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www.fsfmag.com
Copyright ©2009 by Spilogale, Inc.
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THE MAGAZINE OF
FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION
October/November * 61st Year of Publication
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NOVELLAS
HALLOWEEN TOWN by Lucius Shepard
NOVELETS
THE FAR SHORE by Elizabeth Hand
BANDITS OF THE TRACE by Albert E. Cowdrey
THE WAY THEY WOVE THE SPELLS IN SIPPULGAR by Robert Silverberg
I WALTZED WITH A ZOMBIE by Ron Goulart
ANOTHER LIFE by Charles Oberndorf
SHORT STORIES
LOGICIST by Carol Emshwiller
BLOCKED by Geoff Ryman
MERMAID by Robert Reed
NEVER BLOOD ENOUGH by Joe Haldeman
THE PRESIDENT'S BOOK TOUR by M. Rickert
THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT -LXXI by Ron Partridge
SHADOWS ON THE WALL OF THE CAVE by Kate Wilhelm
DEPARTMENTS
EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder
BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint
MUSING ON BOOKS by Michelle West
PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: SUGAR AND SPICE by Paul Di Filippo
COMING ATTRACTIONS
SCIENCE: SEEING RED by Pat Murphy and Paul Doherty
FILMS: ANTI-TREK by Lucius Shepard
COMPETITION #78
CURIOSITIES by David Langford
COVER: “RETRO ROCKET” by DAVID A. HARDY
GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor
BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher
ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor
KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher
HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor
JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor
CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 117, No. 3 & 4, Whole No. 685, October/November 2009. Published bimonthly by Spilogale, Inc. at $6.50 per copy. Annual subscription $39.00; $49.00 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2009 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.
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GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030
www.fandsf.com
CONTENTS
Department: EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder
Novelet: THE FAR SHORE by Elizabeth Hand
Department: BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint
Department: MUSING ON BOOKS by Michelle West
Novelet: BANDITS OF THE TRACE by Albert E. Cowdrey
Novelet: THE WAY THEY WOVE THE SPELLS IN SIPPULGAR by Robert Silverberg
Short Story: LOGICIST by Carol Emshwiller
Short Story: BLOCKED by Geoff Ryman
Department: PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: SUGAR AND SPICE, AND EVERYTHING LICENSABLE by Paul Di Filippo
Novella: HALLOWEEN TOWN by Lucius Shepard
Short Story: MERMAID by Robert Reed
Department: SCIENCE: SEEING RED by Pat Murphy & Paul Doherty
Short Story: NEVER BLOOD ENOUGH by Joe Haldeman
Novelet: I WALTZED WITH A ZOMBIE by Ron Goulart
Department: FILMS by Lucius Shepard
Short Story: THE PRESIDENT'S BOOK TOUR by M. Rickert
Short Story: Through Time and Space with Ferdinand Feghoot—LXXI by Ron Partridge
Novelet: ANOTHER LIFE by Charles Oberndorf
Short Story: SHADOWS ON THE WALL OF THE CAVE by Kate Wilhelm
Department: F&SF COMPETITION #78: ‘THE SECRET HISTORY OF F&SF'
Department: FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE
Department: CURIOSITIES: THE TROGLODYTES, by Nal Rafcam (1961)
Department: COMING ATTRACTIONS
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Department: EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder
In 1981, when I was fourteen, I started reading a magazine filled with wondrous stories. From my youth, I remember stories about time-viewing, werewinds, murder mysteries in space, a gunslinger's adventures across a ravaged landscape, and funny stories about a wizard whose princess wife could only make frog noises.
In 1997, I started editing the magazine that published these stories. Now the magazine's turning sixty and I realize I've been calling the shots for one fifth of F&SF's amazing history.
I've always welcomed feedback on the issues I've edited, and back in the nineties, a kid named Scott Thomas used to tell me which stories he liked. Ron Goulart's work went over well with him, I recall. These days, when he's between acting gigs, Scott's working on our staff ... and he still loves to tell me which stories he likes best. The difference is that he's doing it with submissions and not our final product.
In 2024, when F&SF turns seventy-five, I hope we'll have staffers who look back on these late-oughts issues with great fondness as they too find it amazing to realize what a wonderful enterprise they're part of.
But who knows what the future holds? The one thing of which I feel certain is that in ten, fifteen, fifty, five hundred years, people will be telling each other fantastic tales and marvelous speculations. My fondest hope is that F&SF will be running stories to rival the best that we have published in our first sixty years ... but after having recently assembled an anthology of our best stories, I know what a tall order that is.
Speaking of our bestest stories, the results of our poll from the March issue were not surprising: our number one most popular story remains “Flowers for Algernon.” Take a bow, Mr. Keyes. Other vote-getters in the sparse balloting included Cordwainer Smith's “Alpha Ralpha Boulevard,” Zenna Henderson's “Ararat,” Manly Wade Wellman's “On the Hills and Everywhere,” and Archibald MacLeish's poem “Epistle to Be Left in the Earth.” I attribute the lack of votes to the fact that the only mention of this poll came at the end of an editorial.
