Before They Were Giants Read online

  Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?

  I was married, with two adopted children, living in suburbia in the Boston area. I had just started a full-time “day job” as a science writer at the Avco Everett Research Laboratory, where I worked for the next 12, years, until I was selected to edit Analog Science Fiction magazine after the death of John W. Campbell. Publication of “A Long Way Back” started my career in writing for science fiction magazines. I soon had a cover story in Amazing, began to sell fiction to Campbell at Analog, and wrote a long series of nonfiction articles about extraterrestrial life for Amazing.

  How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?

  I’m much more a novelist than a short-story writer. Somehow I find it easier, and more comfortable, to write novels than short fiction. Reading “A Long Way Back” so many years after it was published, I see that my style hasn’t changed all that much. I still try to write clearly and naturalistically. I feel that, especially in science fiction, where there is so much for the reader to swallow, the writing style should be as easy to comprehend as possible.

  What advice do you have for aspiring authors?

  It’s important—vital—to have something to say. Writers should get out and live in the real world, observe real people, learn the rhymes and rhythms of the way people speak and behave. Science fiction actually isn’t about the future, or about technology, or about anything except human beings loving, hating, fearing, hoping. The characters may be in strange and alien surroundings, but good science fiction is first and foremost about people—the same as all good fiction.

  Any anecdotes regarding the story or your experiences as a fledgling writer?

  Well, shortly after “A Long Way Back” was published I received a phone call from Isaac Asimov. We both lived in the Boston area at that time and we were socially friendly. Isaac told me that Cele Goldsmith had asked him to write a nonfiction series for Amazing about extraterrestrial life. Isaac blithely told me that he informed Cele that he was too busy to do it, but his good friend Ben Bova would tackle the job, and Ben knew more about the subject than he (Isaac) did. I nearly dropped the phone and fainted. Isaac cheerfully explained that he would tell me everything he knew about extraterrestrial life, and surely I must know a thing or two that he didn’t, so I would know more about the subject than he did! Cele did indeed ask me to do the series, Isaac did indeed tell me all he knew, and the series helped to establish my name in the science fiction audience.

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  ~ * ~

  Possible to Rue

  by Piers Anthony

  I

  want a pegasus, Daddy,” Junior greeted him at the door, his curly blond head bobbling with excitement. “A small one, with white fluttery wings and an aerodynamic tail and—”

  “You shall have it, Son,” Daddy said warmly, absent-mindedly stripping off jacket and tie. Next week was Bradley Newton, Jr.’s sixth birthday, and Bradley, Senior had promised a copy of Now We Are Six and a pet for his very own. Newton was a man of means, so that this was no empty pledge. He felt he owed it to the boy, to make up in some token the sorrow of Mrs. N’s untimely departure.

  He eased himself into the upholstered chair, vaguely pleased that his son showed such imagination. Another child would have demanded something commonplace, like a mongrel or a Shetland pony. But a pegasus now—

  “Do you mean the winged horse, Son?” Newton inquired, a thin needle of doubt poking into his complacency.

  “That’s right, Daddy,” Junior said brightly. “But it will have to be a very small one, because I want a pegasus that can really fly. A full grown animal’s wings are non-functional because the proportionate wing span is insufficient to get it off the ground.”

  “I understand, Son,” Newton said quickly. “A small one.” People had laughed when he had insisted that Junior’s nurse have a graduate degree in general science. Fortunately he had been able to obtain one inexpensively by hiring her away from the school board. At this moment he regretted that it was her day off; Junior could be very single-minded.

  “Look, Son,” he temporized. “I’m not sure I know where to buy a horse like that. And you’ll have to know how to feed it and care for it, otherwise it would get sick and die. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?

  The boy pondered. “You’re right, Daddy,” he said at last. “We would be well advised to look it up.”

  “Look it up?”

  “In the encyclopedia, Daddy. Haven’t you always told me that it was an authoritative factual reference?”

  The light dawned. Junior believed in the encyclopedia. “My very words, Son. Let’s look it up and see what it says about. . . let’s see . . . here’s Opinion to Possibility . . . should be in this volume. Yes.” He found the place and read aloud. “‘ Pegasus—Horse with wings which sprang from the blood of the Gorgon Medusa after Perseus cut off her head.’”

  ~ * ~

  Junior’s little mouth dropped open. “That has got to be figurative,” he pronounced. “Horses are not created from—”

  “‘... a creature of Greek mythology,’” Newton finished victoriously.

  Junior digested that. “You mean, it doesn’t exist,” he said dispiritedly. Then he brightened. “Daddy, if I ask for something that does exist, then can I have it for a pet?”

  “Certainly, Son. We’ll just look it up here, and if the book says it’s real, we’ll go out and get one. I think that’s a fair bargain.”

  “A unicorn,” Junior said.

  Newton restrained a smile. He reached for the volume marked Trust to Wary and flipped the pages. “‘Unicorn—A mythological creature resembling a horse—’” he began.

