Eight, Sir; Seven, Sir; Six, Sir; Five,

Gully Foyle Is My Name And Terra Is My Nation Deep Space Is My Dwelling Place The Stars My Destination

It's Been Suggested That Most Women Fail To Write Significantly Because The Female Mind Is Viscerotonic, And Occupied Almost Exclusively With The Moment-to-moment Reality Of Emotions. If This Is True, Literature's Loss Is Science Fiction's Gain, For Out Of Bounds, Judith Merril's Collection Of Short Stories, Is A Warm And Colorful Rendering Of The Minutiae Of The Future.

The Man Who Gives His Own Decisions Priority Over Society Is A Criminal.

"there's Got To Be More To Life Than Just Living," Foyle Said To The Robot. "then Find It For Yourself, Sir. Don't Ask The World To Stop Moving Because You Have Doubts." "why Can't We All Move Forward Together?" "because You're All Different. You're Not Lemmings. Some Must Lead, And Hope That The Rest Will Follow." "who Leads?" "the Men Who Must... Driven Men, Compelled Men." "freak Men." "you're All Freaks, Sir. But You Always Have Been Freaks. Life Is A Freak. That's Its Hope And Glory."

If A Man's Got Talent And Guts To Buck Society, He's Obviously Above Average. You Want To Hold On To Him. You Straighten Him Out And Turn Him Into A Plus Value. Why Throw Him Away? Do That Enough And All You've Got Left Are The Sheep.