Bob Silverberg has contributed some of our best stories over the years, and when he submitted his story for this issue, he sent a note marveling at the passage of time since he encountered our first issue. I realized that readers might find his comments interesting ... then I invited the other contributors to comment on their first memories of F&SF. The story header notes in this issue share lots of memories about this sixty-year-young magazine.
I'd personally like to thank everyone who has participated in F&SF over the last six decades—Tony and Mick, Bob Mills, Avram, Kris, the Fermans, JJA, Robin, Nina, Kathy, Jerry, thousands of contributors and staffers, and most of all, our many readers. Whether you've been with us since issue #1 or if you just discovered us, you make the magazine what it is and your input will help lift us to new heights in the years ahead.
The copyright credit for Harlan Ellison's introduction to “Snowfall” was omitted from our Aug./Sept. 2009 issue. The copyright line should read: Copyright © 2009 by The Kilimanjaro Corp. All rights reserved.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelet: THE FAR SHORE by Elizabeth Hand
I can't remember the first issue of F&SF that I read—as a kid, I'd find copies at the libra
ry or at other people's houses, and when I was older and living in D.C., I'd pick it up at the late, lamented Moonstone Bookcellars. In my late teens/early 20s, I got my first real job, at the National Air & Space Museum. The first couple of paychecks went towards apartment, rent, utilities, etc., but after a few weeks I realized I had some discretionary income. So I got a subscription to F&SF—the first magazine I ever subscribed to on my own. I wanted to be a writer, and F&SF was the place where I most wanted to be published. Over the years I got several rejection letters from Ed Ferman (for some reason I kept these in the freezer), and I can still recall the thrill when he first sent me a personal rejection letter. The magazine was always my gold standard for short fiction. It still is.—Elizabeth Hand
In dreams he fell: from planes, trees, roofs, cliffs, bridges. Whatever awaited him below, the impact was the same. His right leg buckled and a bolt of pain flared from ankle to knee, so that even after decades he woke with his old injury throbbing, bathed in sweat and hands outstretched to restore his balance. The pain subsided as the hours passed. Still, he no longer stood in the studio while his students practiced their moves, épaulement croisé, balloté, rise, ciseaux, but sat in a plain, straight-backed wooden chair, marking time with an elegant silver-topped cane.
When he received notice that he was to be replaced by someone younger, he reacted with the same calm he always displayed, the classical dancer's legacy of stoicism serving him now as it had for the last three decades.
"I hope you understand.” The ballet master's face creased. “You know I don't want to do this. If something opens up, we'll find a place for you."
Philip inclined his head. “Of course."
That night he called Emma, his oldest friend.
"Oh, Philip, that's terrible!"
He shrugged, gazing out the window of his tiny studio apartment at the glass edifice that had been erected across the street. “Well, I was lucky they kept me as long as they did."
"What will you do?"
"I have no fucking idea."
She laughed, and he felt better. They spoke for a good hour, gossip mostly about dancers he knew and Emma had never heard of. Then, “Why don't you come stay here at the camp while we're gone?” she suggested. “Not for the winter—a few weeks, or a month, however long you want. We'll have Joe Moody close up when you leave."
"Just like The Shining,” said Philip. “What a great idea."
"It won't be like that in early November. Well, okay, it might snow. But then you just call Joe and he'll come plow you out. I think it would be good for you, Philip,” she added. “I mean, being alone here might be better than feeling alone there. I think you just need to get away from the city for a few weeks. See if you can clear your head of all this. You know?"
He knew.
"Sure, what the hell.” He heard Emma's sigh of relief.
He called a few friends to say good-bye, arranged for someone to watch his place, and several days later left in his rent-a-wreck. It was after midnight when he reached the camp. He missed the turnoff twice, its sign so overgrown with lichen and old-man's-beard that he'd mistaken it for a dead tree limb in the dark.
CAMP TUONELA
Est. 1908
An hour earlier, the highway had dwindled to a track guarded by ghostly armies of oak and tamaracks. All the landmarks he'd loved as a boy had disappeared. Where was the ancient ice cream stand shaped like an Abenaki longhouse? And Lambert's Gun Emporium? Where was the general store where he and Emma had made forbidden trips to buy fresh doughnuts, inevitably betrayed by the smells of lard and burnt sugar that clung to them when they returned to their cabin?
"Christ, Philip, those are long gone,” said Emma when she greeted him in front of the lodge. “The general store burned down in the eighties. Chimney fire. Bob Lambert sold his place, he died a while back. I don't remember what happened to the teepee."
They'd met at Tuonela decades ago, bonding over a shared love of The Red Shoes and cheesy Mexican horror movies. They passed most of their childhood summers there, first as campers, then counselors-in-training, before Philip defected to a dance camp in New York State, and finally to the School of American Ballet. Emma eventually parlayed her love for the place into an actual romance, marrying Sam, a fellow counselor, at a lakeside ceremony twenty-odd years before. Philip had been her best man. He stood beside the pastor of the old Finnish Church who performed the ceremony, surprised to learn that the name Tuonela was Finnish, not Abenaki in origin, though no one seemed to know what the word meant. Shortly afterward, Emma and Sam bought the camp, and raised their two daughters there.
