{"id":25968,"date":"2026-01-19T22:33:21","date_gmt":"2026-01-20T02:33:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=25968"},"modified":"2026-01-19T22:33:23","modified_gmt":"2026-01-20T02:33:23","slug":"poul-anderson-quixote-and-the-windmill","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/poul-anderson-quixote-and-the-windmill\/25968\/","title":{"rendered":"Poul Anderson: Quixote and the Windmill"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cQuixote and the Windmill\u201d is a short story by Poul Anderson, published in November 1950 in Astounding Science Fiction<\/em>. In the future, Earth has achieved full automation: production is almost entirely automatic, machines perform all routine tasks, and human beings live surrounded by comfort, leisure, and abundance. The workday is minimal, basic needs are met, and people can devote their time to creativity and recreation. In this world of technological utopia, two men drink in a bar as they drown their frustration over a world that seems no longer to need them.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Poul<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Quixote and the Windmill<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Poul Anderson
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first robot in the world came walking over green hills with sunlight aflash off his polished metal hide. He walked with a rippling grace that was almost feline, and his tread fell noiselessly\u2014but you could feel the ground vibrate ever so faintly under the impact of that terrific mass, and the air held a subliminal quiver from the great engine that pulsed within him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Him.<\/em> You could not think of the robot as neuter. He had the brutal maleness of a naval rifle or a blast furnace. All the smooth silent elegance of perfect design and construction did not hide the weight and strength of a two and a half-meter height. His eyes glowed, as if with inner fires of smoldering atoms, they could see in any frequency range he selected, he could turn an X-ray beam on you and look you through and through with those terrible eyes. They had built him humanoid, but had had the good taste not to give him a face; there were the eyes, with their sockets for extra lenses when he needed microscopic or telescopic vision, and there were a few other small sensory and vocal orifices, but otherwise his head was a mask of shining metal. Humanoid, but not human\u2014man\u2019s creation, but more than man\u2014the first independent, volitional, nonspecialized machine\u2014but they had dreamed of him, long ago, he had once been the jinni in the bottle or the Golem, Bacon\u2019s brazen head or Frankenstein\u2019s monster, the man-transcending creature who could serve or destroy with equal contemptuous ease.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He walked under a bright summer sky, over sunlit fields and through little groves that danced and whispered in the wind. The houses of men were scattered here and there, the houses which practically took care of themselves; over beyond the horizon was one of the giant, almost automatic food factories; a few self-piloting car-planes went quietly overhead. Humans were in sight, sun-browned men and their women and children going about their various errands with loose bright garments floating in the breeze. A few seemed to be at work, there was a colorist experimenting with a new chromatic harmony, a composer sitting on his verandah striking notes out of an omniplayer, a group of engineers in a transparent-walled laboratory testing some mechanisms. But with the standard work period what it was these days, most were engaged in recreation. A picnic, a dance under trees, a concert, a pair of lovers, a group of children in one of the immemorially ancient games of their age-group, an old man happily enhammocked with a book and a bottle of beer\u2014the human race was taking it easy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They saw the robot go by, and often a silence fell as his tremendous shadow slipped past. His electronic detectors sensed the eddying pulses that meant nervousness, a faint unease\u2014oh, they trusted the cybernetics men, they didn\u2019t look for a devouring monster, but they wondered. They felt man\u2019s old unsureness of the alien and unknown, deep in their minds they wondered what the robot was about and what his new and invincible race might mean to Earth\u2019s dwellers\u2014then, perhaps, as his gleaming height receded over the hills, they laughed and forgot him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot went on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


