Again, Dangerous Visions Part 39

So far, nothing had been accomplished about my eye-not only was it beginning to ache something fierce, but my I was beginning to twinge a bit also and I had a feeling that that too might be going opaque.

"Have you found yourself yet?!!" one of the speakers in the park demanded. (I hadn't even looked-and remembering my previous experiences with looking for things, I certainly was not going to initiate any kind of a search.) I walked on.

Farther on, there was another speaker-this one on a soup box. "We should be thankful for this great nation of ours," the speaker woofed and tweetered, "where so many people are allowed to believe in so many different things."

I rubbed at my eye. I had an uneasy queasy feeling that great cracks were opening in the ceiling.

"Anyone can get up and speak for his cause-any group can believe in anything they choose-indeed we can remake the world if we want to! And in our own images!"

Things were teetering right and left-also write and wrong.

"But the truly great thing about it," he continued, "is that no matter how much we contradict each other, we are all working together for the common good! Our great democratic system lets us minimize our differences so that we can all compromise ourselves. Only by suggesting all the alternatives to a problem can we select the best possible solution. In the long run, this ultimate freedom and individuality will help all of us to achieve the most good for the most people!"

It sounded good to me.

When I got home, the workmen were just finis.h.i.+ng with the wallpaper. It was amazing how solid the surface looked once all the cracks and flaws in it had been covered with a gaudy flowered facade.

I could no longer tell where the plaster had given way-and the bare surface of the understructure had disappeared into the fog. Indeed, the only thing was that the ceiling seemed to be much lower than before.

I paused long enough to stroke the cat. He waved as I came in. "Like-h.e.l.lo, man," said the cat. "Give me a J."

"I can't. I'm having trouble with my I."

"Well, then give me a dollar."

"What for?"

"For a trip," he said.

"Oh." I gave him a dollar, waited for the trip.

He dropped the bill into his mouth, lit it, picked up his suitcase and quickly rose to a cruising level of thirty thousand feet. Then he headed west. I did not quite understand this. The fog had gotten much worse and the controllers were just not letting any traffic through.

There had been something I had wanted to ask, but I had forgotten it. Oh, well-it couldn't have been very important. But I wish I could figure out- The man on the TV was a Doctor. He sat on top of it with his feet dangling in front of the screen (his cleats were scratching the image) and said that the drugs were destroying the realities. Drugs could destroy a person's sanity by altering his perceptions of the world until he could no longer perceive reality at all.

"Just so long as it doesn't change what he believes in," I muttered and turned him off. Then I turned him out. It was getting late and I wanted to get some sleep. However, I did make a mental note not to have my prescription refilled. Already the wallpaper was peeling.

In fact, by now, only the framework of the structure is left, and it looks like it's made out of chocolate pudding. Maybe it is. Perhaps it is is the drugs. Maybe they the drugs. Maybe they are are altering our collective fogments-but I haven't noticed anything. altering our collective fogments-but I haven't noticed anything.

Afterword.

I've often wondered just what the difference is between a madman and a politician, I suspect it has something to do with the number of followers that either has.

For instance, what would Mao Tse-Tung be without 700 million Chinese under him? Just another cranky old man.

I remember once seeing a cartoon showing a psychiatrist looking out of his office window at an arriving patient. There below him, on the street, was a royal coach drawn by four ornately harnessed thoroughbreds. There was a coachman, two footmen, and a very regal looking set of guards-all very loyally aiding a man dressed disturbingly like Napoleon.

That cartoon says it better than any set of words. When we start taking our madmen seriously, we're in trouble. Look what happened when Germany started listening to a deranged paper-hanger.

Too many of our insanities are tolerated because they are harmless on an individual level-but multiply them by a millionfold and you have a nation that is culturally sick. These things stem from each individual's conception of himself-which he arbitrarily a.s.sumes to be the nature of the world as well. These conceptions are haphazardly picked up during youth-along with all of the other opinions, neuroses, hangups and etceteras common to the human animal.

