conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled The Tunnel Under the World about Hugo, Award, American with the genre: Children's Books, Science Fiction & Fantasy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Frederik George the author Jr. (1919 - 2013) was an American science-fiction writer, editor and fan, with a career spanning more than 75 years-from his first published work, the 1937 poem "Elegy to a Dead Satellite: Luna", to the 2011 novel All the Lives He Led and articles and essays published in 2012. From about 1959 until 1969, the author edited Galaxy and its sister magazine If; the latter won three successive annual Hugo Awards as the year's best professional magazine. His 1977 novel Gateway won four "year's best novel" awards: the Hugo voted by convention participants, the Locus voted by magazine subscribers, the Nebula voted by American science-fiction writers and the juried academic John W. Campbell Memorial Award. He won the Campbell Memorial Award again for the 1984 collection of novellas Years of the City, one of two repeat winners during the first 40 years. For his 1979 novel Jem, the author won a U.S. National Book Award in the one-year category Science Fiction. It was a finalist for three other year's best novel awards. He won four Hugo and three Nebula Awards.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book titled The Tunnel Under the World about Hugo, Award, American with the genre: Children's Books, Science Fiction & Fantasy? End with the sentence '\nThe people were rebuilt as minuscule robots, and are being used as captive subjects for testing high-pressure advertising campaigns.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Tunnel under the World: Guy and Mary Burckhardt wake up in their house in Tylerton on June 15, having both had terrible nightmares, but they cannot recall the events of their dreams.\nGuy dismisses the dream and goes to work as usual, the downtown offices of Contro Chemicals, which operates a highly automated and robot-staffed petrochemicals plant.\nBut something is not right; he is surrounded everywhere by loud and all-pervasive advertising jingles for everything from cigarettes to freezers.\nA colleague named Swanson tries to speak to him but apparently does not get the desired reaction from Burckhardt and leaves.\nBurckhardt goes home, but the next morning, when he wakes up, he has had the same nightmare and the date is still June 15.\nHe knows what will happen when he gets to the office and that Swanson will again try to speak to him.\nThis in fact happens.\nThat evening, Burckhardt discovers that his cellar has seemingly been dismantled and "rebuilt", in a way he does not recognize.\nAnd the next morning, again it is June 15, although he knows it cannot be.\nHe mentions this when Swanson again tries to speak to him.\nSwanson hustles him away to the empty halls of the chemical plant.\nHiding in a room at the end of a long tunnel, he explains his theory that they have all been tampered with and that an invader has taken over the town for unknown reasons.\nBut neither of them are correct.\nIt transpires that the chemical plant exploded.\nAll the inhabitants of Tylerton were killed by the explosion or the chemical fumes.\nDorchin, a ruthless advertising executive, took over the whole ruins and rebuilt them in miniature.\nThe people were rebuilt as minuscule robots, and are being used as captive subjects for testing high-pressure advertising campaigns.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Tunnel under the World
  At this point Gold was succumbing to agoraphobia, physical ills, and overall exhaustion (some of this perhaps attributable to his active service during WWII) against which he had struggled from the outset. (There is creditable evidence that Frederik Pohl was the de facto editor during Gold's last years.) Gold would return some submissions with notes like: "Garbage," "Absolute Crap." Isaac Asimov noted in his memoir "Anthony Boucher wrote rejection slips which read like acceptances. And Horace wrote notes of acceptance which felt like rejections." Despite this, the magazine retained most of its high standard and also some of its regular contributors (William Tenn, Robert Sheckley, Pohl himself). Others could no longer bear Gold's imperiousness and abusiveness.
  He was a two-term president of the Science Fiction Writers of America in the late 1970s and recipient of its Grand Master Award the following decade.
  Fred Pohl wrote somewhere that he had received a fan letter on the story shortly after its original appearance. His correspondent claimed to work in advertising and wrote, "This is exactly how the world would be if it were run by advertising men. This is their dream." Pohl added, "One of the hopes you have when you enter upon this business of 'professional writing' is that somehow, some way, some day, you will write a story which someone will understand perfectly. That letter fulfilled that ambition."
  And Pohl had another anecdote about this story which he told me in 1972. "I was at a party in Red Bank in the late 1950s and found myself talking to some guy who was very interested in learning that I was a science fiction writer. 'I don't particularly like science fiction,' he said. 'I don't read it because I don't understand most of it, but there was this one science fiction story I read a few years ago which really got to me and I can't forget it.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Burckhardt started to say something, but checked himself. She would not know that Barth hadn't been in yesterday, either, because she was tearing a June 14th pad off her calendar to make way for the "new" June 15th sheet.
  He staggered to his own desk and stared unseeingly at the morning's mail. It had not even been opened yet, but he knew that the Factory Distributors envelope contained an order for twenty thousand feet of the new acoustic tile, and the one from Finebeck & Sons was a complaint. "Contro Chemicals Downtown, Burckhardt speaking."
  While he was waiting for Swanson to show up, a girl in the cellophane skirt of a nightclub cigarette vendor came, through the restaurant with a tray of tiny scarlet-wrapped candies.
  Burckhardt, intent on watching for the strange little man who had phoned him, paid little attention. But as she scattered a handful of the confections over the table next to his, smiling at the occupants, he caught a glimpse of her and turned to stare.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Burckhardt, picked.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Burckhardt started to say something, but checked himself. She would not know that Barth hadn't been in yesterday, either, because she was tearing a June 14th pad off her calendar to make way for the "new" June 15th sheet. 
  He staggered to his own desk and stared unseeingly at the morning's mail. It had not even been opened yet, but he knew that the Factory Distributors envelope contained an order for twenty thousand feet of the new acoustic tile, and the one from Finebeck & Sons was a complaint. 
  The phone rang and Burckhardt picked it up abstractedly. "Contro Chemicals Downtown, Burckhardt speaking. "
  While he was waiting for Swanson to show up, a girl in the cellophane skirt of a nightclub cigarette vendor came, through the restaurant with a tray of tiny scarlet-wrapped candies. 
  Burckhardt, intent on watching for the strange little man who had phoned him, paid little attention. But as she scattered a handful of the confections over the table next to his, smiling at the occupants, he caught a glimpse of her and turned to stare.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: From the mountain before him, Burckhardt helplessly saw a lesser cliff descend carefully toward him. It was long and dark, and at the end of it was whiteness, five-fingered whiteness...
  It had been a monstrous and incomprehensible dream, of explosions and shadowy figures that were not men and terror beyond words.
  Burckhardt stumbled over to the window and stared outside. There was an out-of-season chill to the air, more like October than June; but the scene was normal enough—except for the sound-truck that squatted at curbside halfway down the block. Its speaker horns blared:
  Sometimes he screams, sometimes he wheedles, threatens, begs, cajoles... but his voice goes on and on through one June 15th after another.