There were not many customers in the Casanova at this hour. After sunset the tavern would fill up and the autodispensers would be kept busy, for it had a good live-talent show and television was becoming unfashionable. But at the moment only those who enjoyed a mid-afternoon glass, together with some serious drinkers, were present.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The building stood alone on a high wooded ridge, surrounded by its gardens and a good-sized parking lot. Its colonnaded exterior was long and low and gracious; inside it was cool and dim and fairly quiet; and the general air of decorum, due entirely to lack of patronage, would probably last till evening. The manager had gone off on his own business and the girls didn\u2019t find it worthwhile to be around till later, so the Casanova was wholly in the charge of its machines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two men were giving their autodispenser a good workout. It could hardly deliver one drink before a coin was given it for another. The smaller man was drinking whiskey and soda, the larger one stuck to the most potent available ale, and both were already thoroughly soused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They sat in a comer booth from which they could look out the open door, but their attention was directed to the drinks. It was one of those curious barroom acquaintances which spring up between utterly diverse types. They would hardly remember each other the next day. But currently they were exchanging their troubles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The little dark-haired fellow, Roger Brady, finished his drink and dialed for another. \u201cBeatcha!\u201d he said triumphantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGimme time,\u201d said the big red-head, Pete Borklin. \u201cThis stuff goes down slower.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Brady got out a cigarette. His fingers shook as he brought it to his mouth and puffed it into lighting. \u201cWhy can\u2019t that drink come right away?\u201d he mumbled. \u201cI resent a ten-second delay. Ten dry eternities! I demand instantaneously mixed drinks, delivered faster than light.\u201d The glass arrived, and he raised it to his lips. \u201cI am afraid,\u201d he said, with the careful precision of a very drunk man, \u201cthat I am going on a weeping jag. I would much prefer a fighting jag. But unfortunately there is nobody to fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll fight you,\u201d offered Borklin. His huge fists closed. \u201cNah\u2014why? Wouldn\u2019t be a fight, anyway. You\u2019d just mop me up. And why should we fight? We\u2019re both in the same boat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d Borklin looked at his fists. \u201cNot much use, anyway,\u201d he said. \u201cSomebody\u2019d do a lot better job o\u2019 killing with an autogun than I could with\u2014these.\u201d He unclenched them, slowly, as if with an effort, and took another drag at his glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat we want to do,\u201d said Brady, \u201cis to fight a world. We want to blow up all Earth and scatter the pieces from here to Pluto. Only it wouldn\u2019t do any good, Pete. Some machine\u2019d come along and put it back together again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI just wanna get drunk,\u201d said Borklin. \u201cMy wife left me. D\u2019l tell you that? My wife left me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, you told me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin shook his heavy head, puzzled. \u201cShe said I was a drunk. I went to a doctor like she said, but it didn\u2019t help none. He said . . . I forget what he said. But I had to keep on drinking anyway. Wasn\u2019t anything else to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know. Psychiatry helps people solve problems. It\u2019s not being able to solve a problem that drives a man insane. But when the problem is inherendy insoluble\u2014what then? One can only drink, and try to forget.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy wife wanted me to amount to something,\u201d said Borklin. \u201cShe wanted me to get a job. But what could I do? I tried. Honest, I tried. I tried for . . . well, I\u2019ve been trying all my life, really. There just wasn\u2019t any work around. Not any I could do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Fortunately, the basic citizen\u2019s allowance is enough to get drunk on,\u201d said Brady. \u201cOnly the drinks don\u2019t arrive fast enough. I demand an instantaneous auto-dispenser.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin dialed for another ale. He looked at his hands in a bewildered way. \u201cI\u2019ve always been strong,\u201d he said, \u201cI know I\u2019m not bright, but I\u2019m strong, and I\u2019m good at working with machines and ail. But nobody would hire me.\u201d He spread his thick workman\u2019s fingers. \u201cI was handy at home. We had a little place in Alaska, my dad didn\u2019t hold with too many gadgets, so I was handy around there. But he\u2019s dead now, the place is sold, what good are my hands?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe worker\u2019s paradise.\u201d Brady\u2019s thin lips twisted. \u201cSince the end of the Transition, Earth has been Utopia. Machines do all the routine work, all<\/em> of it, they produce so much that the basic necessities of life are free.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe hell. They want money for everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot much. And you get your citizen\u2019s allowance, which is just a convenient way of making your needs free. When you want more money, for the luxuries, you work, as an engineer or scientist or musician or painter or tavern keeper or spaceman or . . . anything there\u2019s a demand for. You don\u2019t work too hard. Paradise!