Liz was silent for a moment. When she spoke again it was from the other edge of the window. She too was looking out at the spring morning, and at the armed convoy in the sky.
"Yes," she said softly. "It would be nice. But to be serious, Sam, do you really think you could get any more funding than you've already got, to do your spare-time search for radio messages from space? And even if you were successful, do you think the Big Blow would wait long enough for us to decipher a message, then send one of our own, and eventually ask complex questions on sociology?"
She shook her head. "Would they be similar enough to us to understand what we'd be asking? Do you really think we're missing something so fundamentally simple that just a hint over the light-years would make that much difference?"
Federman shrugged. His gaze remained fixed on the skeleton in the yard.
~ * ~
The scientist with no nose looked out over his city. For a long time he had fretted and fumed beneath the great dish antenna; then he had gone for a walk around the edge of the research center compound.
Years ago these hills had been suburbs. Now factories belched smoke into the air on all sides. The sight cheered him slightly. He could never look at such an obvious sign of progress and prosperity for long and stay in a black mood.
There were so many other things to be proud of, too.
After the invention of atomic weapons, before he was born, his parents' generation had finally found the motivation to do the obvious and abolish war. The method had been there all along, but no one had been sufficiently motivated before. Now the fruits of peace were multiplying throughout the world.
Two automobiles for everyone! Fast, efficient stratospheric transport! Quick-foods easily dispensed from fluorocarbon-driven aerosol cans! The licentious luxury of lead-lined dinnerware!
All of this was good. Peace and prosperity.
But the Plague had then come among them, soon after the last war, and now affected almost everyone. Lung ailments, skin cancer… that horrible sickness that struck the mercury and bismuth mines… the death of the fisheries.
Huge sums were spent to find the microorganisms responsible for this rash of diseases. Some were found, but no germs yet that could account for the wide range of calamities. Some scientists were now suggesting a pathogen smaller than a virus.
Fetham looked up. Gathu. The government representative had followed him outside.
"I am sorry I shouted," Fetham said slowly. The other being-with-no-nose did the equivalent, for his species, of a forgiving nod. Fetham gave a handturn of thanks.
"It's just that I was hoping the Others might know something… something that would help us understand."
Gathu was sympathetic.
"I know, Academician. But honestly, what could they tell us about our problems—especially biological problems—even if you did succeed in making contact?"
"If they exist at all, they live on a completely different world, with different body chemistry. How could they give us knowledge that would help us defeat this Plague?"
Fetham performed a gesture that conveyed the meaning of a shrug. His large and very subtle ears filtered out the brash, ever-present noise of traffic, yet allowed him to hear the whistling of the wind through the silted, murky sky.
Suddenly he had a totally irrelevant thought.
I wonder where the birds are? They used to be all over this part of the city. I never noticed that they had gone, until now.
"I suppose," he sighed. "I suppose I was hoping for just a hint…"
~ * ~
David Brin
H
aving achieved a Ph.D. in physics and a postdoctoral fellowship at the California Space Institute and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, New York Times best seller David Brin is uniquely qualified to write the hard science fiction for which he is best known. Since the 1980 publication of his first novel, Sundiver, Brin has gone on to win a host of accolades including multiple Hugo, Locus, and John W. Campbell Awards. In addition to the Uplift series, which began with Sundiver and remains his most popular work to date, Brin also gained notoriety with novels like 1989’s Earth (which accurately foreshadowed global warming, cyberwarfare, and the Internet as we know it today); The Postman, a critically acclaimed post-apocalyptic novel that spawned a major motion picture from Kevin Costner; and Foundation’s Triumph, in which he undertook the weighty responsibility of tying up all the loose ends in Isaac Asimov’s classic series.
In many ways, David Brin’s work emphasizes the speculative nature of SF, and often blurs the boundaries between fiction and prediction. As a result, he has written extensive nonfiction such as The Transparent Society, which won the American Library Association’s Freedom of Speech Award, and is a regular television commentator and consultant for organizations concerned with the future, from the U.S. Defense Department to corporations like Google. In “Just a Hint,” Brin gives us a look at those early attempts to extrapolate from current trends and human nature to catch a glimpse of the future.
Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?
It is about an irony that does not change. . . the fact that our preconceptions control what we are able to think about. Some of our current problems may have answers that we simply haven’t thought of. That’s why it is important to compare notes with other people. And, when it comes to big preconceptions, those “others” may live very far away.
If you were writing this today, what would you do differently? What are the story’s weaknesses, and how would you change them?
Today, I would probably mention the Fermi Paradox—the mystery of why we’ve not heard nor seen any signs of aliens—and that would be wrong in the case of this simple story. Which is just fine the way it is.
What inspired this story? How did it take shape? Where was it initially published?
It’s a little “Analog-style” think piece, more about the idea than the characters or plot or language. Hence, of course, it was first published in Analog.
Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?
I was finishing graduate school at UCSD in astrophysics. I had already published Sundiver. After that, I received my first rejection slip for a story. So this sale came as welcome news. It meant I wasn’t just a one-sale wonder!
How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?
