Soft Come The Dragons by Dean R Koontz

Author:Dean R Koontz [Koontz, Dean R]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ePub Bud (www.epubbud.com)
Published: 2011-05-14T04:00:00+00:00

A SEASON FOR FREEDOM

Of all the editors I have worked with, Frederik Pohl had the oddest way of buying my stories. When he was editor at Galaxy and Worlds of SF, he bought some 40,000 words of my stories over a two-year period, all of which I was forced to rewrite to please him. The rewriting didn’t bother me, for I had found that editors were usually correct and I was usually mistaken at that early point in my career when I was learning from each page written. But Fred would never come out and plainly ask for a rewrite. He would send the story back with a pleasant note pointing out what was wrong with the piece. Then he would end the note with “… the story would probably please some editor in this new form.” Or from another rejection:… would shape it up well enough, perhaps, to please John Campbell for Analog.” Each time, I rewrote using his suggestions and sent the story back to him, and each time he bought it. It almost seemed as if he considered asking for a rewrite like offering to sell you French postcards, and we always had to whisper the arrangements. But, finally, Fred bought this story straight off for Galaxy. No rewrites! It is the only story from those magazines in this collection, for all the others have seen print in book form elsewhere—thus easily repaying me for the rewriting. Thanks, Fred. One other thing. Now and again, a reader will accuse me of using too much violence in some of my stories. Rest assured, I am no violence junkie. Only an immature nation makes war, and only an immature man has to “prove” his worth with a fist or a gun. When you read “A Season for Freedom,” don’t look only at the violence and wrinkle your nose; violence is a way of life with our nation, and what I wanted to say was: “If we don’t do something about it soon, look what war is going to do to all of our minds… .”

thetheater was a thunder-lizard’s maw gorged with people, the seats jutting in rows of imitation teeth, casting black shadows in the flush of yellow half-light. The screen pulsed with colors, its rectangular orb awash with delusions. The two-dimensional inhabitants of that false, flat reality moved into view before a pounding blue-white surf behind the black and yellow and crimson credits that crawled like well-trained insects up the broad screen, always in perfect time with the tinny music.

And, abruptly, the air was filled with deadly steel bees.

Jacobs slipped from his seat, dragging Anne with him to crouch in the sheltered trough between the rows as darts rang against the metal backing of the chairs. He had his gun out, searching.

Carefully, he raised his head and looked about the theater, open to attack, and spotted the blonde. She was fifteen rows back. She had stripped down the top of her organdy dress to free her breasts, marred by the thin, red surgical lines.

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