Gateways (50 page)

The more I wrote, the more our professional careers crossed. As an editor Fred was more than helpful. He stepped in with many a bacon-saving purchase. Highlighted in memory was my novel
Bill, the Galactic Hero
. Admittedly it was a surrealistic, humorous, out-of-category story. Damon had very avant-garde tastes so I submitted an outline of the proposed book to him; he was now reading for Berkley Books. He had advanced ideas about fiction and even signed himself “d. knight” in the manner of e.e. cummings.

He liked it, bought it—and got me a tiny advance from the publisher. Wonderful! My parody and hatred of the military would see the light of day!

Maybe. When I turned in the final manuscript Damon bounced the book, saying it was an army novel and I should go through it and take out all the jokes. . . . I of course refused. No sale. And no income for almost the year that I had worked on the book. I must have moaned to Fred about it—he was then editing
Galaxy
magazine.

He looked at the book and bought the magazine rights. In those days Fred was a great retitler. He called it
Starsloggers
, which I could bear. Except for a typo in the magazine when he mentioned the story would start in the next issue. This was fine—other than the fact that there was a massive typo in the plug and it came out as
Starloggers
. . . A sort of interstellar lumberjacks I imagine.

This was the time of the war in Vietnam. The war impacted on science fiction when some of the more military-minded writers paid for a full-page ad in
Galaxy
supporting the war.

This would not do. Fred contacted the rest of the writers who, being more intelligent—or at least of more liberal tendencies—published an ad decrying our involvement in the war. I like to think we helped the cause in some small way.

By this time I was living in Denmark with my family, writing and publishing novels and short stories. At least once a year I would visit New York and touch base with the editors; this was most important for a freelancer. Fred was editing
Galaxy
and
If
and I used to visit him in his office. Not to touch editorial base but to possibly pick up an assignment. Since he worked from home a good part of the time, his publisher had the habit of meeting some of the artists who came around looking for assignments. Many times they would bring samples with them. All
too often it was cover art of varying quality. Some of these the publisher liked and he would buy them on the spot.

For Fred to muse over when he was next in the office.

Most were dreadful. A few were possible—but what were they illustrating?

Fred would offer them to visiting authors to look at. The deal was if you wrote a story that the cover could illustrate you got a sale. And a cover credit!

Great. I would mutter over a possible story that had to explain every cover detail. This was a teasing problem—and occasionally I would come up with a decent story that Fred could use.

Life was simpler then.

Just once I reversed our roles.

An SF writer of prominently conservative views was editing a series of anthologies with the endearing title of
There Will Be War
. I looked at this as an insult to the intelligence of mankind. Surely, in the fullness of time, we could rise above this invidious practice. Bruce McAllister agreed to coedit a book of original short stories with me. We suggested to the same publisher that he let us edit a volume to be titled
There Won’t Be War
to take a look at the better alternative. He agreed and I solicited stories from SF writers. Starting with those who had supported the good-guys
Galaxy
ad about Vietnam.

The response was tremendous. Nineteen of the top writers came through with amazingly good stories. Fred was among the first with “The Rocky Python Christmas Video Show.” A fine story—with a glorious future. It kept gnawing at Fred, until he finally turned the idea into a novel,
Mining the Oort
. Which he dedicated to me, saying “. . . he made me do it.”

This despite the fact I had submitted a story to
If
magazine—that he was editing—my story titled “If.” He bought it and, quite correctly, changed the title.

A few years later, when I was living in Ireland, I had the germ of an idea that was to grow into a worldwide enterprise. Living in Europe I had personal contact with writers and publishers from many countries. But not the Russians. We corresponded but that was it. This was during the height of the Cold War and none of them could travel abroad without an official government invitation. Which meant there was plenty of to-ing and fro-ing between the Soviet Union and what were called the satellite countries. But no farther. Almost all of the western countries were out of bounds.

But where did this leave Ireland? It was not a member of NATO, which would have made contact impossible. Would the Russian writers be able to visit Eire’s green and pleasant shores?

I had to find out. I phoned the Russian embassy in Dublin and made an appointment to see the cultural attaché. He was named Romanoff—the same as the last czar—which I thought might be a hopeful sign.

He was a pleasant man who held out little hope. “We try for years to get cultural agreement with Ireland. We say you send us Irish harp player—we send you Bolshoi Ballet. But this country is, as you surely know, very anticommunist.”

“Let me get back to you,” I said.

For I had made some valuable Irish contacts. At that time—well before the Celtic Tiger roared—Ireland was not in good economic shape. Because there were no jobs, most university graduates sought work abroad. Only tourism was a booming industry. I had discussed with the tourist board and the government travel authorities the possibility of holding an international writers SF conference with attendees from many countries. They were very interested. If I could get the Russians to attend, success could be guaranteed. They grew grim when I mentioned the lack of a cultural agreement with the Soviets. Politics was one thing—tourism was another. They approached the Irish Arts Council about this matter. Pressure was applied; the Arts Council caved in. As long as it didn’t cost them any money. I assured them if they issued an official invitation to the USSR writers, I would handle printing up copies and sending them off. Agreement was reached and the first-ever international writers’ conference was on.

(This is the way it happened. Catholic Ireland and Communist Russia agreed to full cultural exchange. I don’t think that science fiction writers have ever received credit for this major cultural accomplishment.)