  Junior looked at him suspiciously. “Next year I’m going to school and learn to read for myself,” he muttered. “You are alleging that there is no such animal?”

  “That’s what the book says, Son—honest.”

  The boy looked dubious, but decided not to make an issue of it. “All right— let’s try a zebra.” He watched while Newton pulled out Watchful to Indices. “It’s only fair to warn you, Daddy,” he said ominously, “that there is a picture of one on the last page of my alphabet book.”

  “I’ll read you just exactly what it says, Son,” Newton said defensively. “Here it is: ‘Zebra—A striped horselike animal reputed to have lived in Africa. Common in European and American legend, although entirely mythical—

  “Now you’re making that up,” Junior accused angrily. “I’ve got a picture.”

  “But Son—I thought it was real myself. I’ve never seen a zebra, but I thought— look. You have a picture of a ghost too, don’t you? But you know that’s not real.”

  There was a hard set to Junior’s jaw. “The examples are not analogous. Spirits are preternatural—”

  “Why don’t we try another animal?” Newton cut in. “We can come back to the zebra later.”

  “Mule,” Junior said sullenly.

  Newton reddened, then realized that the boy was not being personal. He withdrew the volume covering Morphine to Opiate silently. He was somewhat shaken up by the turn events had taken. Imagine spending all his life believing in an animal that didn’t exist. Yet of course it was stupid to swear by a horse with prison stripes...

  “‘Mule,’” he read. “‘The offspring of the mare and the male ass. A very large, strong hybrid, sure-footed with remarkable sagacity. A creature of folklore, although, like the unicorn and zebra, widely accepted by the credulous....’”

  His son looked at him. “Horse,” he said.

  Newton somewhat warily opened Hoax to Imaginary. He was glad he wasn’t credulous himself. “Right you are, Son. ‘Horse—A fabled hoofed creature prevalent in mythology. A very fleet four-footed animal complete with flowing mane, hairy tail and benevolent disposition. Metallic shoes supposedly worn by the animal are valued as good luck charms, in much the same manner
as the unicorn’s horn—’”

  Junior clouded up dangerously. “Now wait a minute, Son,” Newton spluttered. “I know that’s wrong. I’ve seen horses myself. Why, they use them in TV westerns—”

  “The reasoning is specious,” Junior muttered but his heart wasn’t in it.

  “Look, Son—I’ll prove it. I’ll call the race track I used to place—I mean, I used to go there to see the horses. Maybe they’ll let us visit the stables.” Newton dialed with a quivering linger; spoke into the phone. A brief frustrated interchange later he slammed the received down again. “They race dogs now,” he said.

  He fumbled through the yellow pages, refusing to let himself think. The book skipped rebelliously from Homes to Hospital. He rattled the bar for the operator to demand the number of the nearest horse farm, then angrily dialed “O”; after some confusion he ended up talking to “Horsepower, Inc.,” a tractor dealer.

  Junior surveyed the proceedings with profound disgust.

  “Methinks the queen protests too much,” he quoted sweetly.

  In desperation, Newton called a neighbor. “Listen, Sam—do you know anybody around here who owns a horse? I promised my boy I’d show him one today. . . .”

  Sam’s laughter echoed back over the wire. “You’re a card, Brad. Horses, yet. Do you teach him to believe in fairies too?”

  Newton reluctantly accepted defeat. “I guess I was wrong about the horse, Son,” he said awkwardly. “I could have sworn—but never mind. Just proves a man is never too old to make a mistake. Why don’t you pick something else for your pet? Tell you—whatever you choose, I’ll give you a matched pair.”

  Junior cheered up somewhat. He was quick to recognize a net gain. “How about a bird?”

  Newton smiled in heartfelt relief. “That would be fine, Son, just fine. What kind did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Junior said thoughtfully, “I think I’d like a big bird. A real big bird, like a roc, or maybe a harpy—”

  Newton reached for Possible to Rue.

  ~ * ~

  Piers Anthony

  A

  New York Times best seller many times over, Piers Anthony has been a major figure within the speculative fiction genre since the publication of his first novel, Chthon, in 1967, and its subsequent nominations for both Hugo and Nebula awards. Yet Anthony truly came into his own a decade later with A Spell for Chameleon, the first novel in the wildly popular Xanth series which is currently 34 books long and growing, its unique brand of lighthearted fantasy remaining a seemingly eternal staple of the genre.

  With more than a hundred different novels and collections in print (including one title for each letter of the alphabet, from Anthonoloy to Zombie Lover), Piers Anthony is one of the most prominent and prolific SF writers of all time, and his work continues to inspire video games, board games, and as-of-yet unreleased films—as well as plenty of other authors. Yet while many fans consider A Spell for Chameleon the beginning for Piers Anthony, and scholars might correctly place Chthon as his first major appearance on the SF scene, the true origins of Anthony’s career lie in a deceptively small story called “Possible to Rue.”

  Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?

  I reread “Possible to Rue” 45 years later, and it strikes me as sharply written. The father-son dialogue remains apt, especially the aspect of the child seeming smarter than the parent. I like the ranges of the encyclopedia volumes, which eerily reflect the concerns of the father. And I like the insidious progression of seeming reality to fantasy. Anything looked up in this reference tends to become mythical. Where will it end? That’s the concluding question. So I remain satisfied.

  If you were writing this today, what would you do differently? What are the story’s weaknesses, and how would you change them?

  I think the story works as a teasing question, “What if?” I wouldn’t change it.

  What inspired this story? How did it take shape? Where was it initially published?

  “Possible to Rue” was initially published in the April 1963 issue of Fantastic magazine. I believe the story was inspired by the way encyclopedias mark their volumes—AMERI to AUSTR, for example. Suppose such identifying alphabetical spans became more meaningful?

  Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?

  I was in my first trial year of staying home and writing, while my wife worked to support us. I owe my subsequent career to her support. Making that first sale was a terrific lift—but let’s face it, the $20 I got for it wasn’t enough to live on. Mainly it proved that I could write well enough to get published.

  How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?

  I can’t be sure how my writing has changed over the years, as I always tried to orient on the market I was trying for. I did move into novels, but for an economic reason: they paid more.

  What advice do you have for aspiring authors?

  Have a working spouse.

  Any anecdotes regarding the story or your experiences as a fledgling writer?

  One, with mixed emotions. For years my wife was the main breadwinner in our family, her income larger and more dependable. Then I started getting more successful. When she discovered that her whole annual income was enough to cover only the income tax on my income, she quit in disgust. She has not had to work since. I also tease my smart younger daughter, saying that for years I struggled to get rich enough to send her to college, and then she went on scholarship. Such are the problems of success. I recommend them to other writers interested in that situation.

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  ~ * ~

  Craphound

  by Cory Doctorow

  C

  raphound had wicked yard-sale karma, for a rotten, filthy alien bastard. He was too good at panning out the single grain of gold in a raging river of uselessness for me not to like him -- respect him, anyway. But then he found the cowboy trunk. It was two months’ rent to me and nothing but some squirrelly alien kitsch-fetish to Craphound.

  So I did the unthinkable. I violated the Code. I got into a bidding war with a buddy. Never let them tell you that women poison friendships: in my experience, wounds from women-fights heal quickly; fights over garbage leave nothing behind but scorched earth.

  Craphound spotted the sign -- his karma, plus the goggles in his exoskeleton, gave him the advantage when we were doing 80 kmh on some stretch of back-highway in cottage country. He was riding shotgun while I drove, and we had the radio on to the CBC’s summer-Saturday programming: eight weekends with eight hours of old radio dramas: “The Shadow,” “Quiet Please,” “Tom Mix,” “The Crypt-Keeper” with Bela Lugosi. It was hour three, and Bogey was phoning in his performance on a radio adaptation of The African Queen. I had the windows of the old truck rolled down so that I could smoke without fouling Craphound’s breather. My arm was hanging out the window, the radio was booming, and Craphound said “Turn around! Turn around, now, Jerry, now, turn around!”

  When Craphound gets that excited, it’s a sign that he’s spotted a rich vein. I checked the side-mirror quickly, pounded the brakes and spun around. The transmission creaked, the wheels squealed, and then we were creeping along the way we’d come.

  “There,” Craphound said, gesturing with his long, skinny arm. I saw it. A wooden A-frame real-estate sign, a piece of hand-lettered cardboard stuck overtop of the realtor’s name:

  EAST MUSKOKA VOLUNTEER FIRE-DEPT

  LADIES AUXILIARY RUMMAGE SALE

  SAT 25 JUNE

  “Hoo-eee!” I hollered, and spun the truck onto the dirt road. I gunned the engine as we cruised along the tree-lined road, trusting Craphound to spot any deer, signs, or hikers in time to avert disaster. The sky was a perfect blue and the smells of summer were all around us. I snapped off the radio and listened to the wind rushing through the truck. Ontario is beautiful in the summer.

  “There!” Craphound sho
uted. I hit the turn-off and down-shifted and then we were back on a paved road. Soon, we were rolling into a country fire-station, an ugly brick barn. The hall was lined with long, folding tables, stacked high. The mother lode!

  Craphound beat me out the door, as usual. His exoskeleton is programmable, so he can record little scripts for it like: move left arm to door handle, pop it, swing legs out to running-board, jump to ground, close door, move forward. Meanwhile, I’m still making sure I’ve switched off the headlights and that I’ve got my wallet.

  Two blue-haired grannies had a card-table set up out front of the hall, with a big tin pitcher of lemonade and three boxes of Tim Horton assorted donuts. That stopped us both, since we share the superstition that you always buy food from old ladies and little kids, as a sacrifice to the crap-gods. One of the old ladies poured out the lemonade while the other smiled and greeted us.