Silverberg, Robert (ed.) - The Fantasy Hall of Fame / Силверберг, Роберт (ред.) - Зал Славы Фэнтези [1983, epub, ENG]

The Masque of the Red Death / Маска Красной смерти by Edgar Allan Poe An Inhabitant of Carcosa / Живший в Каркозе by Ambrose Bierce The Sword of Welleran / Меч Веллерана by Lord Dunsany The Woman of the Wood / Лесные женщины by A. Merritt The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan / Судьба Авузла Вутоквана by Clark Ashton Smith The Valley of the Worm / Долина червя by Robert E. Howard Black God's Kiss / Поцелуй чёрного бога by C. L. Moore The Silver Key / Серебряный Ключ by H. P. Lovecraft Nothing in the Rules / Всё не по правилам by L. Sprague de Camp A Gnome There Was / Жил-был гном by Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore Snulbug / Клоподав by Anthony Boucher The Words of Guru / Слова Гуру by C. M. Kornbluth Homecoming / Возвращение by Ray Bradbury Mazirian the Magician / Волшебник Мазириан by Jack Vance O Ugly Bird! by Manly Wade Wellman The Silken-Swift / Быстрый, как молния, гладкий, как шёлк by Theodore Sturgeon The Golem / Голем by Avram Davidson That Hell-Bound Train / Поезд в ад by Robert Bloch Kings in Darkness / Короли во тьме by James Cawthorn and Michael Moorcock Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes / Красотка Мэгги деньгоочи by Harlan Ellison Gonna Roll the Bones / Побросаю-ка я кости by Fritz Leiber The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas / Уходящие из Омеласа by Ursula K. Le Guin

WHEN MARTIN was a little boy, his Daddy was a Railroad Man. Daddy never rode the high iron, but he walked the tracks for the CB&Q, and he was proud of his job. And every night when he got drunk, he sang this old song about That Hell-Bound Train. Martin didn’t quite remember any of the words, but he couldn’t forget the way his Daddy sang them out. And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in the afternoon and got squeezed between a Pennsy tank-car and an AT&SF gondola, Martin sort of wondered why the Brotherhood didn’t sing the song at his funeral. After that, things didn’t go so good for Martin, but somehow he always recalled Daddy’s song. When Mom up and ran off with a traveling salesman from Keokuk (Daddy must have turned over in his grave, knowing she’d done such a thing, and with a passenger, too!) Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the Orphan Home. And after Martin himself ran away, he used to whistle the song softly at night in the jungles, after the other bindlestiffs were asleep. Martin was on the road for four-five years before he realized he wasn’t getting anyplace. Of course he’d tried his hand at a lot of things—picking fruit in Oregon, washing dishes in a Montana hash-house, stealing hub-caps in Denver and tires in Oklahoma City—but by the time he’d put in six months on the chain-gang down in Alabama he knew he had no future drifting around this way on his own. . . .