A Blink of the Screen: Collected short stories from the bestselling author of the Discworld series - Softcover

Buch 8 von 12: Discworld

Pratchett, Sir Terry

 
9780552163330: A Blink of the Screen: Collected short stories from the bestselling author of the Discworld series
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0552163333 ISBN 13: 9780552163330
Verlag: Corgi, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

A must-have collection of shorter fiction from the pen of Sir Terry Pratchett, award-winning and bestselling author of the phenomenally successful Discworld novels.

A brilliant collection of short stories and short form fiction from the pen of one of the world's best-loved authors. A Blink of the Screen charts the course of Pratchett's long writing career: from his schooldays through to his first writing job on the Bucks Free Press; to the origins of his debut novel, The Carpet People; and on again to the dizzy mastery of the Discworld series.

Here are characters both familiar and yet to be discovered; abandoned worlds and others still expanding; adventure, chickens, death, disco and, actually, some quite disturbing ideas about Christmas, all of it shot through with his inimitable brand of humour.

With an introduction by Booker Prize-winning author A.S. Byatt, illustrations by the late Josh Kirby and drawings by the author himself, this is a book to treasure.

Front cover may vary.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Terry Pratchett was the acclaimed creator of the global bestselling Discworld series, the first of which, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983. In all, he was the author of over fifty bestselling books which have sold over 100 million copies worldwide. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal. He was awarded a knighthood for services to literature in 2009, although he always wryly maintained that his greatest service to literature was to avoid writing any.

www.terrypratchettbooks.com

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Hades Business

Science Fantasy magazine, ed. John Carnell, no. 60, vol. 20, August 1963. An earlier version was published in the Technical Cygnet, the High Wycombe Technical High School magazine.

Argh, argh, argh . . . if I put my fingers in my ears and go “lalalala” loudly I won’t hear you read this story.

It’s juvenile. Mind you, so was I, being thirteen at the time. It’s the first thing I ever wrote that got published. In fact it’s the first thing I ever wrote with the feeling that I was writing a real story.

It began as a piece of homework. The ­En­glish teacher gave me twenty marks out of twenty for it, and put it in the school magazine. The kids liked it. I was a writer.

And this was a big deal, because I ­hadn’t ­really been anything up until then. I was good at ­En­glish. At everything else I was middling, one of those kids that don’t catch the teacher’s eye and are very glad of it. I was even bad at sports, except for the one wonderful term when they let us play hockey, when I was bad and very dangerous.

But the other kids had liked it. I’d sniffed blood.

There were three, yes, three professional sf and fantasy magazines published in the UK in those days. Unbelievable, but true. I persuaded my aunt, who had a typewriter, to type it out for me, and I sent it to John Carnell, who edited all three. The nerve of the kid.

He accepted it.

Oh boy.

The £14 he paid was enough to buy a ­second-­hand Imperial 58 typewriter from my typing teacher (my mother had decided that I ought to be able to do my own typing, what with being a writer and everything) and, as I write, it seems to me that it was a very good machine for fourteen quid and I just ­wonder if Mum and Dad ­didn’t make up the difference on the quiet.

Fortunately, before I could do too much damage with the thing, study and exams swept me up and threw me out into a job on the local paper, where I learned to write properly or, at least, journalistically.

I’ve ­reread the story and my fingers have itched to strip it down, give it some pacing, scramble those clichés, and, in short, rewrite it from the bottom up. But that would be silly, so I’m going to grit my teeth instead.

Go ahead, read.

I can’t hear you! Lalalalalalala!


Crucible opened his front door and stood rooted to the doormat.

Imagine the interior of a storm cloud. Sprinkle liberally with ash and garnish with sulphur to taste. You now have a rough idea as to what Crucible’s front hall resembled.

The smoke was coming from under the study door. Dimly remembering a film he had once seen, Crucible clapped a hand­kerchief to his nose and staggered to the kitchen. One bucket of water later, he returned. The door would not budge. The phone was in the study, so as to be handy in an emergency. Putting down the pail, Crucible applied his shoulder to the door, which remained closed. He retreated to the opposite wall of the hall, his eyes streaming. Gritting his teeth, he charged.

