Probability Sun
and
Crossfire
. The trilogy concerns quantum physics, a space war, and the nature of
reality.
Crossfire, set in a different universe, explores various ways humanity might
coexist with aliens, even though mankind never understands either them or
itself very well. Her latest novel, Nothing Human, is set on a bleak future
earth, where children have to be genetically engineered and the arrival of an
alien race brings with it the frightening thought that humanity s next
generation may not be human at all.
Her short fiction has won three Nebulas: in 1985 for Out of All Them Bright
Stars, in 1991 for the novella version of Beggars in
Spain (which also won a Hugo), and in 1998 for The Flowers of Aulit
Prison. Her work has been translated into Swedish, French, Italian,
German, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, Croatian, Lithuanian, Romanian, Japanese,
and Russian. She is also the monthly Fiction columnist for
Writer s Digest magazine, and is a regular teacher at the Science Fiction and
Fantasy Clarion Writers Workshop.
In The Price of Oranges, the epitome of a humanist science-fiction story,
time travel isn t through hundreds or thousands of years it begins and ends in
the twentieth century. And yet it is easy to understand the poor traveler s
bewilderment at the events that have happened in the time that is skipped
during his travels, events that are yet to come in his own time, which may be
the most fearful idea of all.
THE PRICE OF ORANGES
by Nancy Kress
I m worried about my granddaughter, Harry Kramer said, passing half of his
sandwich to Manny Feldman. Manny took it eagerly. The sandwich was huge, thick
slices of beef and horseradish between fresh slabs of crusty bread. Pigeons
watched the park bench hopefully.
Jackie. The granddaughter who writes books, Manny said. Harry watched to see
that Manny ate. You couldn t trust
Manny to eat enough; he stayed too skinny. At least in Harry s
opinion. Manny, Jackie the world, Harry sometimes thought, had all grown
too skinny when he somehow hadn t been looking. Skimpy. Stretch-feeling.
Harry nodded to see horseradish spurt in a satisfying stream down Manny s
scraggly beard.
Jackie. Yes, Harry said.
So what s wrong with her? She s sick? Manny eyed Harry s strudel, cherry
with real yeast bread. Harry passed it to him.
Harry, the whole thing? I couldn t.
Take it, take it, I don t want it. You should eat. No, she s not sick. She s
miserable. When Manny, his mouth full of strudel, didn t answer, Harry put a
hand on Manny s arm.
Miserable.
Manny swallowed hastily. How do you know? You saw her this week?
No. Next Tuesday. She s bringing me a book by a friend of hers. I know from
this. He drew a magazine from an inner pocket of his coat. The coat was thick
tweed, almost new, with wooden buttons. On the cover of the glossy
magazine a woman smiled contemptuously. A woman with hollow, starved-looking
cheeks who obviously didn t get enough to eat either.
That s not a book, Manny pointed out.
So she writes stories, too. Listen to this. Just listen. I stood in my
backyard, surrounded by the false bright toxin-fed green, and realized that
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the earth was dead. What else could it be, since we humans swarmed upon it
like maggots on carrion, growing our hectic gleaming molds, leaving our
slime trails across the senseless surface? Does that sound like a
happy woman?
Hoo boy, Manny said.
It s all like that. Don t read my things, Popsy, she says. You re not in
the audience for my things. Then she smiles without ever once showing her
teeth. Harry flung both arms wide. Who else should be in the
audience but her own grandfather?
Manny swallowed the last of the strudel. Pigeons fluttered angrily. She never
shows her teeth when she smiles? Never?
Never.
Hoo boy, Manny said. Did you want all of that orange?
No, I brought it for you, to take home. But did you finish that whole half a
sandwich already?
I thought I d take it home, Manny said humbly. He showed Harry the
tip of the sandwich, wrapped in the thick brown butcher paper,
protruding from the pocket of his old coat.
Harry nodded approvingly. Good, good. Take the orange, too. I brought it for
you.
Manny took the orange. Three teenagers carrying huge shrieking radios
sauntered past. Manny started to put his hands over his ears, received a look
of dangerous contempt from the teenager with green hair, and put his hands on
his lap. The kid tossed an empty beer bottle onto the pavement before
their feet. It shattered. Harry scowled fiercely but Manny stared
straight ahead. When the cacophony had passed, Manny said, Thank you for the
orange. Fruit, it costs so much this time of year.
Harry still scowled. Not in 1937.
Don t start that again, Harry.
Harry said sadly, Why won t you ever believe me? Could I afford to bring all
this food if I got it at 1988 prices? Could I
afford this coat? Have you seen buttons like this in 1988, on a new coat? Have
you seen sandwiches wrapped in that kind of paper since we were young? Have
you? Why won t you believe me?
Manny slowly peeled his orange. The rind was pale, and the orange had seeds.
Harry. Don t start.
But why won t you just come to my room and ?
see
Manny sectioned the orange. Your room. A cheap furnished room in a Social
Security hotel. Why should I go? I know what will be there. What will be there
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