(Sometimes I wonder how some people can do some of the things they do to impressionable children-don't they realize it's not the child they're hurting, but the adult who will stem from that child? Ah, but that's a rhetorical question-) As yet, there doesn't seem to be any way to prove that any one person's set of conceptions, opinions, neuroses, hangups and etceteras are any more correct than anyone else's set-let alone sane. (Define sanity.) Keeping this in mind about all human beings-and especially those who consider themselves leaders- leaders-I ask, shouldn't we concentrate on ascertaining just what the questions are before we decide on the answers?

Introduction to IN THE BARN.

More than any other writer, Piers Anthony is responsible for there being being an an Again, Dangerous Visions Again, Dangerous Visions and a forthcoming final volume in (what has now become a) trilogy. I talked about that a bit in the general introduction to this book, but I think it bears repeating here, in Piers's own little section preceding "In the Barn," which is very much the kind of and a forthcoming final volume in (what has now become a) trilogy. I talked about that a bit in the general introduction to this book, but I think it bears repeating here, in Piers's own little section preceding "In the Barn," which is very much the kind of story story that was being sought when DV was first conceived. that was being sought when DV was first conceived.

In the introduction to David Gerrold's story, which you've just read, if you're dealing with this literary ent.i.ty sequentially, I noted that David had come to sf not through the traditional channels accepted by the old-line aficionados aficionados, but via TV, a totem and a route of his times. Rather than struggling up through the pulp magazines, writing c.r.a.p at a penny-a-word for ten years, or pounding out witless action paperbacks for a grand-and-a-half (for four months' work), Gerrold got his break into sf paid handsomely for a different kind kind of dreaming. But not till he had written those penny-a-word stories for the magazines-in some ways lesser work than his TV script-was he accepted by the cadre. The ma.s.s of sf readers and fans are a fickle people. They don't take to newcomers all that quickly, though the editors and their fellow-writers do. The fans seem loath to raise to the heights too quickly, those new writers constantly banging on the doors and breaking the windows of the house of sf glory. of dreaming. But not till he had written those penny-a-word stories for the magazines-in some ways lesser work than his TV script-was he accepted by the cadre. The ma.s.s of sf readers and fans are a fickle people. They don't take to newcomers all that quickly, though the editors and their fellow-writers do. The fans seem loath to raise to the heights too quickly, those new writers constantly banging on the doors and breaking the windows of the house of sf glory.

Most frequently, the fans will have known about a writer for some time, will have followed his life and his career, particularly if he started out in the ranks of fandom, writing for the amateur magazines, finally selling a story here, a story there. And eventually, when a fan turned writer has paid sufficient dues in the eyes of the omniscient observers, they will grudgingly admit him to the ranks of the professionals, even though he may have been selling for ten years. It is a peculiar kind of peer-group acceptance, and it's as Robert Silverberg once said: for that kind of writer, his public progress in the craft is like that of the Chambered Nautilus, the cephalopod that moves through the various rooms of its sh.e.l.l till it emerges and dies. In effect, it carries its past on its back. So, too, do sf writers who have to win the approbation of sf fans. The fans never forget. They find it difficult to deal with the reality of a writer today today, as he is. They see him still as eighteen years old and trying to effect the metamorphosis from amateur to pro. It can be a killing thing, forever shadowed in the eyes of one's "audience" by the ineradicable record of what one has been. Some writers never outgrow the need to win the praise of that tiny coterie of vocal fans. And there are writers in our genre whose work has been stunted forever because fans did not want them to move forward, change, expand. If you doubt the truth of these remarks-and I await with a certain stoicism the inevitability of fan magazine response to these harsh criticisms of The Faithful-you need only ask Isaac Asimov how he feels when fans tell him the best thing he's ever written is "Nightfall," published in 1941, years before the first of his hundred-plus books. You need only ask Philip K. d.i.c.k or James Schmitz or Robert Heinlein or any of the many other writers who avoid contact with fandom, why they have chosen to absent themselves from close contact with organized fans and their publications. You need only ask Kurt Vonnegut why he fought so hard to have the words "science fiction" disa.s.sociated from his work. That is, if you can track them down.

Only rarely in our field does a writer emerge quickly and totally, like Athena from the forehead of Zeus, whole and complete, writing the way he or she wants to write, and giving very little of a d.a.m.n for the opinions of the fans with their frequently already-formed conceptions of what is acceptable in the genre.

