Inconspicuous in his half of the room, which was dark, Henry Walters watched his partner fraying down into tatters like a mooring line caught between hull and dock.
Trapped in a protective underground world made of reinforced concrete they can here their enemies chipping away at their walls day after day, year after year, eventually they will get through, then what happens?
Collected here for the first time in this massive omnibus collection are three novels and twenty-two short stories by multiple Hugo and Nebular Award nominated author, Keith Laumer.
The Sea is ugly and monotonous, with only four or five faces, and all of them coarse, but mankind has just decided to deny this ugliness for subconscious reasons.
Besides being born (that is an ordeal, no less an ordeal because you forget it) the worst thing to be gone through is to be a new boy in a small Southern town.
There was an old Simorgyan legend, Fafhrd had insisted, according to which on the seventh day of the seventh moon of the seventh year of the Sevens-Cycle the king of the sea journeyed to the other end of the earth, leaving his opalescently beautiful green wives and faintly silver-scaled slim concubines free to find them lovers if they could .
Three things warned the wizard's apprentice that something was wrong: first the deep-trodden prints of iron-shod hooves along the forest path-he sensed them through his boots before stooping to feel them out in the dark; next, the eerie drone of a bee unnaturally abroad by night; and finally, a faint aromatic odor of burning.
"e;I, the Mind Spider as you name me-the deathless one, the eternally exiled, the eternally imprisoned-or so his overconfident enemies suppose-coming in.
Once upon a time in Lankhmar, City of the Black Toga, in the world of Nehwon, two years after the Year of the Feathered Death, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser parted their ways.
In the Plaza of Dark Delights, which lies seven blocks south of the Marsh Gate and extends from the Fountain of Dark Abundance to the Shrine of the Black Virgin, the shop-lights glinted upward no more brightly than the stars glinted down.
Time traveling, which is not quite the good clean boyish fun it's cracked up to be, started for me when this woman with the sigil on her forehead looked in on me from the open doorway of the hotel bedroom where I'd hidden myself and the bottles and asked me, "e;Look, Buster, do you want to live?
