Again, Dangerous Visions Part 70

"Yes. At your own risk."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, Little Mother, Little Mother, do say you'll let me go and touch Mr. Regan's mouse!"

Aspera was visibly annoyed with this display of childishness, which seemed almost to parody her own relationship with Sheila. But Little Mother could not, though she seemed to grow pale, withhold her consent.

Wednesday, Sept. 6, 2084 Aspera came around today with my mask. It is magnificent, and I overflowed with grat.i.tude.

Afterwards, we discussed Sheila. I criticized the girl's faerie manner with more severity than I really felt or Sheila deserves. Aspera agreed, all too earnestly agreed, but insisted that she had redeeming virtues, though they might not be evident to me. I said that seemed doubtful.

"Oh, I can a.s.sure you," Aspera protested.

"You know her very well, then?"

"We have have been rather close, in the course of a.n.a.lysis. Transference is a ticklish business between two women." been rather close, in the course of a.n.a.lysis. Transference is a ticklish business between two women."

"I can imagine." I did not go so far as to inquire what diagnostic tools she was employing in this ticklish business. It was understood.

"You will will leave her alone, won't you, Oliver?" leave her alone, won't you, Oliver?"

I promised. She kissed me on the cheek. "You're a darling, and I love you very much." And despite the smile with which she sought to temper this statement, I think it may be true. More's the pity.

Monday, Dec. 25, 2084 And all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Two months! More. And what has the Star-Mouse been up to? Spying on the microcosm, making my fellow-mice immortal. Without, as yet, signal success.

It is good, better, best to be at work again, to feel the familiar bite of that bug curiosity again. Sheila visits the lab regularly to exclaim over the freak mice that my experiments have produced, but so far I have been faithful to my promise to Aspera. My talk with Sheila has been limited to lectures in the field of my speciality. She is shockingly ignorant of the elements of science, but an apt-even an earnest-pupil.

Hatoum has been present during some of these lessons and has fallen under the same enchantment. Sheila either has not seen this or refuses to recognize it. Her sights are fixed on me, and I take a spiteful pleasure in tormenting Hatoum with the spectacle of my pretended indifference. Where are your gibes now?

New Year's Day, 2085 We have reached our terminal velocity, and now we just coast until we have to brake for our first stop, Tau Ceti, some dozen years off. There are nearer stars, of course, and even nearer stars with planets, but our itinerary has been planned with a view to s.p.a.cing our stops as evenly as possible. Unless we find something better than our own barren solar system has had to offer us, we shall be pa.s.sing by a total of twenty-six planeted suns in the next century and a half. With such a prospect, one does not greet the New Year with wild carousal.

Friday, Jan. 6, 2085 Against all expectation, there has been a casualty-Gene Shaw, one of our navigators and the concertmaster of our orchestra. Her helmet was insecurely fitted during lifeboat drill. Death was instant. After hearing the news, I went round to see Slade, knowing he'd once been in love with her. He showed no signs of emotion, though his very willingness for us to speak of something other than his dreams or my reading might be the equivalent, for him, of hysterics.

He was puzzled by his own lack of response, and I told him of other people I'd known who had received the news of a friend's death with the same coolness. I ventured the theory that the cla.s.sic expressions of grief are only possible among those who have lived long and intimately with the notion of death and its dominion. If it becomes too rare an event, its meaning is una.s.similable.

Slade, I discover, is an historian, another odd speciality to bring aboard the Extrovert Extrovert. Seldom has any society been so completely divorced from its antecedents as we. Slade claims that it is just this, the fact that we exist, as it were, without history, without any past but our own, that interests him. He thinks that it will become, as the voyage goes on, the most conspicuous feature of our lives.

Monday, Jan. 9, 2085 Despite all that homeostasis can do, changes occur, and sometimes they are unalterable.

Poor Aspera. When the blow falls, it never falls gently, does it?

This is what happened: I entered her cabin without knocking, knowing that the deliberate and unaccustomed rudeness would pleasure her. She had unrolled a mirror and was standing before it, in her silver mask and a ceremonial robe, preening herself. She started when I opened the door, seeming for a moment not to know who I was. I was masked, but surely she recognized this this mask. mask.

"Aspera, my very own," I said, without removing the mask. "Have I startled you?"

She hung her head, refusing to meet my gaze, and I knew then with certainty-I had suspected as much from the first slight movement of her body-that it was not Aspera's face behind the mask.