It happened with Sheckley, and it happened with Ursula Le Guin, and it happened with Lafferty, and it happened with Norman Spinrad, and it happened with Tom Disch...

And it happened with Piers Anthony.

He came into being between the closing of Dangerous Visions Dangerous Visions to contributors, and the book's publication. In that one year-1967-Piers Anthony's to contributors, and the book's publication. In that one year-1967-Piers Anthony's Chthon Chthon (p.r.o.nounced (p.r.o.nounced th thon) was published by Betty Ballantine (whose antennas for new writers are supersensitive and almost always amazingly accurate) and was an immediate sensation. It was nominated for both the Hugo and the Nebula in that year, and though it missed copping the awards, the name Piers Anthony was suddenly a first-rank one. His work began appearing in all the top magazines, and more important, what he wrote was talked about. He became a focal point of controversy, and when his contentiously exciting replies to critics began appearing in the fanzines, it was apparent here was a man who was willing to stand toe-to-toe with all the self-styled little literary dictators, and punch the s.h.i.+t out of them when their opinions were muddle-headed or impertinent or uninformed. And often when they weren't.

I met Piers A. D. Jacob at Damon Knight's 1966 Milford (Penna.) Writers' Workshop, and while it took some time till later for us to become what each of us would call "friends," we developed instant respect for one another. I know I did for him, and he a.s.sures me the reverse was true. Though I don't recall Piers ever raising his voice at that workshop-a situation in which obsidian idols would become hysterical-his presence was felt, and he had the strength of personal conviction to attack with solid literary judgments some of the G.o.ds in attendance. When we all went out to dinner at one of the lesser dining spas in Milford, Piers ordered a special vegetarian meal (with some difficulty), and my respect for him increased at the manner in which he handled the remarks and stares of his fellow writers. It was clear that Piers was his own kind of man, that he had decided in what way he could best support the kind of life he felt he needed to enrich himself, and in the most laudatory senses of the word he was a "strange" man. In some ways he is the most interesting of all the interesting people who write sf. The fascination of the man, incidentally, carries over strongly into his work, and-if I can be pardoned equating the writer with what he writes-where his soul resides in life has much to do with the depth of his stories.

In any case, Piers was too late for DV, but he wrote a very long, very perceptive review of the book for one of the fanzines, and in it he mentioned that if there was to be a sequel, he would rain fire and brimstone on me if he was overlooked. At that point, contemplating no companion volumes, I regretted having closed the book just before the advent of Anthony, because I was deeply impressed by Chthon Chthon.

And later, when Larry Ashmead shunted my little red wagon onto the spur leading to A,DV and it became obvious I should not repeat anybody who'd been in the first volume, I started drawing up a list of writers I wanted in this book. The first name on the list was Piers Anthony. He seemed to embody all the qualities necessary for an appearance in a book intended to carry forward the ideas of DV: he had come to prominence during the period of "the new wave" (G.o.d forgive my use of that phrase), he wrote in a style and with a verve peculiarly his own, he had a sound grounding in the disciplines of the best sf of the past, he was outspoken, his themes were fresh and different, and he was brave.

So I solicited a story from him.

He sent me a ma.n.u.script t.i.tled "The Barn" and I liked it very much. I made a few suggestions for revision and wondered if he'd mind adding "In" to the t.i.tle.

Here, in part, was his response, included with this introduction to the man himself, as a (hopefully) interesting insight into how an editor and a writer can work together.

October 14, 1968 Dear Harlan, When I saw the ms of "The Barn" back, I knew my work had bounced...yet again, and of course that particular piece had no real hope of publication elsewhere. You had nicely preserved the ms by backing it with cardboard, though, and used your own envelope. I had enclosed postage but not envelope because I had figured you would want the story. Ah, well, and I took the story out-and discovered that the cardboard was instead a six-page cardboard-colored letter accepting accepting the story. You, b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you shook me up again. the story. You, b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you shook me up again.

