Astounding! (5 page)

Harper’s obvious attempts to get himself under control took several moments. Finally he gave a shaky little nod. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans. I didn’t expect you.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I’m Carter, okay?”

That brought a ghost of a smile to Harper’s face. “I’m John.”

“Can we talk somewhere, John? I can take you out to coffee, or….”

John stepped slightly to the side and gestured toward the inside of his house. “Please. Come in.”

It was possible, Carter thought as he stepped over the threshold, that he was entering the home of an ax murderer. Or John might be harboring
Misery
-like fantasies, with plans focused on slowly torturing editors rather than authors. Hell, Carter had met plenty of writers and would-be writers who’d probably be thrilled to be granted an hour-long session with an editor and some hard-core BDSM gear. But Carter had shown up unannounced, nearly making poor John faint, and he couldn’t really refuse hospitality now.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the small living room was a floor-to-ceiling shelf holding what appeared to be every single issue of
Astounding!
Other magazines and books shared the shelves as well, but his publication held an obvious place of honor.

“See?” John said, grinning more openly now. “I told you I’d read them all.”

“I believe you.”

“They’re wonderful. Every issue. I wish I could tell you how much these stories have meant to me.” His grin faded and his shoulders drooped. “I’ve always known I could never be anywhere near good enough to be published in your magazine.”

Carter couldn’t dispute that assessment, so instead of saying anything, he stared awkwardly at the ugly overhead lamp. It was in good condition, but like the rest of the room’s furnishings, it looked straight out of the 1950s. Carter had never been a big fan of midcentury modern. Not that he could lay claim to any particular decorating scheme in his apartment—apart from early twenty-first-century squalor.

“Can I get you something to drink?” John asked.

“Some water would be great,” answered Carter, who wanted whiskey. After John scurried away, presumably toward the kitchen, Carter perused the eclectic array of books. Lots of sci-fi ranging from Asimov to Zelazny, but also plenty of other fiction genres, plus a healthy collection of nonfiction. It almost looked as if John had chosen his books randomly, maybe from discount bins or yard sales, yet everything was carefully categorized and alphabetized.

The room held few other personal items. No knickknacks or photos, no souvenirs. However, a large framed landscape hung on one wall. It depicted a flat, grassy land with a vast starry sky. It was peaceful, if you were into horizontal things. A native of the Pacific Northwest, Carter preferred the vertical: towering trees and snow-capped mountains.

Below the painting was a large, slightly battered desk that held a neat stack of papers, a ceramic cup full of pens and pencils, and an ancient manual typewriter. It was a portable model in powder blue. A piece of paper had been threaded through the carriage, but it was blank.

John returned with a glass in his hand. “Here you go,” he said, handing it over. “I hope you don’t mind that there’s no ice. I don’t have any.”

“This is fine.” Carter took a sip. It was the temperature of tap water, but it soothed his throat.

“Would you like to sit?” John waved at one of the two identical green chairs that flanked a tiered end table. A matching couch barely fit the room. John was still visibly nervous—understandable under the circumstances—but Carter somehow had the impression that John didn’t often get visitors.

So Carter sat. He put the envelope on the table, pressing it flat before placing his glass on top. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Of course not. I’m… I’m really thrilled to meet you. And I was only reading, anyway.” John pointed at a book on the table’s top tier. It was a biography of Theodore Roosevelt.

Carter nodded, swallowed some water, stared at the painting. Finally he cleared his throat. “I came to apologize.”

“Apologize?” John seemed puzzled.

“For that… that letter I wrote. It was nasty. I’m sorry. I was having a bad day and I was drunk and I screwed up. I’m usually more professional than that.”

John blinked at him. “You came here for that?”

The most honest answer Carter could give him was a shrug, because in fact more than just guilt had driven him. He drank more water.

“You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Ev—Carter. I understand that I’ve taken up far too much of your time. You must be very frustrated with me. I should be the one apologizing.”

