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A Blink of the Screen: Collected Shorter Fiction - Softcover

Buch 8 von 12: Discworld

Pratchett, Terry

 
9780804169219: A Blink of the Screen: Collected Shorter Fiction
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0804169217 ISBN 13: 9780804169219
Verlag: DOUBLEDAY & CO, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

The first career-spanning collection of short fiction by Sir Terry Pratchett—one of the most beloved and bestselling writers of our time—A Blink of the Screen charts the development of Pratchett’s creative vision throughout his prolific career, from his early writings in school to the dizzy mastery of the phenomenally successful Discworld series. Along the way we are introduced to the first published pieces from Pratchett’s stint as a young journalist, the experimental stories that originated his later works, and the lyrics to the national anthem of Ankh-Morpork, among other treats. Here, readers will find new and unfamiliar characters and fictional worlds alongside well-known ones. They will also find adventure, chickens, death, disco, and, actually, some quite disturbing ideas about Christmas, all infused with Pratchett’s inimitable brand of humor and energy.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

TERRY PRATCHETT is the acclaimed creator of the globally bestselling Discworld series, the first of which, The Color of Magic, was published in 1983. In all, he is the author of more than seventy books. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was awarded multiple prizes over the course of his career, including the Carnegie Medal, as well as a knighthood for services to literature. Worldwide sales of his books now stand at more than 85 million (but who’s counting?), and they have been published in thirty-eight languages. He died in 2015.

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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...

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Verlag
DOUBLEDAY & CO
Erscheinungsdatum
2016
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0804169217
ISBN 13 
9780804169219
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
304
Kontakt zum Hersteller
SC
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/

CL MODESTO LAFUENTE 41
Madrid
Madrid
Spanien