"Forgive me for returning to this again, my dear, but you must give her up, you really must. If not for my sake, for your own; if not for your own sake, then for the child's. Truly, she is lovely. I can understand your pa.s.sion. I might even say that in a distant way, in silence, I share it. But you must relinquish her. I will say nothing of the scandal, for that's of small account here. Though there may be some, the most fusty of us, who would consider less than professional in you, an abuse of the child's confidence. They might whisper-unjustly, of course-that perhaps it was no coincidence that your fame was won in dealing with children...Of course, Sheila is only relatively relatively a child, relative to ourselves. But let's not talk of scandal. I speak for the girl's sake. You forget when you surrender to your maternal feelings-" a child, relative to ourselves. But let's not talk of scandal. I speak for the girl's sake. You forget when you surrender to your maternal feelings-"

The mask lifted far enough to betray a fleeting glimpse of blue eyes. I continued my charade unheedingly.

"-when you allow yourself to play Pygmalion like this, you forget how young she is, how malleable. It is evident, Aspera, that she will never leave you voluntarily-even if she might have the desire, she would never be able to find the strength-and therefore I want you to promise me, Aspera...Aspera, look in my eyes."

Once more the mask lifted, and the two glistening shields confronted me boldly, behind those bland silver features.

"You must promise me that you'll see no more of her."

"Must I?"

She knew of course that Aspera would have felt nothing but indignation at such a pigslop of blackmail and innuendo. She recognized my deceit, relished it, and joined me in these amateur theatricals.

"Then I do," she said, and put her hands about my neck, drawing me closer until our silver lips were pressed together in a pa.s.sionate kiss.

We consummated our double betrayal, suitably, in Aspera's bed. Once the initial impetus of the deed had been exhausted, Sheila became her usual kittenish self. "Tell me some more about genetics," she begged. "Tell me about my chromosomes and things like that."

"I've told you everything I know," I complained lazily.

"Tell me why your eyes are blue."

"Because my mother's eyes were blue."

"And why did you make one little mousey with whiskers instead of eyes?"

"It was an accident. So much of what I do is only trial and error. We know what each gene controls, we know their arrangement. But we know too little about what's inside them. Despite the work of the molecular biologist, we're still in the pre-atomic stage, so to speak. We can eliminate genes, or shuffle them around, but we have yet to study the morphology of the living gene to any significant degree."

"Poor Mousey! And was the Plague just another accident? Is it only an accident that I'm immortal? That would be sad."

"My dear, we're all accidents. Of the Plague, who can say? It appeared, infected mankind, and vanished before the agent could be isolated and identified. It must have died out through having exhausted its supply of hosts. Most of the literature seems to favor the theory that it was an accident-a mutated virus. In the long run, it wouldn't have been a viable mutation, since in rendering its hosts' progeny immortal (and, presumably, immune) it shut off its own supplies."

"But there are are still mortals, after all. What of Ireland, Madagascar, Taiwan? I was in love with an Irish fellow when I was sixteen. He was thirty and just still mortals, after all. What of Ireland, Madagascar, Taiwan? I was in love with an Irish fellow when I was sixteen. He was thirty and just starting starting to age. I couldn't imagine anything more handsome at the time. Why didn't the little bug get him?" to age. I couldn't imagine anything more handsome at the time. Why didn't the little bug get him?"

"The mortals living now are all descended from infants who were in utero in utero at the time of the Plague. Their mothers were infected, but survived to give them birth, without, however, pa.s.sing on the genetic alteration. By the time such infants were born the Plague had pa.s.sed on. It was over in less than two months, you know. Surely, you at the time of the Plague. Their mothers were infected, but survived to give them birth, without, however, pa.s.sing on the genetic alteration. By the time such infants were born the Plague had pa.s.sed on. It was over in less than two months, you know. Surely, you do do know that much?" know that much?"

"Oh yes, I think science is just fascinating. I'm going to do a dance about genetics and the Plague. The wonderful thing about science is that it's so logical. You don't have a mole anywhere on your body, do you?"

"No."

She sighed. "Aspera had a mole on her left cheek. It always made me feel decadent to kiss it."

Had she used the past tense deliberately? That is the entrancing thing about Sheila-that I shall never be able to answer such questions with any finality.

When she had returned to her cabin, Aspera immediately noticed the damage that had been done to the two masks.

"My dear Sheila," she said with acidy sweetness, "let me make a present of this mask."