The door opened of its own accord. Crucible described a graceful arc across the room, ending in the fireplace, then everything went black, literally and figuratively, and he knew no more.


A herd of elephants were doing the square dance, in clogs, on Crucible’s head. He could see a hazy figure kneeling over him.

“Here, drink this.”

Ah, ­health-­giving ­joy-­juice! Ah, invigorating ­stagger-­soup! Those elephants, having changed into slippers, were now dancing a sedate waltz: the whiskey was having the desired effect. Crucible opened his eyes again and regarded the visitor.

“Who the devil are you?”

“That’s right!”

Crucible’s head hit the grate with a hollow clang!

The Devil picked him up and sat him in an armchair. Crucible opened one eye.

The Devil was wearing a sober black suit, with a red carnation in the buttonhole. His thin waxed moustachios, combined with the minute beard, gave him a dignified air. A cloak and collapsible top hat were on the table.

Crucible had known it would happen. After ten years of prising cash from the unsuspecting businessman, one was bound to be caught by Nemesis. He rose to his feet, brushing the soot from his clothes.

“Shall we be going?” he asked mournfully.

“Going? Where to?”

“The Other Place, I suppose.”

“The Other ­Pl—­? Oh, you mean home! Good ­Heav—­ oops! ­pardon ­me—­Hell! no! No one’s come Down There for nearly two thousand years. Can’t think why. No, I have come to you because I need some help Down There; the Hell business is just not ­paying—­no more lost souls. Only chap ­that’s come Down There for the last two thousand years was a raving nit called Dante; went away with quite the wrong impression. You ought to have heard what he said about me!”

“I did read something about it somewhere.”

“Indeed? Bad publicity for me, that. ­That’s where you come in.”

“Oh?” Crucible pricked up his ears.

“Yes, I want you to advertise Hell. Clumsy! You’ve spilt your drink all over the carpet.”

“W-­why me?” croaked Crucible.

“You are the owner of the Square Deal Advertising Company, are you not? We want you to make the public conscious, ­Hell-­wise. Not for eternal damnation, of course. Just day trips, etcetera, Grand Tour of Hell, and all that.”

“And if I refuse?”

“What would you say to ten thousand pounds?”

“Good-bye.”

“Twenty thousand?”

“Hmm. Aren’t I supposed to give you some tasks; ­sand ­ropes and all that?”

The Devil looked angry.

“Forty thousand and ­that’s my last offer. Besides”—the Devil pressed the tips of his fingers together and smiled at the ceiling—“there are some rather incriminating facts about the ­Payne-­Smith Products case, which we could make public?”

“Now you’re speaking my language. Forty thousand pounds and hush about the P and S case?”

“Yes.”

“Done.”

“I’m so glad you see it my way,” said the Devil. Crucible seated himself behind his mahogany desk and took out a pad. He indicated a polished silver box.

“Cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

Crucible took a cigarette himself and felt for his lighter. Suddenly, a thought struck him.

“How do I know you are Old Nick?”

The Devil shuddered. “Please! Nicholas Lucifer to you. Well, I know about the P and S case, don’t I?”

Crucible’s eyes gleamed.

“You may be some ­smart-­aleck Dick. Convince me. Go on, ­convince me!”

“Okay, you asked for it. By the way, that gun in your ­left-­hand pocket would be useless against me.” The Devil leaned nonchalantly, extending a finger ­towards Crucible.

“See? You’re a phoney, a low ­do—­”

Crack!

A bolt of lightning shot across the room. The end of Crucible’s cigarette glowed.

“I—­I—­I’m convinced!”

“So glad.”

Crucible became his old self.

“Let’s get down...

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Verlag
Corgi
Erscheinungsdatum
2013
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0552163333
ISBN 13 
9780552163330
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
EDITIONS GALLIMARD
ufficio.anagrafiche@meli.it

Via Verdi, 8.
Assago Milano
20090
Italien

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