Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This is the story of a lie that became the most powerful kind of truth. A timeless novel as urgently compelling as War Day or Alas, Babylon, David Brin's The Postman is the dramatically moving saga of a man who rekindled the spirit of America through the power of a dream, from a modern master of science fiction.
He was a survivor--a wanderer who traded tales for food and shelter in the dark and savage aftermath of a devastating war. Fate touches him one chill winter's day when he borrows the jacket of a long-dead postal worker to protect himself from the cold. The old, worn uniform still has power as a symbol of hope, and with it he begins to weave his greatest tale, of a nation on the road to recovery.
general direction. “Run away, little rabbit. Run, or we’ll skin you and have you for supper!” He hefted Gordon’s shotgun, turned his back, and sauntered casually down the trail. The others fell in behind, laughing. Roger Septien gave the mountainside an ironic shrug and a smile, then gathered up his share of the loot and followed his compatriots. They disappeared around a bend in the narrow forest path, but for minutes afterward Gordon heard the softly diminishing sound of someone happily
having children. Mark’s mother must have lived under unusual conditions—one more clue pointing to mysterious happenings in northern Oregon. The light was fading fast. Still hearing nothing, Gordon nudged the horse into motion once more, guiding it with his knees, letting it choose soft ground where it could. He kept a sharp lookout, and stopped often to listen. Some minutes later they heard a shout. The boy tensed. But the source must have been blocks away. Gordon headed in the other direction,
of Cyclops itself. The great machine who had taken responsibility for an entire valley had been rather tentative and distant during their later interviews. There had been no jokes or clever puns, only a smooth and involute seriousness. The coolness had been disappointing after his memory of that prewar day in Minneapolis. Of course his recollection of that other supercomputer long ago might have been colored by time. Cyclops and its Servants had accomplished so much here. He was not one to
leaked around the cracked lid of the insulated container. Another voice was muffled by the door. “Aw, hold your horses. It won’t hurt Cyclops any to wait another minute or two.” At last the door opened and light streamed into the hall, along with the heavy beat of an old rock and roll recording. “What kept you?” “I had a run going! I was up to a hundred thousand in Missile Command, and didn’t want to interrupt—” The closing door cut off the rest of Elmer’s braggadocio. Gordon pushed through
softly, “sweeter than any that would ever come again.” The people were looking at him now, rather than at Powhatan. And it wasn’t just in older faces that eyes glistened wetly. A boy hardly over fifteen sobbed out loud. Gordon spread his arms. “What were those people like, those Americans? You remember how they criticized themselves, often rightly. They were arrogant, argumentative, often shortsighted … “But they did not deserve what happened to them! “They had begun to wield godlike