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robot son by Robert F. Young These were shocking things she said— shocking in their strangeness—contradicting everything he'd ever learned. Robert F. Young (who has just sold to the Post) raises a disturbing possibility here (raised before and which will be raised again) about the future of science. Whether this will prove to be so, we cannot know at this time. The point may be made (and has been made by a friend) that while this is well written, this is not SF. To say so, though, is to limit the scope of SF. Lathehand approached the tek temple warily. It stood on a russet hillside, a row of golden maples curtaining its brusque facade. Above it the sky showed brisk and blue and clear. He shivered. The morning was relatively mild, but the memory of the chill night and the frosty dawn was still with him, and even the warmly rising sun could not drive the memory away. He moved forward slowly, keeping behind a stand of garnet-leaved sumacs. The frost on the grass had transmuted to dew, and the dew seeped through his
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