In nineteen-fourteen, it was enemy aliens. In nineteen-thirty, it was Wobblies. In nineteen-fifty-seven, it was fellow-travelers.And, in nineteen seventy-one, Kenneth J. Malone rolled wearily out of bed wondering what the hell it was going to be now. One thing, he told himself, was absolutely certain: it was going to be terrible. It always was. (1962 Hugo Award Nominee.)
