Jack Williamson's new novel, The Stonehenge Gate, is out, and he insists it is his last.

I learn this from an article bobhowe points me toward, in the Albuquerque Tribune. It's a delightful piece to read (despite the fact that one paragraph is worded carelessly enough that you might assume there have only ever been two Grand Masters named by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America—Williamson and Robert Heinlein).

Part of the reason the article is so delightful, of course, is that Williamson, at 97, has been writing since nearly the dawn of modern science fiction. His first short story was published 77 years ago, in 1928. He was one of my earliest SF reading discoveries, as well; a family friend gave me a copy of The Legion of Space when I was at that impressionable age. I had the honor of joining him and six or eight other folks for breakfast one morning at the 1997 WorldCon in San Antonio, and I don't think I could have been more awed had I been sitting there with God. I don't think I said two words. If I have a writing career half as long as his, I'll count myself fortunate. Even if he's really done, it's a wonder of the universe that he's been doing it so long and is still with us.