By Brian Aldiss
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Additional info for Barefoot in the Head (Panther science fiction)
Html sergeant marching marching. It's you I'm going to betray, not him, if I can make it, because he really has some-thing, don't know what. I don't know if he's what he says, but he is a sort of saint. And you did hit him first. You hit him first. You were always free with your fists. You were that. She went downstairs. Either that running dog wore a tie or she was going acid head like the others. “It's a bastard work, a mongrel,” he said. He was eating something out of a can; that was now his way, no meals, only snacks, the fuzzy feeder.
I was an empty man, a materialist, failed Communist, waiting for this time. You have the alternatives now to wake yourselves and kill the old serpent. You can think in new multi-value logics, because that is the pattern of your environment. The fist swung at him. The entire sluggish motion of man aiming it. Angeline's face was taking in the future, traffic-framed, dark of hair, immanent, luminous, freight-ful. It seemed to me I was travelling aimlessly until I got here stone cold from hotter beds too young father I called you from that flooded damned bank.
The world's noise on granite. Another vehicle its brakes squealing ran into the wall within feet of where Charteris and Angeline stood, and crumpled to a prearranged device too quickly, cicatrices chirping open. A series of photographs, potentialities multiplying or cancelling, machines as bulls herded. “So many alternatives,” Charteris said wonderingly. He was interested to see that Brasher had disappeared, bits of him distributed somewhere among the wreckage. He remembered the multiple crash on the autostrada near Milano.