"Thank you, Little Mother. As you know, I've always admired it. I might even confess to have envied you."

"Oliver admires it too. For Oliver it's a symbol not only of his mother, but of death. Oliver loves mothers and death."

"Ah, but Aspera," I reminded her pleasantly, "-death itself is only a symbol."

"Yes," she said, smiling (for once again I had walked into one of her traps). "Of our lives here."

Tuesday, Jan. 10, 2085 I have begun to work on the novel. Aspera suggested the t.i.tle, and we are all in it.

Afterword.

A year ago, in response to Harlan's request for an afterword, I wrote something called "Why I've Stopped Writing Science-Fiction," or some such. It was so awful that even then I could see it was pretty bad, so I sent Harlan only a letter explaining that I had written him an afterword, but that etc. Another afterword was forthcoming, I promised.

Not only was the first afterword awful, but it turned out to be untrue. I have since then written some science-fiction, a little. However, the gist of it hasn't changed-I can't earn a living writing s-f at the standard rates for stories and novels that the field offers. I write too slowly these days.

That was only half the truth, and that's why it made such a poor afterword. The whole truth is that the standard story and novel that standard rates are paid for is a commodity I no longer have the stomach for. I think my most persuasive and candid argument in this respect would simply be the list of t.i.tles of all the s-f or fantasy stories I have no intention of writing. The list is about three years old, and even then I could see some of the things on the list were never going to be written, though any of them, I'm convinced, could have been published in one or another of the magazines in the field.

The list: .

The Alien Anthology Among the Rednecks: a Report from the Field Approximately Joe The Ball The Compa.s.sionator Cosmo in the Engines of Love The Cowboys The Day the Curve Broke Diet of Worms The Exorcist in Spite of Himself The General Theory of Electro-magnetic Tidal Waves and Volcanoes Ghost Story Glad Hand The Goldwater Experiment The Good Losers The Governor's Temptations Grabenstein The Hamadryad Horror and Lester McCune An Investigation into the Activities of My Body Joseph and the Empress The Little Family The Magic Square Mind Donor The Original June Bly The Orphan's Birthday Party The Other Door to Dutch Street The People Eater The Reluctant Eavesdropper The Satyr The Servant Problem (or, The Fatal Pa.s.sion of Lancelot Kramer) Strip Poker The Tarantists Three Square Parables The Three-Masted s.p.a.ceship 300 Pound Weakling The Time of the a.s.sa.s.sin The Vicar's List Walt Little's Soul Wednesdays Off You Can't Get There From Here (or, The Intersection)

Introduction to WITH THE BENTFIN BOOMER BOYS ON LITTLE OLD NEW ALABAMA.

When preparing Dangerous Visions Dangerous Visions, I predicted that Philip Jose Farmer's exciting and experimental "Riders of the Purple Wage" would cop the novella awards in the year of its eligibility. I was right, it did, but it didn't take any special prescience on my part. The story was so outrageously different, and so controversial, it was inevitable that it would be the most talked-about item in the book.

Now I predict that Richard Lupoff's "With the Bentfin Boomer Boys on Little Old New Alabama" will cop the major awards next next year. Again I load the gun in my favor. This story will enflame and infuriate the traditionalists; it will amaze and intimidate older, longer-established writers; it will confound and awe critics; it will become the subject of fanzine articles and bull sessions and convention panels; it will cause voices to rise, adrenaline to pump, editors to howl, imitators to scramble for their copy-riters. It will raise one h.e.l.l of a noise. year. Again I load the gun in my favor. This story will enflame and infuriate the traditionalists; it will amaze and intimidate older, longer-established writers; it will confound and awe critics; it will become the subject of fanzine articles and bull sessions and convention panels; it will cause voices to rise, adrenaline to pump, editors to howl, imitators to scramble for their copy-riters. It will raise one h.e.l.l of a noise.

Friends, there has never never been a thing like this one before, in or out of the field of sf. been a thing like this one before, in or out of the field of sf.

One expects some eye-openers when a.s.sembling a wild Frankincense creation like A,DV. I got them in DV and I expected some this time. Tiptree did it, and so did Anthony, and likewise Wilhelm, Vonnegut, Nelson, Bernott and Parra. But nothing nothing like d.i.c.k Lupoff. He takes the solid gold award for like d.i.c.k Lupoff. He takes the solid gold award for Chutzpah Chutzpah Above and Beyond the Limits of Gall. Above and Beyond the Limits of Gall.