Business first: can do. You ask for revision not not deleting the meaty portions, but intensifying them by increasing the protagonist's personal involvement. You are talking my language. Fact is, the version of the story I showed you I knew was sketchy, because I concentrated on the brutality, the shock value. As it stood, I did not consider it high-cla.s.s literature-yet it seemed to me it could be improved quite a bit by filling in more on the hero (?), Hitch. His own background, a frustrated love affair, some kind of emotional parallel to what he saw in the barn-but I didn't do it a) because it would have lengthened the story, that might already be unacceptable because of what it described, and b) because it would have required additional work and craftsmans.h.i.+p, and I've put my full skill into my work only to have it bounced by all markets too many times already. One does hesitate to open his vein too far if he suspects his blood is draining not into a patient clinging to life but a rank sewer. deleting the meaty portions, but intensifying them by increasing the protagonist's personal involvement. You are talking my language. Fact is, the version of the story I showed you I knew was sketchy, because I concentrated on the brutality, the shock value. As it stood, I did not consider it high-cla.s.s literature-yet it seemed to me it could be improved quite a bit by filling in more on the hero (?), Hitch. His own background, a frustrated love affair, some kind of emotional parallel to what he saw in the barn-but I didn't do it a) because it would have lengthened the story, that might already be unacceptable because of what it described, and b) because it would have required additional work and craftsmans.h.i.+p, and I've put my full skill into my work only to have it bounced by all markets too many times already. One does hesitate to open his vein too far if he suspects his blood is draining not into a patient clinging to life but a rank sewer.

OK-it seems to me now that we see eye-to-eye on this story, that lengthening and strengthening of personal involvement will not be effort wasted on you, and I shall go to it. You suggest that Hitch might f.u.c.k (that word won't be used in the story: not because I'm prudish, but because it would strike at a different cerebral level than I'm aiming for in this story) her, and feel an attachment. So what I have in mind is to run through the sick scene-hand-milking, a.n.a.l temperature, heated erection (what is is the term for perpetual and painful erection? I needed it for this story, couldn't remember it, and couldn't find it listed. I thought it was peripeneurises or some such, but found no such word in my dictionary. d.a.m.n frustrating, to know the word exists but not be able to pinpoint it.) pretty much as before, then have the contact with Iota, the teen-aged breeder, be too much.... the term for perpetual and painful erection? I needed it for this story, couldn't remember it, and couldn't find it listed. I thought it was peripeneurises or some such, but found no such word in my dictionary. d.a.m.n frustrating, to know the word exists but not be able to pinpoint it.) pretty much as before, then have the contact with Iota, the teen-aged breeder, be too much....

Main reason I stick to novels now is that I have yet to fail to sell an sf novel, yet still can not sell more than about one story in five, though it is the same skill applied to each form. Seems as though the magazines are determined to bounce anything with any reasonable spark of originality or imagination-but let's not get back into that gripe. You proved the truth of any complaints I might make when you published DV. (You know, I haven't seen any other editor claim he would would have published "Riders of the Purple Wage" either. They still claim it is a wide-open market, but they don't mention that...) have published "Riders of the Purple Wage" either. They still claim it is a wide-open market, but they don't mention that...) You say you created A,DV just for me? me? I find that hard to believe. How about this: you are afraid that if you don't include me, I will review it again...anyway, whatever the weight of various factors, I'm glad you had the first and will have a second. The field does need this type of shaking up. Even more, the field needs the replacement of about four magazine editors...but that's another matter. You realize, I trust, that you won't be able to come up with another "Purple Wage," and that all the people who condemned I find that hard to believe. How about this: you are afraid that if you don't include me, I will review it again...anyway, whatever the weight of various factors, I'm glad you had the first and will have a second. The field does need this type of shaking up. Even more, the field needs the replacement of about four magazine editors...but that's another matter. You realize, I trust, that you won't be able to come up with another "Purple Wage," and that all the people who condemned it it will then condemn will then condemn you you for not duplicating the feat? Yeah, you know. for not duplicating the feat? Yeah, you know.

Lastly, the baby. She's a year old now, been walking since 9 months, has shoulder-length hair, is impossibly cute. My prejudice, of course-except that everyone who sees her agrees. Name is Penelope-"Penny"-kind of you to inquire. I can't do much writing on the days I am taking care of her (my wife works 3 days a week, thus I work the remaining 4), but should be able to handle the "Barn" revision this coming weekend. You should be hearing from me again, then, in about a week.

Sincerely, Piers

And then, just five days later, I received the following...

