Altri libri che potrebbero interessarti

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  Dracula's Secret

  Bram Stoker

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  One night, Jonathan Harker is dropped off at a Transylvanian castle to deliver a mysterious package to an even more mysterious host. Who—or what—is this Count Dracula?

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  Fighter Pilots

  Clara Cella

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  Take flight with the pilots who keep both the skies and land safe. Young readers will explore their careers, the thrilling technology they use, and the dangers fighter pilots face every day. Detailed diagrams and colorful photographs will engage readers with the text.

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  William Wilberforce - Take up...

  Janet Benge, Geoff Benge

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  For two hundred years, British slave ships plied in the Middle Passage, taking African men, women, and children to their doom. Ending slavery in the mighty British Empire seemed like an impossible dream, but once William Wilberforce resolved to represent the abolitionists in Parliament, he would fight to the bitter end - for nearly half a century - to achieve that goal. Together with a community of dynamic reformers, Wilberforce struggled to rid his nation of evil and to give dignity and freedom to all people - slave and slave trader, poor and powerful. His example continues to inspire others to use their gifts and influence to do good against the odds.

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  The Nut Near the Hut

  Marv Alinas

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  A child attempts to find the owner of a lost nut. This simple story for beginning readers teaches the "ut" sound through rhyming text and bright, original illustrations. Additional features to aid in comprehension include a word list for review, a note to parents and educators, and an introduction to the author and illustrator.

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  Quarantined Species - Too Cute...

  J. F. Bone

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  Quarantined Species by J. F. Bone - The Venusian horgels were cute, clever, intelligent. They made perfect pets. They were lovable. – But that was the big trouble. They were much, much too lovable! 
  "Did you ever own a Thompson asked. Hе leaned forward, a small gray man in his late sixties, and peered at his visitor through old fashioned bifocals across the breadth of desk which separated them. The young man standing before the desk fidgeted impatiently as Thompson looked down at the interview card which read "Edward Farnsworth,–Agent, Worldwide Shows", and scratched the ears of the big Siamese cat sitting on his lap. The cat looked up with incurious blue eyes, regarded Farnsworth with a peculiarly dispassionate starе. stretched, yawned, and closed 80 his eyes again. It was perfectly apparent that the tall swarthy visitor was a matter of complete disinterest. "Now take Cato, here," Thompson continued. "He's a fine specimen of a cat. Have you owned anything like him?"  
  "Once," Farnsworth said. "When I went to Venus. But I don't see what this has to do with my business with you. All I want is a simple answer. Do or do I not get permission to import a pair of Venusian horgels?"  
  "You do not," Thompson said succinctly.  
  "This makes the fourth time," Farnsworth sighed. "So I'll have to go to higher authority, I suppose."  
  "There is no higher authority, son. This is the end of the line."

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  Don't Look Now - A Third Eye on...

  Henry Kuttner

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  Don't Look Now by Henry Kuttner - That man beside you may be a Martian. They own our world, but only a few wise and far-seeing men like Lyman know it! 
  The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than the drink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention to Lyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhaps fifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deep swallow. 
  “Don’t look now,” Lyman said. 
  The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glass higher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth. He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill. Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman. 
  “Don’t look at what?” he asked. 
  “There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking rather glazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?” 
  The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered. “See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste and reluctant interest. “Who went out?” 
  “What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t you listening?” 
  “Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talking about—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—” 
  “Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G. knew—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? He couldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fiction rather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.” 
  “Knew what?”

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