"With the Bentfin Boomer Boys..." presents problems for foreign translators of this anthology that I see as virtually insurmountable. It defies most of the rules of storytelling that remained unbroken after Farmer's novella. It is so audacious and extravagant a story that it becomes one of the three or four really indispensable reasons for doing this book. Frankly, had no other story than this one been written for A,DV-the book would be worth reading.

And as you might expect, the story did not come to be a reality easily. Nor has its progression from first submission to final 36,000 word publication been easy. I'll tell you some of the background. I understand it has already been the subject of some discussion through the sf underground.

In 1968 I started sending out calls for submissions and d.i.c.k Lupoff queried me about this story, which he said he'd started but completion had been discouraged by not only editors, but by his own agent as well. I wrote back and said let me look at it. When it arrived, I was astounded that others had not seen in it the wonders I knew lay waiting on the unwritten pages. I wrote d.i.c.k a long letter in which I discussed what I'd like to see, and suggested he expand the concept and make it three times as long. He seemed pleased at the project and some months later I received the story in what Richard thought was a final form. There were still areas I wanted expanded-places in which entire chapters had only been hinted at. d.i.c.k and I discussed it by phone, and he was happy that the chance had been offered to do even more on the piece. We both realized that what we had on our hands was one of those rare stories that we were enjoying so much...we didn't want it to end. So d.i.c.k took it back and expanded again. This was the most "editing" I did with any author in this book. As those who were along for the DV ride may remember, one promise I make the contributors to these volumes is that what they write will not be altered to suit artificial regulations of what I, as editor, might deem "the needs of the audience." Every story in this book (and with only one minor editing presumption that was the case with DV as well) appears precisely as the author finally set it down, even to disparities in spelling (e.g., "color" in American, "colour" in British), which makes for derangement among Doubleday's typesetters and proofreaders.

Finally, it was done, and d.i.c.k even took a deferred payment on part of his advance. Money was running thin at that point.

I included the story, and went on to completing the editing. Then began the fireworks.

Richard sent off a carbon of "WTBBBOLONA" to his agent, the gentleman who had, with cla.s.sic perceptivity, suggested he sc.r.a.p the project originally. The agent flipped-a bit of a miracle, if you know the agent-and promptly suggested to one of the best editors in the paperback market, that she publish it. The editor read it...and a second flippage. So they offered d.i.c.k lotsa money.

Now understand something (in case I haven't mentioned it elsewhere in the introductions...at this final stage of the writing senility is setting in and I may repeat myself): the stories in this book are all new. None have ever appeared in any other form anywhere else. That is one of the big selling points of A,DV. You have to buy this this book to read book to read these these stories. After publication of the paperback-several years from now, by contract-the rights revert to the individual writers and they can sell them anywhere they please; but for right now each author protects every other author's chance to make money from this book by the exclusivity of the product. In that way Vonnegut helps sell Ken McCullough and James Blish helps sell Joan Bernott and Bernard Wolfe helps sell Richard Lupoff. In DV, Ted Sturgeon turned down a wad of stories. After publication of the paperback-several years from now, by contract-the rights revert to the individual writers and they can sell them anywhere they please; but for right now each author protects every other author's chance to make money from this book by the exclusivity of the product. In that way Vonnegut helps sell Ken McCullough and James Blish helps sell Joan Bernott and Bernard Wolfe helps sell Richard Lupoff. In DV, Ted Sturgeon turned down a wad of Playboy Playboy money because he understood that publication of his first story in many years within DV's pages would help hype the work of younger, unknown writers. This is a gestalt, and it is a sort of communal pull-together project. For that reason, I have been a hardnosed b.a.s.t.a.r.d about letting anything appear in print before publication of the books. money because he understood that publication of his first story in many years within DV's pages would help hype the work of younger, unknown writers. This is a gestalt, and it is a sort of communal pull-together project. For that reason, I have been a hardnosed b.a.s.t.a.r.d about letting anything appear in print before publication of the books.

d.i.c.k respected the concept and called me, advising me he could clean up if I'd let the paperback house do the story in an even more expanded form as a novel. But he said he was grateful for my faith in the novella and would abide by my decision. I was sorrowful at keeping d.i.c.k from the deal, but suggested that an appearance in A,DV would only heighten heighten interest in a novel of "Boomer Boys" at twice or three times its length here, after publication of A,DV. He said okay, and told his agent, who told the editor. interest in a novel of "Boomer Boys" at twice or three times its length here, after publication of A,DV. He said okay, and told his agent, who told the editor.