\u201d Brady\u2019s shaking fingers spilled cigarette ash on the table. A little tube dipped down from the wall and sucked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t find work. They don\u2019t want me. Nowhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course not. What earthly good is manual labor these days? Machines do it all. Oh, there are technicians to be sure, quite a lot of them\u2014but they\u2019re all highly skilled men, years of training. The man who has nothing to offer but his strength and a little rule-of-thumb ingenuity doesn\u2019t get work. There is<\/em> no place for him!\u201d Brady took another swallow from his glass. \u201cHuman genius has eliminated the need for the workman. Now it only remains to eliminate the workman himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin\u2019s fists closed again, dangerously. \u201cWhattayuh mean?\u201d he asked harshly. \u201cWhattayuh mean, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing personal. But you know it yourself. Your type no longer fits into human society. So the geneticists are gradually working it out of the race. The population is kept static, relatively small, and is slowly evolving toward a type which can adapt to the present en . . . environment. And that\u2019s not your type, Pete.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The big man\u2019s anger collapsed into futility. He stared emptily at his glass. \u201cWhat to do?\u201d he whispered. \u201cWhat can I do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot a thing, Pete. Just drink, and try to forget your wife. Just drink.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMebbe they\u2019ll get out to the stars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot in our lifetimes. And even then, they\u2019ll want to take their machines along. We still won\u2019t be any more useful. Drink up, old fellow. Be glad! You\u2019re living in Utopia!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was silence then, for a while. The day was bright outside. Brady was grateful for the obscurity of the tavern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin said at last: \u201cWhat I can\u2019t figure is you. You look smart. You can fit in . . . can\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Brady grinned humorlessly. \u201cNo, Pete. I had a job, yes. I was a mediocre servotechnician. The other day I couldn\u2019t take any more. I told the boss what to do with his servos, and I\u2019ve been drinking ever since. I don\u2019t think I ever want to stop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut how come?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDreary, routine\u2014I hated it. I\u2019d rather stay tight. I had psychiatric help too, of course, and it didn\u2019t do me any good. The same insoluble problem as yours, really.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t get it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m a bright boy, Pete. Why hide it? My I.Q. puts me in the genius class. But\u2014not quite bright enough.\u201d Brady fumbled for another coin. He could only find a bill, but the machine gave him change. \u201cI want inshantaneous auto . . . or did I say that before? Never mind. It doesn\u2019t matter.\u201d He buried his face in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you mean, not quite bright enough?\u201d Borklin was insistent. He had a vague notion that a new slant on his own problem might conceivably help him see a solution. \u201cThat\u2019s what they told me, only politer. But you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m too bright to be an ordinary technician. Not for long. And I have none of the artistic or literary talent which counts so highly nowadays. What I wanted was to be a mathematician. All my life I wanted to be a mathematician. And I worked at it. I studied. I learned all any human head could hold, and I know where to look up the rest.\u201d Brady grinned wearily. \u201cSo what\u2019s the upshot? The mathematical machines have taken over. Not only all routine computation\u2014that\u2019s old\u2014but even independent research. At a higher level than the human brain can operate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey still have humans working at it. Sure. They have men who outline the problems, control and check the machines, follow through all the steps\u2014men who are the . . . the soul of the science, even today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut<\/em>\u2014only the top-flight geniuses. The really brilliant, original minds, with flashes of sheer inspiration. They<\/em> are still needed. But the machines do all the rest.\u201d Brady shrugged. \u201cI\u2019m not a first-rank genius, Pete. I can\u2019t do anything that an electronic brain can\u2019t do quicker and better. So I didn\u2019t get my job, either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They sat quiet again. Then Borklin said, slowly: \u201cAt least you can get some fun. I don\u2019t like all these concerts and pictures and all that fancy stuff. I don\u2019t have more than drinking and women and maybe some stereo-film.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI suppose you\u2019re right,\u201d said Brady indifferently. \u201cBut I\u2019m not cut out to be a hedonist. Neither are you. We both want<\/em> to work. We want to feel we have some importance and value\u2014we want to amount to something. Our friends . . . your wife . . . I had a girl once, Pete . . . we\u2019re expected to amount to something. \u201cOnly there\u2019s nothing for us to do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hard and dazzling sun-flash caught his eye. He looked out through the door, and jerked with a violence that upset his drink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreat universe!