October 19, 1968 Dear Harlan, Here, 4,000 words longer, is "In the Barn." I incorporated your notions and mine, and have what I believe is a superior version. I have not proofread it, so there will be typos etc., but wanted to get it out to you as soon as possible. Hurricane Gladys pa.s.sed by here in the last day, and we were without power for 17 hours, so portions of the ma.n.u.script were typed by kerosene lamplight.

This revision helped take my mind off a different problem. Four days ago I had a call from the last publisher I submitted my novel Macroscope Macroscope to, Avon. He was ready to offer an advance of $5,000 without significant revision...but it turned out he hadn't read the last 90 pages. Since those very pages made another publisher change its mind, I advised him to finish the ms, then make his offer again if he still felt the same. He said ok, he'd call back in a day or two...and that was the last I heard. Ouch! Did I scare him off? to, Avon. He was ready to offer an advance of $5,000 without significant revision...but it turned out he hadn't read the last 90 pages. Since those very pages made another publisher change its mind, I advised him to finish the ms, then make his offer again if he still felt the same. He said ok, he'd call back in a day or two...and that was the last I heard. Ouch! Did I scare him off?

Piers

As it turned out, Piers had not scared off Avon's editor, George Ernsberger, and Macroscope Macroscope was published in 1969 to mixed, but controversial, reviews. was published in 1969 to mixed, but controversial, reviews.

In the last few years Piers has run afoul of the Recession-produced wearies even longer-established, bigger-name writers have come to know. (We can thank Messrs. Nixon, Agnew, Mitch.e.l.l, Rogers et thugs et thugs for that condition of life: possibly the most innovative method yet devised for "balancing the economy." They may balance it so well that within a short time we'll all be back on the barter system, which might not be a bad idea at that. Anyhow...) Yet he has continued to write, and his work continues to be marked by vigor, innovation and a commendable fearlessness. for that condition of life: possibly the most innovative method yet devised for "balancing the economy." They may balance it so well that within a short time we'll all be back on the barter system, which might not be a bad idea at that. Anyhow...) Yet he has continued to write, and his work continues to be marked by vigor, innovation and a commendable fearlessness.

I think "In the Barn" will surprise, delight and possibly even shock a few of you; but whatever its final judgment by critics and posterity, it holds for this editor the essence of what this book attempts to do in advancing sf and the fiction of the imagination.

As for the man behind the story, I include here his autobiographical musings, in many ways as fascinating as the stories they helped produce. Friends, I give you Piers A. D. Jacob.

"I was born in Oxford, England on August 6, 1934, thus (I think) beating out John Brunner for the honor of being the first contemporary sf writer to be born in that particular locale by about six weeks. Both my parents graduated from Oxford University, which is why I happened to be there at the time. They both went on to obtain Ph.D's in America, while I went on to become an, er, science fiction writer. Happens in the best of families. I lived in England to about the age of four, when I joined my parents in Spain. They were doing relief work under the auspices of the AFSC (American Friends Service Committee), feeding milk and food to the hungry children during the Spanish civil war. I believe my father, Alfred Jacob (brother, that fouls up my pseudonym, doesn't it) was head of the Spanish AFSC relief project. When Franco took over, things became dubious; my family's sympathies were with the Loyalists, who lost that war. One day my father disappeared. After several days he managed to smuggle out a note, and thus was doc.u.mented what the new government had denied: he had been thrown in jail. One of those holes with a trench for sanitary facilities and no separate bathrooms for the female prisoners: the sort you read about in novels but don't really believe exist. They do do exist. He got out, but the agreement was that he would depart the country. That spared the Fascists having to admit they had made a mistake. I don't know what happened to the stores of food for the starving children after that, but I doubt they went where intended. We boarded the exist. He got out, but the agreement was that he would depart the country. That spared the Fascists having to admit they had made a mistake. I don't know what happened to the stores of food for the starving children after that, but I doubt they went where intended. We boarded the Excalibur Excalibur (this is from memory, so I don't guarantee s.h.i.+p or spelling, but I think that's it) and steamed for America in August, 1940. It happened to be the same s.h.i.+p and the same voyage that the Duke of Windsor made, going to the Bahamas. Remember, he was King Edward VIII of England, who reigned for less than a year until he abdicated in order to marry an American divorcee. I had my sixth birthday on that voyage, celebrated by a cake made of sawdust (they were short of party supplies: WW II, you know) and a harmonica present. I played the latter endlessly, and I wonder to this day whether the one time King of England had to grit his teeth at the interminable racket. (this is from memory, so I don't guarantee s.h.i.+p or spelling, but I think that's it) and steamed for America in August, 1940. It happened to be the same s.h.i.+p and the same voyage that the Duke of Windsor made, going to the Bahamas. Remember, he was King Edward VIII of England, who reigned for less than a year until he abdicated in order to marry an American divorcee. I had my sixth birthday on that voyage, celebrated by a cake made of sawdust (they were short of party supplies: WW II, you know) and a harmonica present. I played the latter endlessly, and I wonder to this day whether the one time King of England had to grit his teeth at the interminable racket.

