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HENRY KUTTNER The present editor was (and still is) a fan; and almost the first fan letter he ever wrote was to the Weird Tales of the Thirties, attempting to communicate his high excitement at having read a story by a brand-new name in that magazine. The story was a ghastly, shuddery bit of horror; and the author was Henry Kuttner, just beginning, a long way from the heights of competence and creativity he was to attain, but already showing a most individual capacity for stirring the guts of his readers. Henry Kuttner wrote an incredible quantity for more than two decades after that (all good, and much superb) until his tragic death in 1958. Almost the last—and one of the best—of his countless fine science fiction stories is— A Cross of Centuries They called him Christ. But he was not the Man Wh had toiled up the long road to Golgotha five thousan years before. They called him Buddha and Mohammec they called him the Lamb, and the Blessed of God. The called him the Prince of Peace and the Immortal One. His name was Tyrell. He had come up another road now, the steep pat thaf led to the monastery on the mountain, and he stoo for a moment blinking against the bright sunlight. Ii white robe was stained with the ritual black. The girl beside him touched his arm and urged hh gently forward. He stepped into the shadow of the gat way. . Then he hesitated and looked back. The road had led up to a level mountain meadow where the monastery stood, and the meadow was dazzling green with early spring. Faintly, far away, he felt a wrenching sorrow at the thought of leaving all this brightness, but he sensed that things would be better very soon. And the brightness was far away. It was not quite real any more. The girl touched his arm again and he nodded obediently and moved forward, feeling the troubling touch of approaching loss |
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