CHAPTER FOURIt was nonsense, all right. Utterly impossible, but there it was. What had been Harry Shulman, a shrill-voiced, nervous little guy who took his science fiction seriously, was now a flattened, gory mess rivaling anything I’d seen in the war.
He was less than a dozen feet from the bench where we had sat talking about his fanzine, or whatever he called it, perhaps an hour or so earlier. Face down on the ground, the best description I could give would be to repeat what Art Roget had said—“He’s squashed all over, like he fell from a tall building.” I doubted that there was a whole bone left in his body.
I turned my face away as quickly as the next one.
James Maddigan was standing behind me, his eyes popping and his jowls quivering. He opened his mouth a couple of times as though