One grows, learns a thousand tricks and how to avoid a zillion errors. Still, there’s nothing like that verve and thrill when you just start out down this long road.
What advice do you have for aspiring authors?
A vast topic! I’ve distilled a long litany of advice at http://www.davidbrin.com/advice.htm.
<
~ * ~
A Sparkle For Homer
by R. A. Salvatore
H
oratio Hairfoot was a most respectable halfling. In fact, his friends and neighbors in Inspirit Downs, a village in the easy land most centered in The World, called him Homer, which is a fair compliment, I might tell you, implying all the lovely homely things associated with respectable halflings: plentiful meals (Horatio preferred eight a day, thank you, Breakfast, Brunch, Lunch, Late-afternoon-snack, Dinner, Supper, Before -bed-to-quiet-the-belly, and, of course, the inevitable Midnight-raid-the-larders); sitting by the hearth, toasting his toes; and sitting on the side of the hill, blowing smoke rings at the lazily passing clouds. Yes, most respectable villagers spent most days off their feet. They could watch their toes wiggle that way—that is, when their bellies hadn’t gotten too round for such enjoyable sights as wiggling toes!
Horatio rolled and stretched in his slumber, twisted about and worked his diminutive frame every which way in search of elusive comfort. Finally, he caught something sharp in the small of his back and that woke him with a start. He remembered at once where he was, and that awful thought sent him burrowing back under the shelter of his blanket,
which simply could not cover both his head and toes at the same time.
“Let’s go, lazy one!” barked the too-awake voice of Bagsnatcher Bracegirdle, a not-too-respectable at all sort of halfling. “Bags” had a bit o’ the dwarf in him, so it was said, and a fondness for adventure that kept him out of Inspirit Downs more than in. Indeed, he was a burly one, nearly as muscled as a dwarf, though of course he had no beard, and he bragged openly about dragon fights and goblin wars and other sorts of things that others loved hearing about, but generally scorned. On those occasions when Bags was in town, and always in the Floating Cloud Tavern, few went too near to him, but many remained within earshot of his continual spoutings. So it had come as quite the surprise, you can imagine, when Mayor Faltzo Furstockings announced that his tender and most respectable, if not overly cute, daughter Tippin and Bagsnatcher Bracegirdle would be wed on mid-summer’s morning.
Oh, the rumors flew wide and thick that day, I tell you! Some said that Bags had come into a fortune along in his adventuring and had promised Mayor Faltzo that he would settle down. There was talk of a dowry—they called it a bribe—paid by Bags to the mayor. Others, looking for a bit more fun out of the unexpected announcement, claimed that Mayor Faltzo had an inkering for adventuring himself, and that Bags and he would start off soon after the honeymoon on a most extraordinary journey. Whatever the intent, the news came unexpectedly, as I have told you, and so too, especially to Horatio, did Bags’s proclamation that Horatio Homer Hairfoot would stand beside him as his Best Halfling.
Horatio hardly knew Bags, had never even talked to the adventuresome fellow as far as he could remember, and being named as that one’s Best Halfling set off a whole new round of whispers, these speaking of most unpleasant things, like “yearning for a dragon fight,” concerning Horatio. None of them were true, of course; Homer had earned his nickname in heart as well as in reputation. To this day, no one knows exactly why Bags chose Homer, not even Bags probably, but most tavern-philosophers have come to agree that the wayward adventurer just wanted a most respectable fellow by his side to add the right flavor to the extraordinary wedding.
All in all, being named as Best Halfling had been an unwelcomed declaration to Homer, and sitting on the rocky, sloping ground, sore in a dozen places and his belly rumbling in protest of the bland and not-so-plentiful food, Homer’s glare at Bagsnatcher’s back was not a pleasant one! He had accepted the invitation to stand beside Bags, of course, not much choice is given in these matters (not if one intends to remain respectable). Homer figured that if he could afterward stay low-key enough, the damage to his reputation would heal in a year or so, though he knew that he would hear a whispered laugh at his back every now and again, whenever he chanced a visit to the Floating Cloud. If, however, Homer could have imagined the trouble his acceptance would land him in, he would have become ill, or broken his foot, or done anything else that would have allowed him to bow out gracefully, so to speak.
For now Homer had his own adventure, it seemed, and he did not like it, not one bit. A chill and moist wind blew in with the dawnslight, making the creaks all the more prominent in Homer’s backbone. The night had been crystal clear—far in the west and far below, the traveling companions had spotted the lights of Inspirit Downs—but now the mist hung thick as dwarven ale.
“A fine day to be climbing over hard rocks,” grumbled Homer before he even got all the way out of his tangled blankets. The sarcasm in his voice was even more evident now than it had been on the previous three days of his trek, though it was quite lost on Bags, thoroughly pleased by the morning, foggy or not, and by the adventure in general.
“We’ll be picking our paths careful, is all,” Bags snorted in reply. “There’s just the one way to go, ye know—up!” He chuckled and swatted Homer playfully on the back. Homer took it with a grunt and did well to hide his cringing at Bag’s dwarven-flavored accent, an accent that only reminded Homer of his predicament.