\u201d he breathed. \u201cPete . . . Pete . . . look, it\u2019s the robot! It\u2019s the robot!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d Borklin twisted around, trying to focus his eyes out the door. \u201cWhazzat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe robot\u2014you\u2019ve heard of it, man.\u201d Brady\u2019s soddenness was gone in a sudden shivering intensity. His voice was like metal. \u201cThey built him three years ago at Cybernetics Lab. Manlike, with a volitional, nonspecialized brain\u2014manlike, but more than man!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah . . . yeah, I heard.\u201d Borklin looked out and saw the great shining form striding across the gardens, bound on some unknown journey that took him past the tavern. \u201cThey were testing him. But he\u2019s been running around loose for a year or so now\u2014Wonder where he\u2019s going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d As if hypnotized, Brady looked after the mighty thing, \u201cI don\u2019t know\u2014\u201d His voice trailed off, then suddenly he stood up and then lashed out: \u201cBut we\u2019ll find out! Come on, Pete!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere . . . huh . . . why\u2014\u201d Borklin rose slowly, fumbling through his own bewilderment \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you see, don\u2019t you see? It\u2019s the robot<\/em>\u2014the man after man\u2014all that man is, and how much more we don\u2019t even imagine. Pete, the machines have been replacing men, here, there, everywhere. This is the machine that will replace man!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin said nothing, but trailed out after Brady. The smaller man kept on talking, rapidly, bitterly: \u201cSure\u2014why not? Man is simply flesh and blood. Humans are only human. They\u2019re not efficient enough for our shiny new world. Why not scrap the whole human race? How long till we have nothing but men of metal in a meaningless metal ant-heap?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, Pete. Man is going down into darkness. But we can do down fighting!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something of it penetrated Borklin\u2019s mind. He saw the towering machine ahead of him, and suddenly it was as if it embodied all which had broken him. The ultimate machine, the final arrogance of efficiency, remote and godlike and indifferent as it smashed him\u2014suddenly he hated it with a violence that seemed to split his skull apart. He lumbered clumsily beside Brady and they caught up with the robot together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTurn around!\u201d called Brady. \u201cTurn around and fight!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot paused. Brady picked up a stone and threw it. The rock bounced off the armor with a dull clang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot faced about. Borklin ran at him, cursing. His heavy shoes kicked at the robot\u2019s ankle joints, his fists battered at the front. They left no trace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop that,\u201d said the robot. His voice had little tonal variation, but there was the resonance off a great bell in it. \u201cStop that. You will injure yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Borklin retreated, gasping with the pain of bruised flesh and smothering impotence. Brady reeled about to stand before the robot. The alcohol was singing and buzzing in his head, but his voice came oddly clear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe can\u2019t hurt you,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019re Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. But you wouldn\u2019t know about that you wouldn\u2019t know about any of man\u2019s old dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am unable to account for your present actions,\u201d said the robot. His eyes blazed with their deep fires, searching the men. Unconsciously, they shrank away a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are unhappy,\u201d decided the robot. \u201cYou have been drinking to escape your own unhappiness, and in your present intoxication you identify me with the causes of your misery.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d flared Brady. \u201cAren\u2019t you? The machines are taking over all Earth with their smug efficiency, making man a parasite\u2014and now you come, the ultimate machine, you\u2019re the one who\u2019s going to replace man himself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have no belligerent intentions,\u201d said the robot, \u201cYou should know I was conditioned against any such tendencies, even while my brain was in process of construction.\u201d Something like a chuckle vibrated in the deep metal voice. \u201cWhat reason do I have to fight anyone?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNone,\u201d said Brady thinly. \u201cNone at all. You\u2019ll just take over, as more and more of you are made, as your emotionless power begins to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBegins to what?\u201d asked the robot. \u201cAnd how do you know I am emotionless? Any psychologist will tell you that emotion, though not necessarily of the human type, is a basic of thought. What logical reason does a being have to think, to work, even to exist? It cannot rationalize its so doing, it simply does, because of its endocrine system, its power plant, whatever runs it . . . its emotions! And any mentality capable of self-consciousness will feel as wide a range of emotion as you\u2014it will be as happy or as interested\u2014or as miserable\u2014as you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