The conference was a roaring success. There were calls to have more conferences like this first and World SF was founded. I was elected president. We held another Irish conference before fatigue overwhelmed me. The international SF community, one after another, stepped in. Fred Pohl became president and carried the organizational ball. As did Sam Lundwall of Sweden. As president he held a conference in Stockholm. Brian Aldiss from England was the also president. As well as Gianfranco Viviani from Italy. These four had supported World SF from the first days in Ireland. And had happily volunteered for this arduous position. They did a wonderful job and World SF went from strength to strength. We established contact with all the Eastern European countries and before
we were through we held a conference in China. It was a most worthwhile endeavor that died a natural death when the organizing pioneers ran out.

Now I sit back and marvel. Fred and I have been friends now for close to sixty years. Both still working, still writing. So it was with great pleasure that I seized the opportunity to join with my fellow writers in this Festschrift volume.

I can only join the other contributors in saying—well done, Fred—well done.

—H
ARRY
H
ARRISON

The burly male technician loomed over the smaller man in engineer’s orange coveralls as if by sheer size he would drive home his message.

“I swear, Ardway, if you tell me one more cat story, I’m going to kayo you and put you out the airlock!”

“I thought you liked hearing them, Callan,” Benny Ardway said, wondering if he could wriggle his skinny frame any farther into the bulkhead of the forward engineering compartment to escape his shipmate’s wrath. He lifted apologetic, round blue eyes to the engineer. “You laughed. I thought you enjoyed hearing about Parky and Blivit.”

“Once, on the way out of orbit, was okay. Twice, while we were waiting for the calculations to jumpspace. But you have to have told the same damned stories a million times since we broke atmosphere,” Callan said, sticking a furious finger in his shipmate’s face, “and enough’s enough!”

“All right,” Ardway said, meekly. Callan gave him one more glower, then kicked off the wall to continue replacing modules in the astrogation console. Ardway handed himself down to his keyboard and looked out at the blackness of nonspace, wishing he could swim all the way back to Earth. He felt bereft. No one on board the ship felt the way he did about cats. No one understood what it was costing him to make this long trip, knowing that back on Earth his pets were missing him. No, not his pets: his
family
.

When he’d been assigned to the
Calliope
, the station quartermaster had told him that he was entitled to bring with him twenty kilograms of personal gear.
Perfect
, he had thought. Both of his cats together didn’t weigh more than ten. Add to that their food dishes, maybe one more kilo. The corps supplied his uniforms, his tools, dishes, food, and bunk space. He could use a discarded cabinet casing for the cats’ litter pan. That left him nine kilograms for bookcubes and personal items. The cats would sleep with him. No bunk had ever been too small to contain all three of them. He had even
asked his assigned bunkmate, the communications officer named Polson, if he liked cats, and Polson had said he did. It was going to be great.

Ardway had weighed everything several times to make certain everything he was bringing fell under the allowable limit. He even had half a kilo to spare. He had been devastated when, upon reaching the launch center with his luggage, he learned that his cats wouldn’t be allowed to come with him.

“We can’t have animals in deep space,” the mission commander said, as if shocked that Ardway would even consider such a thing. He regarded the cats in their carrier with horror. Ardway recalled having moved between Captain Thurston and the cats to protect them in case the officer went crazy. The way his nostrils puffed out reminded Ardway of Parky about to have a fit. “They could panic! Destroy precious equipment! Er, soil, er, the environment.”

“Sir, they’re very clean animals,” Ardway had protested. “They’re both neutered shorthairs. They won’t cause any kind of fuss.”

“You must be out of your mind!” Captain Thurston said, crossing his arms. He was the poster-boy type for the deep space program, tall, handsome, muscular, and crew cut, the physical opposite of Ardway, who was hollow-chested and mousy-haired. “Get those animals out of here, and I mean
stat
!”

There was nothing Ardway could do. He’d signed an ironclad contract, and he really did want to be in on this project. Who wouldn’t want a crack at being astronavigator on the first team to use the new jump technology for a long-range jaunt outside the solar system? NASA had wanted him, too. He was the lead software designer who had come up with the format for the benchmark system that kept the ship on beam. The program ran like a top, but NASA thought it would be better to have him out there with them in case something went wrong on a long test, after the eighteenth century custom of sending the engineer to sea with the ship he’d designed. Ardway thought he could leverage his desirability into making them agree to let the cats come, but they waved his signature in front of him, and told him to get over it. He’d only be gone two years. Two years! Ardway felt as if his heart would be torn apart.

The only way Ardway could cope was to have lots of reminders of the cats with him. With ten kilos of his personal allowance freed up, he was able to pack in a personal viewer and hundreds of videos of the cats playing and sleeping. He enlisted a trusted friend to watch over his pets, set up a mail account between his apartment and the communication station at
Canaveral so he could get updates on his pets, and shared stories about Parky and Blivit with his new shipmates. Alas, the first wasn’t satisfying enough, and the last endured only as long as the patience of the final person on board the
Calliope
who would listen to him. That had been Callan.

Ardway watched the technician’s orange-clad legs floating weightlessly under the console. The flutter kick Callan made to keep himself in place reminded him of his orange tiger cat, Parky, lying on his side in the sun batting idly at a ribbon. He opened his mouth to say so, and very quickly closed it again. Callan might really put him outside in nonspace. Ardway glanced at the clock and decided to take a break. The program didn’t need him at that moment. No one did. His job had really been done the day he finished debugging the system, more than a month ago, and wouldn’t begin again unless something went wrong. In the meantime, he was useless baggage. He slid out of his chair, nodded to the helm officer, Frida Lawes, and handwalked out of the forward engineering compartment and made for the break room.