A delightfully bizzare short story collection from the brilliant mind of John Wyndham, whom Stephen King called “the best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced.”

Take a journey into the extraordinary mind of one of the twentieth century’s most brilliant—and neglected—science fiction and horror writers, with fifteen stories that are bound to get under your skin.

Wyndham was a master of marrying the bizzare with the banal--taking everyday situations and adding a touch of the fantastic to shock and delight. A man on his deathbed is given the opportunity to re-live his life; a Welsh couple receives a mysterious egg from their son traveling abroad; a woman who writes a novel based on her vivid dreams discovers she isn''t the only one experiencing them; a scientist seeks to create "the Perfect Creature"; a London commuter train becomes more and more packed, seemingly headed straight to hell...and more!

These stories are perfect for fans of cozy horror, and for the first time are being published along with Wyndham''s classic murder mystery novella <The Curse of the Burdens<.

Autorentext

John Wyndham

Klappentext

**Sixteen classic stories that are bound to get under your skin, perfect for fans of cozy horror—from the brilliant mind of John Wyndham, whom Stephen King called “the best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced.” (Previously published as Jizzle, and now featuring a bonus novella)

John Wyndham was one of the twentieth century’s most talented—and neglected—science fiction and horror writers. He was a master of marrying the extraordinary with the banal. His thought-provoking and eerily prescient writing took everyday situations and added a touch of the bizarre to challenge the way readers saw the world around them.

In these stories, a man on his deathbed is given the opportunity to relive his life; a Welsh couple receives a mysterious egg from their son who is traveling abroad; a woman writes a novel based on her vivid dreams and discovers she isn’t the only one experiencing them; a scientist seeks to create “the perfect creature”; a London commuter train becomes more and more packed, seemingly headed straight to hell . . . and more! For the first time, this collection now includes Wyndham’s classic murder mystery novella, The Curse of the Burdens, showcasing his mastery of multiple genres.

Leseprobe
Technical Slip

“Prendergast,” said the Departmental Director, briskly, “there’ll be that Contract XB2S23 business arising today. Look after it, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

• 

Robert Finnerson lay dying. Two or three times before he had been under the impression that he might be dying. He had been frightened, and blusterously opposed to the idea; but this time it was different: he did not bluster, for he had no doubt that the time had come. Even so, he was still opposed; it was under marked protest that he acknowledged the imminence of the nonsensical arrangement.

It was so absurd to die at sixty, anyway, and, as he saw it, it would be even more wasteful to die at eighty. A scheme of things in which the wisdom acquired in living was simply scrapped in this way was, to say the least, grossly inefficient. What did it mean? That somebody else would have to go through the process of learning all that life had already taken sixty years to teach him; and then be similarly scrapped in the end. No wonder the race was slow in getting anywhere—­if, indeed, it were getting anywhere—­with this cat-­and-­mouse, ten-­forward-­and-­nine-­back system.

Lying back on one’s pillows and waiting for the end in the quiet, dim room, the whole ground plan of existence appeared to suffer from a basic futility of conception. It was a matter to which some of these illustrious scientists might well pay more attention—­only, of course, they were always too busy fiddling with less important matters; until they came to his present pass, when they would find it was too late to do anything about it.

Since his reflections had revolved thus purposelessly, and several times, upon somewhat elliptical orbits, it was not possible for him to determine at what stage of them he became aware that he was no longer alone in the room. The feeling simply grew that there was someone else there, and he turned his head on the pillow to see who it might be. The thin clerkly man whom he found himself regarding, was unknown to him, and yet, somehow, unsurprising.

“Who are you?” Robert Finnerson asked him.

The man did not reply immediately. He looked about Robert’s own age, with a face, kindly but undistinguished, beneath hair that had thinned and grayed. His manner was diffident, but the eyes which regarded Robert through modest gold-­rimmed spectacles were observant.

“Pray do not be alarmed, Mr. Finnerson,” he requested.

“I’m not at all alarmed,” Robert told him testily. “I simply asked who you are.”

“My name is Prendergast—­not, of course, that that matters—­­”

“Never heard of you. What do you want?”

Prendergast told him modestly: “My employers wish to lay a proposition before you, Mr. Finnerson.”

“Too late now for propositions,” Robert replied shortly.

“Ah, yes, for most propositions, of course, but I think this one may interest you.”

“I don’t see how—­all right, what is it?”

“Well, Mr. Finnerson, we—­that is, my employers—­find that you are—­er—­scheduled for demise on April 20, 1963. That is, of course, tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” said Robert calmly, and with a feeling that he should have been more surprised than he felt. “I had come to much the same conclusion myself.”

“Quite sir,” agreed the other. “But our information also is that you are opposed to this—­er—schedule.”

“Indeed!” repeated Mr. Finnerson. “How subtle! If that’s all you have to tell me, Mr. Pendlebuss——­”

“Prendergast, sir. No, that is just by way of assuring you of our grasp of the situation. We are also aware that you are a man of considerable means; and, well, there’s an old saying that ‘you can’t take it with you,’ Mr. Finnerson.”

Robert Finnerson looked at his visitor more closely.

“Just what are you getting at?” he said.

“Simply this, Mr. Finnerson. My firm is in a position to offer a revision of schedule—­for a consideration.”

Robert was already far enough from his normal for the improbable to have shed its improbability. It did not occur to him to question its possibility. He said, “What revision—­and what consideration?”

“Well, there are several alternative forms,” explained Prendergast, “but the one we recommend for your consideration is our Reversion Policy. It is quite our most comprehensive benefit—introduced originally on account of the large numbers of persons in positions similar to yours who were noticed to express the wish ‘if only I had my life over again.’ ”

“I see,” said Robert, and indeed he did. The fact that he had read somewhere or other of legendary bargains of the kind went a long way to disperse the unreality of the situation. “And the catch is?” he added.

Prendergast allowed a trace of disapproval to show.

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