The horseman had already become an after-image, haloed in the sparks thrown from struck cobblestones.
He drew rein atop the highest hill overlooking theplain, and turned to the rider of the black horse.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"He has not yet arrived."
He regarded the skies and a star fell.
"He will be late."
"Never."
The falling star did not burn out. It grew to the sizeof a dinner plate, a house, and bung in the air, exhalingsouls of suns. It dropped toward the plain.
A lightning-run of green crossed the moonless heavens,and the rider of the pale green horse, whose hooves makeno sound, drew up beside them.
"You are on time."
"Always," he laughed, and it was the sound of a scythemowing wheat.
The ship from Earth settled upon the plain, and thewondering villagers watched.
Who or what did it bear? Why should they sharpentheir scythes?
The four horsemen waited upon the billtop.
THE STAINLESS STEEL LEECH
There came a point when I was turning out lots of shortstories, so many that Cele suggested running two perissue to use up my backlog, with a pen name on thesecond tale. She suggested Harrison Denmark as thenom de typewriter. I agreed and this, my first effort atsomething slightly humorous, appeared under that byline. It never occurred to me that Harry Harrison, livingat the time in Snekkerson, Denmark and author of TheStainless Steel Rat might somehow be assumed to be theauthor. It occurred to Harry, however, and he published a letter disclaiming authorship. • I was not certainhe was convinced when I later told him that it hadnever occurred to me. But it had never occurred to me.
They're really afraid of this place.
During the day they'll clank around the headstones,