"School in America was no fun. I attended five schools while struggling through first grade, flunking it twice. Those first grade schools were in five states, too: Pennsylvania, Vermont, New Hamps.h.i.+re, Maine and New York. If I were to judge states by that sampling, I would rate Pennsylvania at the top, New Hamps.h.i.+re in the middle, and the rest at the bottom. In New York they were trying to teach me to p.r.o.nounce my words correctly-not realizing that it was my English accent my English accent they were attempting to eradicate. they were attempting to eradicate.

"College was a kind of paradise. All the food I could eat (and I ate more than any person my size I know, without gaining weight) and almost complete freedom. It was a no-grade system, so there was no cla.s.s pressure except the student's own desire to learn, and my desire was not particularly strong at first. Much of that freedom was wasted, as I did not achieve p.u.b.erty until age 18 and did not shave until 21, but I did learn the essentials, as demonstrated by the fact that I got married upon graduation. For my thesis I wrote a science fiction novel, at 95,000 words the longest thesis in the history of the college until that time, 1956. It never sold, but years later I reworked one segment of it for a contest and won $5,000. I was drafted into the army in March, 1957, took basic at Ft. Dix and Survey training at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma.

"The army was not paradise. I, as a pacifistically inclined vegetarian, barely made it through basic (about a third of my cycle didn't- didn't-illness, mostly). They called me 'No Meat.' When the time came for me to make PFC they pulled a battery rank-freeze. I went to the battalion C.O. and next day exactly one PFC stripe came down: mine.

"In 1959 we moved to Florida, where we stayed. We had medical problems, so that we were married eleven years before we had a baby survive birth. Our first, Penny, came in 1967, and our second, Chery, in 1970; both bright, cute little girls well worth waiting for. Penny walked at 9 months and spoke 500 words by 18 months; not sure I can do as much myself, some days! We're basically settled and happy, and now I've even conformed to the writer's image by growing a beard.

"My writing career has been similar to other aspects of my life. I wrote on and off for eight years before selling my first story late in 1962, for $20.

"I have sold stories to all the major sf magazines in this country (hard to count exactly, because some have been republished as portions of a novel)-a score or so, I guess. Eleven novels at this writing, with four more on the market, and more in progress, since I earn my living by writing. They range from juvenile sf to p.o.r.nographic fantasy, though my ultimate aspiration is to write straight history. Six have sold in England, and I have a few translation sales: Holland, Germany, j.a.pan.

"t.i.tles of novels: Chthon Chthon (Ballantine 1967); (Ballantine 1967); Sos the Rope Sos the Rope (F&SF, Pyramid, 1968, contest winner); (F&SF, Pyramid, 1968, contest winner); The Ring The Ring (with Robert Margroff; Ace Special 1968); (with Robert Margroff; Ace Special 1968); Omnivore Omnivore (Ballantine 1968, SF Book Club 1969); (Ballantine 1968, SF Book Club 1969); Macroscope Macroscope (Avon 1969); (Avon 1969); The E.S.P. Worm The E.S.P. Worm (w/Margroff; Paperback Library 1970; (w/Margroff; Paperback Library 1970; Orn Orn (serialized in (serialized in Amazing Amazing magazine, 1970; Avon 1971? SF Book Club 1971?); magazine, 1970; Avon 1971? SF Book Club 1971?); Hasan Hasan (serialized in (serialized in Fantastic Fantastic magazine, 196970; bought by a book publisher but written off without publication in 1971); magazine, 196970; bought by a book publisher but written off without publication in 1971); Var the Stick Var the Stick (Bantam 1971?); (Bantam 1971?); Prostho Plus Prostho Plus (the dental series novelized; Berkley 1972?); (the dental series novelized; Berkley 1972?); Neq the Sword Neq the Sword (Bantam 1972?). Question marks indicate my guess when they will be published. One novel, (Bantam 1972?). Question marks indicate my guess when they will be published. One novel, Chthon Chthon, was in the running for both Nebula and Hugo, but made neither; Macroscope Macroscope was on the Hugo ballot but lost, and one of the dental stories, 'Getting Through University,' was also on the Hugo ballot." was on the Hugo ballot but lost, and one of the dental stories, 'Getting Through University,' was also on the Hugo ballot."