It was weird, even in a world used to machines that were all but alive, thus to stand and argue with a living mass of metal and plastic, vacuum and energy. The strangeness of it struck Brady, he realized just how drunk he was. But still he had to snarl his hatred and despair out, mouth any phrases at all just so they relieved some of the bursting tension within him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care how you feel or don\u2019t feel,\u201d he said, stuttering a little now. \u201cIt\u2019s that-you\u2019re the future, the meaningless future when all men are as useless as I am now, and I hate you for it and the worst of it is I can\u2019t kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot stood like a burnished statue of some old and non-anthropomorphic god, motionless, but his voice shivered the quiet air: \u201cYour case is fairly common. You have been relegated to obscurity by advanced technology. But do not identify yourself with all mankind. There will always be men who think and dream and sing and carry on all the race has ever loved. The future belongs to them, not to you\u2014or to me,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am surprised that a man of your apparent intelligence does not realize my position. But\u2014what earthly good is a robot? By the time science had advanced to the point where I could be built, there was no longer any reason for it. Think\u2014you have a specialized machine to perform or help man perform every conceivable task. What possible use is there for a nonspecialized machine to do them all? Man himself fulfills that function, and the machines are no more than his tools. Does a housewife want a robot servant when she need only control the dozen machines which already do all the work? Why should a scientist want a robot that could, say, go into dangerous radioactive rooms when he has already installed automatic and remote-controlled apparatus which does everything there? And surely the artists and thinkers and policy-makers don\u2019t need robots, they are performing specifically human tasks, it will always be man<\/em> who sets man\u2019s goals and dreams his dreams. The all-purpose machine is and forever will be\u2014man himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMan, I was made for purely scientific study. After a couple of years they had learned all there was to learn about me\u2014and I had no other purpose! They let me become a harmless, aimless, meaningless wanderer, just so I could be doing something\u2014and my life is estimated at five hundred years!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have no purpose. I have no real reason for existence. I have no companion, no place in human society, no use for my strength and my brain. Man, man, do you think I<\/em> am happy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot turned to go. Brady was sitting on the grass, holding his head to keep it from whirling off into space, so he didn\u2019t see the giant metal god depart. But he caught the last words flung back, and somehow there was such a choking bitterness in the toneless brazen voice that he could never afterward forget them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMan, you are the lucky one. You<\/em> can get drunk!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cQuixote and the Windmill\u201d is a short story by Poul Anderson, published in November 1950 in Astounding Science Fiction. In the future, Earth has achieved full automation: production is almost entirely automatic, machines perform all routine tasks, and human beings live surrounded by comfort, leisure, and abundance. The workday is minimal, basic needs are met, and people can devote their time to creativity and recreation. In this world of technological utopia, two men drink in a bar as they drown their frustration over a world that seems no longer to need them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":25967,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[1501,552,570],"class_list":["post-25968","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-poul-anderson","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":1501,"label":"Poul Anderson"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/Poul-Anderson-Don-Quijote-y-el-molino-de-viento.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":1501,"name":"Poul Anderson","slug":"poul-anderson","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1501,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":2,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25968","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25968"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25968\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25967"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25968"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=25968"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=25968"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}