There was definitely something unusual about this man, something Carter couldn’t quite put a finger on. But John seemed sane and rational. Hell, he seemed like a nice guy. Sad, maybe—his eyes carried shadows—but a lot of people were sad. Every human had a burden.

“Why do you keep sending me stories, John? Why is it so important to you?” Carter meant to try to tease the answers out gradually, but he had no idea how to go about doing so. And he was neither a subtle man nor a patient one.

Instead of answering, John turned to stare at the painting. He gnawed at his lower lip and rubbed the nubby fabric of the chair arm. “It’s a good magazine,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, it is. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Are you trying to prove something to someone?”

To Carter’s surprise, John laughed a little. “No. Nothing like that. Nobody in the world except me cares about this.”

“But why?”

“I can’t tell you. It won’t make any sense to you and you’ll just want to have me committed.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if he were in pain, then looked at Carter. “I have to get a message to someone.”

Well, John had been right. That didn’t make any sense. “A message? Are your stories… coded or something?”

“No. Not really.”

John stood so abruptly that he startled Carter into spilling some of his water. Even worse, though, John dropped to his knees in front of Carter, his hands palm up in a supplicant’s posture, his eyes brimming with tears. “Please, Carter. Sir. If I had more money, I’d try to bribe you. If I had anything you wanted, I’d give it to you. I’d give you everything I own. I’d do anything you wanted. I
will
do anything. If you want me to spend the rest of my days on Earth serving you, I will. Gladly. But
please
. Please do this for me.”

And then, appallingly, John bowed until his forehead rested on the floor.

Carter would have fled, but John’s body trapped him in the chair. He realized the strangled little sound he heard was coming from his own throat, and he clamped his mouth shut so tightly it hurt. He held the half-empty water glass in front of him like a protective talisman and really, truly wished it contained something stronger.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Carter said.

John popped back up onto his knees, his eyes wide. “Anything!”

Honestly, Carter hadn’t intended to offer anything. The words had just slipped out. He silently cursed Freddy and his exhortations to think less and do more. Easy for Freddy to say. But now that Carter
had
indicated his willingness to negotiate, he couldn’t bring himself to dash John’s hope to pieces. Besides, what did it really matter in the long run?
Astounding!
was almost dead anyway.

“You tell me honestly why this is such a huge deal. Tell me even if you think I won’t believe you. And I’ll publish one of your stories in the next issue.”

“I can… I can tell you. But you won’t believe me.”

Carter sighed and put down his glass. “Well, make it good, then. I never could resist a good story.”

C
ARTER
DIDN
’
T
get to hear John’s tale right away. John was jumpy, apparently both excited at the prospect of finally getting published and nervous about explaining why. And Carter found himself inexplicably wanting to soothe the guy, to rest his palm on John’s shoulder and tell him everything would be okay.

They would both be better off with some alcohol, Carter decided. But he hadn’t had anything to eat since his breakfast toast and coffee, and he needed a little food to help absorb the booze.

“Is there someplace good to eat around here?” he asked.

John—who’d risen off his knees only to pace his small living room—nodded eagerly. “I know a great place. Can I take you there?”

With an odd feeling that he was somehow making a decision that would change his life, Carter shrugged. “Sure.”

John’s car was parked around the corner, alongside the stucco apartment building. The car was a beauty—a cranberry-colored vintage Chevy with sweeping tailfins and gleaming chrome. The ivory vinyl interior was in showroom condition. “Wow,” Carter said as he slid into the passenger seat. “You must be into cars.”

Looking surprised at the comment, John glanced around the car as if he rarely paid it much attention. “Not really. I’ve had this one for a long time. I just take good care of it.” The engine came to life with a healthy rumble. “Older vehicles are simpler. No computers or complicated parts. I like that.”

“You, um, sort of have a whole retro thing going, don’t you?”

John shot him a quick look before pulling away from the curb. “I’m not very good with modern technology.”

A Luddite science-fiction author—just what Carter needed.

They drove only two or three miles before John pulled the car into a curbside spot. “I really like this restaurant. I hope it’s all right with you.” His pale brows were drawn in an anxious V.