IN THE BARN.

Piers Anthony The barn was tremendous. It was reminiscent, Hitch thought, of the red giants of cla.s.sical New England (not to be confused with the blue dwarfs of contemporary farming), but subtly different. The adjacent fences were there as usual, together with the granary and corncrib and round silo and even a standard milkhouse at one end. To one side was a shed with a large tractor and cultivating machinery, and to the other were conventional mounds of hay. But the curves and planes of the main structure-a genuine farmer could probably have called out fifty major and minor aspects of distinction from anything known on Earth-Prime.

Hitch, however, was not a connoisseur of barns, EP or otherwise; he was merely a capable masculine interworld investigator briefed in farming techniques. He could milk a cow, fork manure, operate a disc-harrow or supervise the processing of corn silage-but the nuances of bucolic architecture were beyond him.

This, mundane as it might appear, was it: the site of his dangerous inter-earth mission. Counter-Earth #772, located by another fluke of the probability aperture, and for him a routine investigation into a nonroutine situation. Almost a thousand Earth-alternates had been discovered in the brief decade the aperture had operated reliably, most quite close to Earth-Prime in type. Several even had the same current U.S. President, making for rather intriguing dialogues between heads-of-state. If, as some theorists would have it, this was a case of parallel evolution of worlds, the parallels were exceedingly close; if a case of divergence from Earth-Prime (or if EP represented a split from one of the other worlds-heretical thought!), the break or series of breaks had occurred quite recently.

But only Earth-Prime had developed the aperture; only EP could send its natives into alternate frameworks and bring them back whole, live and sane. Thus it claimed the t.i.tle of stem-world, the originator, and none of the others had been able to refute it. None-yet. Hitch tried not to think too much about the time when a more advanced Earth would be encountered-one that could talk back. Or fight back.

On the surface, #772 was similar to the other worlds he had visited during past missions, except for one thing. It was r.e.t.a.r.ded. It appeared to have suffered from some planetary cataclysm that had set it back technologically thirty years or so. A giant meteor-strike, a recent ice-age-Hitch was not much on historical or geological a.n.a.lysis, but knew that something had severely reduced its animal life, and so set everything back while the people readjusted.

There were no bears on #772, no camels, no horses, sheep or dogs. No cats or pigs. Few rodents. Man, in fact, was about the only mammal that remained, and it would be centuries before he had any overpopulation problem here. Perhaps a germ from outer s.p.a.ce had wiped the mammals out, or a bad freeze; Hitch didn't know and hardly cared. His concern was with immediacies. His job was to find out how it was that livestock was such an important enterprise, dominating the economics of this world. Barns were everywhere, and milk was a staple industry-yet there were no cows or goats or similar domesticants.

That was why he now stood before this barn. Within it must lie the secret to #772's sinister success.

So-a little innocuous snooping, before the official welcome to EP's commonwealth of alternates. Earth-Prime did not want to back into an alliance with a repressive dictators.h.i.+p or human-sacrifice society or whatever other bizarrity might be manifested. Every alternate was was different, in some obvious or devious manner, and some were-well, no matter what Io said, that was not his worry. She liked to lecture him on the theoretical elements of alternistic intercourse, while cleverly avoiding the more practical man-woman intercourse different, in some obvious or devious manner, and some were-well, no matter what Io said, that was not his worry. She liked to lecture him on the theoretical elements of alternistic intercourse, while cleverly avoiding the more practical man-woman intercourse he he craved. In the months he had known her; he had developed a considerable frustration. craved. In the months he had known her; he had developed a considerable frustration.

