Whates, Ian (ed) - Fables from the Fountain / Уэйтс, Йен (ред) - Сказки из "Фонтана" [2011, EPUB, ENG]

No Smoke Without Fire short fiction by Ian Whates Transients short fiction by Stephen Baxter Forever Blowing Bubbles short story by Ian Watson On the Messdecks of Madness short fiction by Paul Graham Raven The Story Bug short fiction by James Lovegrove "And Weep Like Alexander" / «И возрыдаю, словно Александр...» short story by Neil Gaiman The Ghost in the Machine short fiction by Colin Bruce A Bird in the Hand short fiction by Charles Stross The Hidden Depths of Bogna short fiction by Liz Williams In Pursuit of Chuchunaa short fiction by Eric Brown The Cyberseeds short fiction by Steve Longworth Feathers of the Dinosaur short fiction by Henry Gee Book Wurms short fiction by Andy West The Pocklington Poltergeist short fiction by David Langford The Last Man in Space short fiction by Andrew J. Wilson A Multiplicity of Phaedra Lament short story by Peter Crowther The Girl with the White Ant Tattoo short fiction by Tom Hunter The 9,000,000,001st Name of God short fiction by Adam Roberts

The Fountain had reopened after the recent difficulties. Indeed, Michael said, they had got away lightly. There were properties only a block away that had been reduced to rubble: the older ones burnt to carbonised beams, the newer melted in the heat like giant candles into sluggy heaps of plasconcrete. But the rioting had made a loose knight's-move west across city, and spared the Fountain's neighbourhood. There had been some looting, of course. A whole city doesn't spasm into riotous chaos without some looting. But two windows at the back broken, and a few crates of booze carried away wouldn't have been too bad, if some friendly folk hadn't kicked their way into the bar itself – apparently, to smash up glasses, tip up tables, and then leave, for the spirit bottles were still in their racks, optics in their mouths like baby pacifiers, unmolested. Michael poured a half-dozen whiskies from one of these, and distributed the glasses around the table. Then he returned to his broom, sliding the shards over the floor into neater piles. “Don't you have a Roh for that?” asked Peston. “Broken,” was the laconic reply. . . .