The Stone trembled and threw herself outward bound, toward Saturn. In her train followed hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands of thousands of restless, rolling Stones . . . to Saturn . . . to Uranus, to Pluto . . . rolling on out to the stars . . . outward bound to the ends of the Universe.

Why don't they make more science fiction movies? The answer to any question starting, Why don't they- is almost always, Money.

The shamans are forever yacking about their snake oil miracles. I prefer the real McCoy, a pregnant woman.

Come Judgment Day, we may find that Mumbo Jumbo the God of the Congo was the Big Boss all along.

Around the time of the Terran Caesar Augustus, a Martian artist had been composing a work of art. It could have been called a poem, a musical opus, or a philosophical treatise; it was a series of emotions arranged in tragic, logical necessity. Since it could be experienced by a human only in the sense in which a man blind from birth might have a sunset explained to him, it does not matter which category it be assigned.

Being a mother is an attitude, not a biological relation.

What a wonderful world it is that has girls in it!