“Up,” Homer echoed grimly. Now he cast a scornful look at his companion, barely more than a dark silhouette in the thick fog. “You do not have to enjoy this so much!”
Bags chuckled in reply, understanding, but hardly accepting, the respectable fellow’s gloom. “‘Ere, go on yerself,” said Bags. “I’m the one what’s injured here, bein’ a newlywed and all! Should be back with me best girl, not up here leading yerself into a fine and, if we’re lucky, dangerous journey! Ye get a bargain, by me seeing! Ye get an adventure easily bought ‘n handed right to ye!”
Homer did not reply, realizing that he and Bags saw things simply too differently for him to explain this point of view. Homer did want to throttle Bags for his claims of being the “injured one,” though, for it was Bags, and Bags alone, who had landed them here. The wedding had gone splendidly, but the reception was quite another matter. The unusual circumstances had provided a good deal of mirth to the whole town, and the gathering had howled even louder when Bags, tipping his twelfth mug of black dwarven mead (another testament that he had a “bit o’ the dwarf in him,” for none but a dwarf or dwarf-kin could put down even an eight pack of that stuff without being put down himself!), made a somewhat crass and undeniably stupid remark about his soon-coming adventures with his new wife. Always the protective father, Mayor Falzo had promptly invented a “vital” mission, and Bags, without ever remembering it, had promptly volunteered, and had volunteered, too, to take his Best Halfling and best buddy Homer along with him.
So here they were, Homer miserable and Bags three days married and with his waiting wife miles away. Back in the town they were all laughing, Homer knew, for even Tippin Furstockings-Bracegirdle, always ready to join in on the fun, had thought the whole thing hilarious.
“We’ll be reaching the summit this day, by me guess,” Bags remarked after they had silently, and sullenly for Homer, eaten their breakfast.
“To find a stone,” Homer grumbled.
“The stone,” the adventuresome fellow corrected with a gleam in his pale gray eyes. “If the rumors hold to true, the heart stone o’ the One Mountain’s sitting at the top for our plucking! Such a gem’d be worth many thousands o’ gold coins, I don’t mind telling ye!” Bags rubbed his hands eagerly together, and if he missed his new wife in the least, Homer could not see it. “Heart stone!” he declared.
“Hearth stone would be better,” Homer muttered under his breath. His family was well off, and Homer saw no need for any adventures, however they might add to the treasury. Besides, Homer knew it, even if Bags was too blinded by the thought of excitement to see it, that Mayor Faltzo’s sudden proclamation that the heart stone was just sitting out in the open atop the One Mountain was only just a ruse. Rumors of that fabled stone had been tossed about for years, centuries even, and if anyone had ever actually seen it, then no one had seen him see it, if you understand my meaning.
“Ofttimes the greatest treasures be sittin, for the grabbing right in front of us, lad,” Bags replied to Homer’s obvious disbelief. “Just waiting for to be plucked!”
Homer narrowed his eyes and firmed up his hairless jaw at Bag’s choice of words, a similar phrase to the one Bags had used at the wedding reception, the one that had landed them in this lousy adventure in the first place.
Bags gave up against that unrelenting stare, a vile grimace that only an underfed and uncomfortable halfling could properly produce. “Might be we’ll catch sight of a dragon,” Bags growled, stealing every bit of Homer’s bluster, and pulled his weapon off his backpack to heighten the other’s terror. It was a curious thing, unlike any weapon Homer had ever seen (not that he had seen many), with a hammer head on one side, an ax head on the other, and a cruel barbed spear tip topping the whole of it off. Bags just called it his banger-chopper-thruster and left it for his enemies to see what it could do. Whatever it might have been, it looked unwieldingly heavy to Homer, and even he—though not inclined to magic—could sense the powerful enchantments on the thing. Homer should have been comforted to have one who could wield the weapo
n well standing beside him, but the mere sight of the thing unnerved him and turned his stomach so that it made him think that eating might not be a very fine thing.
Homer stood up then and looked all about, a futile attempt in the wall of fog. Before he could begin to grumble about the weather, though, Bags scooped up his pack and started off at a quick pace. Homer swallowed his complaints, and then, when he realized that he was alone, swallowed his fear and ran off to follow.
They made good headway, despite the mist, but even though the dawn soon moved fully into day, the gloom only increased. Soon the companions couldn’t see each other, couldn’t even see their own furry feet.
“We shall tumble down to our deaths,” Homer moaned at Bags’s back.
Bags, ever alert, was too engaged to respond to the comment. The ground had become soft under his feet, springy as a thick bed of moss, a curious fact since they had left the trees and most other vegetation far behind. Also, the ground had leveled off, though Bags had noted no upcoming flat regions along the chosen trail when they had set camp the night before. Instinctively, his experienced hands went to his banger-chopper-thruster. With a word to the magical weapon, “Foe-faces,” he enacted a blue faerie light along the weapon’s multiple heads. But the glow only reflected off the pressing fog back in his face, and though he was not a tall creature, and though he stooped to get even lower, Bags could not even discern the nature of the ground beneath him.
Before They Were Giants Page 22