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Mac Plus, which made rewriting easier if not pleasurable. Of the many books on the Titanic disaster I consulted for background material, by far the most valuable was Ballard's own The Discovery of the Titanic (Warner/Madison, 1987).

The President sighed. "It will be quite a book. Well, Admiral, it's probably the best course, but let me talk to the CNO before I make a final decision. By the way, what was the name of that diver who was killed?"

When Analog magazine was housed over at Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue, our offices were far from plush. In fact, they were grimy. Years worth of Manhattan soot clung to the walls. The windows were opaque with grime. (What has this to do with Spider Robinson? Patience, friend.)

My sincere appreciation to the following:

I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His mouth would sag open.

Additional reference material included: The Titanic, End of a Dream by Wyn Craig Wade (Rawson Wade Publishers, 1979); The Maiden Voyage by Geoffrey Marcus (Viking, 1969); and Titanic, The Death and Life of a Legend by Michael Davie (Henry Holt, 1986).

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

It is possible that Titanic buffs more expert than I will find technical lapses in this narrative. Yet this is a work of fiction based partially on fact, and I can only ask their indulgence toward one who shares their love of the great liner.

"Admiral, how about the next of kin for the other fellow who died? A similar letter might be in order."

And then came Spider Robinson.

Aaron Priest, agent and old friend, for his usual support, encouragement, and advice.

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in the spanking new Conde Nast Building on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to that dream.)

"Sir," Cornell said softly, "Derek Montague had no living relatives."

Cornell sensed the meeting was over and rose to leave. The President stopped him.

Other excellent research sources were John P. Eaton's and Charles Haas's Titanic-Triumph and Tragedy (W. W. Norton, 1986), the most definitive account of them all, and Walter Lord's two brilliant classics, A Night to Remember (Holt, 1955) and The Night Lives On (William Morrow, 1986).

"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll do that."

Still, despite the cramped quarters and the general dinginess, we managed to put out an issue of Analog each month, and more readers bought it than any other science fiction book, magazine, pamphlet, or cuniform tablet ever published.

"Have someone in your office get me the names and address or addresses of his next of kin. Today. I'd like to write them personal notes."

Other excellent research sources were John P. Eaton's and Charles Haas's Titanic-Triumph and Tragedy (W. W. Norton, 1986), the most definitive account of them all, and Walter Lord's two brilliant classics, A Night to Remember (Holt, 1955) and The Night Lives On (William Morrow, 1986).

And then came Spider Robinson.

I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His mouth would sag open.

John Chase and William Felix for data on gold value and bullion shipments.

To all Titanic buffs, I recommend a work I found not only valuable but stirring: Charles Pellegrino's Her Name, Titanic (McGraw-Hill, 1988).

My sincere appreciation to the following:

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