Now he had to make like a farmhand, in the name of Earth-Prime security and diplomacy. A fine s.e.x-sublimation that that promised to be! He could. contemplate manure and dream of Iolanthe's face. promised to be! He could. contemplate manure and dream of Iolanthe's face.

He kicked a clod of dirt and advanced on his mission. Too bad the initial surveyor had not taken the trouble to peek into a barn. But virgin-world investigators were notoriously gun-shy if not outright cowards. They; popped in and out again in seconds, repeating in scattered locations, then turned their automatic cameras and sensors over to the lab for processing in detail while they resumed well-paid vacations. The dirty work was left to the second-round investigators like Hitch.

Behind the barn were long corrals extending down to a meandering river. That would be where the livestock foraged during the day. But the only photograph of such an area had evidently been taken of a cleanup session, because human beings had been in the pastures instead of animals. Typically blundering surveyor!

No, he had to be fair, even to a first-rounder. The work was was risky, because there was no way to tell in advance what menaces lurked upon an unprobed alternate. The man might land in a cloud of mustard-gas or worse, or in the jaws of a carnosaur, and pop back into EP a blistered or b.l.o.o.d.y hulk. He had to keep himself alive long enough for his equipment to function properly, and there was no time to poke into such things as barns. Robotic equipment couldn't be used because of the peril of having it fall into inimical hands. The first investigator of #772 probably had not even been aware of the shortage of animals, nor would he have considered it significant. Only the tedious lab a.n.a.lysis had showed up the incongruity of this particular world. risky, because there was no way to tell in advance what menaces lurked upon an unprobed alternate. The man might land in a cloud of mustard-gas or worse, or in the jaws of a carnosaur, and pop back into EP a blistered or b.l.o.o.d.y hulk. He had to keep himself alive long enough for his equipment to function properly, and there was no time to poke into such things as barns. Robotic equipment couldn't be used because of the peril of having it fall into inimical hands. The first investigator of #772 probably had not even been aware of the shortage of animals, nor would he have considered it significant. Only the tedious lab a.n.a.lysis had showed up the incongruity of this particular world.

Still, that picture was unusual. Maybe it had been a barnyard party, because in the foreground had been a splendidly naked woman. The farmers of #772 evidently knew how to let off steam, once the hay was in!

Once he got home, he he was going to let off steam-and this time sweet Io would not divert the subject until well after the ellipsis. was going to let off steam-and this time sweet Io would not divert the subject until well after the ellipsis.

He was very near the barn now, but in no hurry. His mission could terminate suddenly therein, and natural caution restrained him.

Transfer to #772 had been no problem. A mere opening of the interworld veil, a boost through, and Hitch was in the same geographic area of another frame of reality. When he finished here, a coded touch on the stud embedded in his skull would summon the recovery aperture in seconds, and he would be hooked back through. He was in no danger so long as he kept alert enough to antic.i.p.ate trouble by those few seconds. All he had to do was make his investigation and get the facts without arousing suspicion or getting into trouble with the locals. He was allowed no weapon other than a nondescript knife strapped to his ankle, per the usual policy. He agreed; imagine the trouble a lost stunner could cause...

So far it had been deceptively simple. He had been landed in a wooded area near a fair-sized town, so that his entry had not flabbergasted any happenstance observer. That was another fringe benefit of the initial survey: the identification of suitable places for more leisurely entry. It wouldn't do to find himself superimposed upon a tree!

He had walked into that town and filched a newspaper. The language of #772 matched that of EP, at least in America, and he read the cla.s.sified section without difficulty. Only the occasional slang terms put him off. Under HELP WANTED were a number of ads for livestock attendants. That was what he was here for.

No bovines or caprines or equines or porcines-what did did they use? they use?

The gentleman farmer to whom he applied at break of day hadn't even checked his faked credentials. Hitch had counted on that; dawn was rush-hour for a farm, and an under-staffed outfit could hardly be choosy then. "Excellent! We need an experienced man. We have some fine animals here, and we don't like to skimp on supervision. We try to take good care of our stock."