“Do they have alcohol?”

“Uh, yes. I think so.”

“Then it’s fine with me.”

But he was tempted to take back his easy agreement when John led him inside. It was a pancake place. Not IHOP, but a restaurant with tattooed, bearded waiters and with James Brown playing on the sound system. Each table had a griddle built into the center. “You have to make your own?” Carter asked John incredulously.

“We can go somewhere else,” John answered, looking distressed.

Suddenly ravenous, Carter shook his head. “Never mind.”

Sitting at the table and perusing the menu, Carter was relieved to discover that yes, booze was available. Overpriced hipster booze, mostly, but also two-dollar beers. He ordered one of those. John just asked for water.

While Carter felt slightly uncomfortable sitting across from this strange man, waiting for their pancake batter to arrive, John was clearly nervous as hell. He rubbed his fingers, chewed his lips, and darted his gaze around the room.

“I made you a deal,” Carter said after a while. “So you can calm down. I’m not backing out.”

“You haven’t heard my explanation yet.” John attempted a quick smile, but it didn’t take.

“Ah, hell.” Carter rubbed his temples. He would have rested his head on the table but was afraid of scorching himself on the griddle. “Tell me whatever the fuck you want. Or just buy me a bunch of beer and tell me nothing. I’ll print the damn story. Doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

Before John could answer, the waiter arrived with their drinks and with pancake batter in squeeze bottles. John had ordered blueberries and coconut to mix in, but Carter was satisfied with butter and maple syrup. After giving them each a spatula, the waiter went away.

John and Carter spent the next several minutes pouring their batter, watching it bubble, and flipping the cakes over. Carter shoved a huge forkful into his mouth as soon as it was ready. “These are good,” he admitted.

Which earned him a sunny smile from John. “I’m glad you like them. I know I can make pancakes at home, but this is….” He waved his hands a bit. “This is more fun.”

After Carter had finished off his beer and ordered another, John put down his fork. “Why doesn’t it matter?”

It took Carter several beats to realize what he was talking about, and then Carter sighed. “We started
Astounding!
fifteen years ago. Freddy and I did. I was still in school and he’d only had a single story of his own published. A short that paid him fifteen bucks.” Carter smiled a little, remembering Freddy’s elation over his very first acceptance letter and the ebullient, drunken sex they’d had that night. They’d almost broken the bed.

“Freddy?” John asked, interrupting Carter’s happy thoughts.

“Fred C. Morgan.”

John’s eyes widened. “The author? I know his stories appear often in your magazine, but I didn’t know—”

“Yep. He pulled out of the editorial stuff once he was on the best-seller lists.” And after he and Carter had broken up. Carter gave John an evil grin. “His middle name is Clarence. Frederick Clarence. He
hates
his middle name.”

“You were good friends,” John said, his head slightly tilted.

“Lovers. We’re still friends, but back then we were lovers.”

John didn’t frown or wince or show any other signs of disapproval. A dark shadow scudded quickly across his eyes, though, and then was gone. “And you started the magazine together,” he said softly.

“We were going to change the world. That’s why we did it. There were other rags out there publishing speculative fiction, but we were going to be different.
Our
stories wouldn’t just be well written and entertaining—they would be subversive. They would have protagonists who were queer or racially diverse and female leads who weren’t damsels in distress. Our fantasies wouldn’t all take place in faux medieval Europe. They would be set in future or imaginary worlds that subverted the dominant paradigm. We’d allow works that transcended traditional genre boundaries. Everything we printed would subtly and powerfully critique hegemonies. We’d be postmodernist. With our words, we would change the world!”

Exhausted by his monologue, Carter slumped back in his chair. The lingering taste of maple syrup didn’t counteract the bitterness on his tongue.

“Your magazine does those things,” John said.

“Yeah. We carried all these amazing stories. Lots of them won awards. Some of the authors went on to big things—like Freddy.” He wished he had another beer. Or a bottle of whiskey.