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Table of contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER-1-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4-5-6-7
CHAPTER-8-9
CHAPTER-10-11
CHAPTER-12-13-14-15
CHAPTER-16-17
CHAPTER-18-19
CHAPTER-20-21-22
CHAPTER-23-24-25
CHAPTER-26-27-28
CHAPTER-29-30
CHAPTER-31.1
CHAPTER-31.2
CHAPTER-31.3
CHAPTER-32
CHAPTER-33
CHAPTER-34-35-36-37-38
CHAPTER-39-40-41-42
CHAPTER-43-44-45
CHAPTER-46-47
CHAPTER-48
CHAPTER-49-50
CHAPTER-51
CHAPTER-52-53
The Sex Life of the Gods. Michael Knerr. CHAPTER-1-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5-6
CHAPTER-7-8
CHAPTER-9-10
CHAPTER-11-12
CHAPTER-13-14
CHAPTER-15-16
CHAPTER-17-18

Danson who lay asleep on the bed was dressed in blue dress pants and a 

white shirt. The tie had been loosened at his throat and his clothing 

was wrinkled badly. 

 

Suddenly the other Danson opened his eyes and looked at Nick. For a 

moment he appeared to be startled at seeing him, then he smiled. The 

smile erupted in a chuckle that became a laugh. The other Danson's face 

grew large and full, roaring out laughter at Nick until the whole scene 

changed from one of odd curiosity to one of absolute horror, the kind of 

weird horror that can come only from peals of loud, echoing laughter 

rolling through the caverns of the mind. 

 

* * * * * 

 

Nick awoke gasping, his fingers knotted in the sheets of the bed and a 

cold sweat beading out upon his face. His heart hammered in his chest 

like a drum, threatening to leap to his throat at any moment. He looked 

around anxiously for Beth, but the silence of the room reminded him that 

she had gone back to the city and her job. Dawn was breaking and the dim 

light filtered through the unwashed windows. There was little point in 

trying to sleep now. Might as well get his clothes on and try to start 

unraveling a long thread of odd events. 

 

He pulled on his clothes slowly and slid his feet into his shoes, 

wondering where to begin the climb back to himself. It would be bad 

enough for an amnesia victim to regain all his memory if given an 

unlimited length of time - this way, with people closing in on all 

sides, the whole damned thing seemed impossible. 

 

He hooked the last button on his shirt, stuffed it into his pants, and 

headed for the kitchen. He warmed up last night's coffee and it tasted 

like warm sulfuric acid, but it brought him around to full 

consciousness, even if his stomach did object to it. 

 

When he had finished the coffee, he found the library in the den and 

began reading a few of the titles; often, he remembered, a lot could be 

told from a man by his reading habits. There were books by Bridgeman, 

Zaindenburg and Loomis, almost everything on the shelves pertained to 

art in some form or another - except for the last row. There were about 

fifteen science fiction volumes, mostly collections of short stories, 

from Asimov to A.E. van Vogt. He had a fleeting idea to start reading 

the stuff in an effort to determine whether or not his strange dreams 

came from somewhere within the pages, then he rejected it. It would take 

a hell of a long while to even skim through that mass of literature and 

he didn't have the time. 

 

He shoved a copy of H. Beam Piper back onto the shelf and straightened. 

To hell with it. He had the whole house to search, before he started 

fumbling through something as far out as science fiction. He started 


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