Then started the calls from the editor.

I puffed up with pride, of course. Others now thought we had something extraordinarily sensational. But I had to remain firm.

Finally, the paperback house said they'd wait and re-examine the project after publication of A,DV.

Which would have been swell, except it took an extra year to get this book in print, and during that time d.i.c.k was beset constantly by extravagant offers that would have cut the story from A,DV. To his credit, though he needed the money and had not seen another penny from me, he refused. (But he b.i.t.c.hed mightily, privately and publicly, which I can't put him down for so doing, though it made me feel more and more like a s.h.i.t. However, having expunged all guilt from my nature-no mean trick for a nice Jewish boy automatically ent.i.tled to two thousand years retroactive kvetching kvetching by a nice Jewish upbringing and a nice Jewish mother, h.e.l.lo Serita, how are things in Miami Beach?-I learned to live with it. All I had to do to make it supportable was remembering those first few ms. pages I'd seen.) by a nice Jewish upbringing and a nice Jewish mother, h.e.l.lo Serita, how are things in Miami Beach?-I learned to live with it. All I had to do to make it supportable was remembering those first few ms. pages I'd seen.) Further, as a mark of his honorableness, some months ago-before publication of A,DV-the contract ran out and the rights reverted automatically to Richard. Had he so desired, he could have kept the advance money and sold the story to whomever he pleased, and I wouldn't have been able to make a peep. And wouldn't have been able to bring bring myself to peep, for after all, I'd taken so long to get it into print. myself to peep, for after all, I'd taken so long to get it into print.

But Lupoff is a good guy, a fine writer, and here is the story, as originally intended.

I now implore all of you who find it as smashing a piece of work as the agent, the editor and I did, to write your local paperback publisher, demanding "Boomer Boys" be expanded and published as a full novel. It's the least we can do to repay Lupoff for having written it, and for having stood by his fellow writers at his own expense.

And for more more Lupoff, a talent getting increasingly important every year, let me recommend Lupoff, a talent getting increasingly important every year, let me recommend Sacred Locomotive Flies Sacred Locomotive Flies (Beagle Books, 1971); (Beagle Books, 1971); One Million Centuries One Million Centuries (Lancer, 1967), a 352 page giant of a novel; (Lancer, 1967), a 352 page giant of a novel; Edgar Rice Burroughs: Master of Adventure Edgar Rice Burroughs: Master of Adventure (Canaveral, 1965/Ace, revised edition, 1968); and, as co-editor with Don Thompson, (Canaveral, 1965/Ace, revised edition, 1968); and, as co-editor with Don Thompson, All in Color for a Dime All in Color for a Dime (Arlington House, 1970), a marvelous collection of nostalgic articles and essays on comic books of the 1940's. Additionally, for those of you too impatient for more Lupoffiction to wait for "Boomer Boys" as a full novel, press your local paperback publisher to buy and publish a wild and whacky ma.n.u.script t.i.tled (Arlington House, 1970), a marvelous collection of nostalgic articles and essays on comic books of the 1940's. Additionally, for those of you too impatient for more Lupoffiction to wait for "Boomer Boys" as a full novel, press your local paperback publisher to buy and publish a wild and whacky ma.n.u.script t.i.tled Thintwhistle on the Moon Thintwhistle on the Moon that was originally bought by Dell for paperback publication (but was cancelled when Dell inexplicably cut back its sf program and let go one of the most imaginative editors who's ever worked in our field). that was originally bought by Dell for paperback publication (but was cancelled when Dell inexplicably cut back its sf program and let go one of the most imaginative editors who's ever worked in our field).

d.i.c.k Lupoff-whose fame has gone to his head only in that he now insists his stories be published under the name "Richard" Lupoff-now lives in Berkeley with his wife, Patricia, and their three children, and when he isn't sf-ing, writes rock criticism for such diverse markets as Organ, Changes, Earth Magazine Organ, Changes, Earth Magazine and (as this is written) next month begins a regular rock column for and (as this is written) next month begins a regular rock column for Ramparts Ramparts. (In the dreary month of February, 1972, we are advised, Mr. Lupoff will have had a study of the sf field published in the last of those magazines just noted. Look it up.) And while I don't want to keep you from the "Boomer Boys" any longer than absolutely necessary, here is some Lupoff self-statement.