But the last few years had been tough.
"Parents want high-tech camps now,” she told Philip as they carried his bags inside. “Wi-fi, all that. We don't even have a cell tower around here. This year our enrollment dropped to about half what it was last year. We could barely make payroll. So we figured this was a good time to do what all real Mainers do in the winter."
"Which is...?"
She laughed. “Go to Florida."
Their girls were in college now, so Emma and Sam would be housesitting for friends in Key West, a midlife second honeymoon. Philip hadn't visited Tuonela, or anyplace else, in ages. He'd spent his entire adult life in the New York City Ballet, first as an apprentice, then a member of the corps de ballet, and finally as an instructor. He'd been like the other boys, at once necessary and interchangeable: a rat in “The Nutcracker"; one of the debauched revelers in “The Prodigal Son"; a huntsman in Balanchine's one-act “Swan Lake.” He'd passed hours watching Edward Villela and Jacques D'Amboise with mingled admiration and wonder, but—almost unheard of for a dancer—with very little envy. He knew how fortunate he was to pace the same darkened hallways as they had, sleepwalking into class before nine a.m., then burning through rehearsal and performance, often not departing the cavernous theater until almost midnight.
But he also knew he would never be a soloist, or even a fine second-rank dancer. He dreamed of the lead in “Square Dance.” He'd have happily settled for a side part in “Concerto Baroco.” Instead, there'd been a dozen years as a dancing rat.
"You're a foot soldier,” a former lover told him once. “A foot soldier of the arts. Canon fodder!” he added with a laugh. “Get it?"
Philip wryly admitted that he did.
Not that it mattered to him; not much, anyway. He adored being part of the corps, its discipline and competitive fellowship, the perverse haven of a routine that often felt like a calculus of pain. He loved the fleeting nature of dance itself—of all the arts the one that left almost no permanent mark upon the world, even as it casually disfigured its adherents with deformed feet, eating disorders, careers like mayflies. Most of all, he loved those moments during a performance when he could feel himself suspended within an ephemeral web of music and movement, gravity momentarily defeated by the ingrained memory of muscle and bone.
It all ended suddenly. When he was twenty-eight ("that's ninety in dance years,” he told Emma) Philip shattered his metatarsal during a rehearsal. His foot turned in as he landed from a jump; he hit the floor, crying out in anguish as his leg twisted beneath him. The other dancers rushed over with icepacks and pillows, and arranged transport to NYU Hospital. He spent weeks in a haze of painkillers, his leg in a cast. Months of physical rehab followed, but ever after he walked with a slight limp.
Still, he'd always been popular within the corps, and the ballet masters and rehearsal teachers liked him. At twenty-nine he found himself teaching the company. His former colleagues were now living eidolons of youth, beauty, health, joy, desire flitting past him in the studio, lovely and remote as figures from a medieval allegory. What he felt then was less envy than a terrible, physical ache, as for a lover who'd died. He could still be transported by watching a good performance, the smells of adrenaline and sweat that seeped backstage.
But his ecstatic dreams of flight became recurring nightmares of falling.
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Sam had
already driven down to the Keys. Emma's flight left on Sunday, which gave her most of the weekend to show Philip how to work the composting toilet, emergency generator, kerosene lamps, hand pump, outboard motor, woodstove. Philip knew the camp's layout as though it were the musculature of a familiar body: the old Adirondack-style lodge overlooking the lake; the campers’ log cabins tucked into the surrounding forest, moss-covered roofs and bark exteriors nearly invisible among birch groves and bracken. In the middle of summer, filled with damp children and smelling of sunblock and balsam, it was heartstoppingly lovely.
Now, with only him and Emma kicking through drifts of brown leaves, it all seemed cheerless and slightly sinister. Two miles of gravel road separated the camp from the blue highway that led to an intersection with a convenience store that sold gas, lottery tickets, beer, and not much else. The nearest town was twenty miles away.
"What happens if I cut my hand off with a chainsaw?” Philip asked.
"Well, you'll be better off treating yourself than calling 911. It could take them an hour to get here. That's if the roads are clear."
They spent one morning on a nostalgic circuit of the old camp road, Philip replacing his silver-topped cane with the sturdy walking sick Emma gave him. They were back at the lodge by lunchtime. A stone's-throw from its front steps stretched Lake Tuonela, a cerulean crescent that could, in seconds, turn into frigid, steel-colored chop powerful enough to swamp a Boston Whaler. This time of year there were few boaters on the water: an occasional canoe or kayak, hunters making a foray from a hunting camp. The opposite shore was a nature preserve, or maybe it belonged to a private landowner—Philip had never gotten the details straight. He dimly recalled some ghost story told around the campfire, about early Finnish settlers who claimed the far shore was haunted or cursed.
More likely it was just wildly unsuitable for farming. Philip only knew it formed some kind of no-man's-land. In all his years visiting Lake Tuonela, he'd never set foot there.
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