He was surprised that he had not had this feeling before now. After all, he was standing in the very center of the radiation. But his location was similar to being in the eye of a hurricane. All around him was a gigantic surge of the force that had been, as it were, born and slain many times before it could get anywhere near full fruition. Now it was the mightiest force in the many universes. Compared to the combined energies of a trillion trillion stars, the Imago was a sun beside a candle.
He, however, was in a null area. Comparatively null, that is. Once he went to where he would be in the full force of the empathy, he would be as filled with it as the Gaol now were.
The rays from Tappy's breast and from the Imaget were fading now. Their work had been done, though they still lived and would again become as bright as angels if they were needed.
Jack hoped that they would never have to be invoked again, that their force would endure. Surely, they would not have to be used in Tappy's lifetime.
But he could see on Tappy's face a golden aura, faint but still evident. Evident to him, anyway. It was probably his imagination. No one else could see it, though he would ask others if they detected it. It was an afterimage of the holy light. Yes, the holy light. Though Jack was an agnostic and would have felt uncomfortable calling anything "holy," he now would think of the aura as, if not holy, the echo of holiness.
Tappy would be something to be worshipped by him.
Would that interfere with the union of their flesh? Would he always be inhibited somewhat when they made love or— a mundane thought but valid and realistic— when they argued about the budget or when they disagreed about disciplining their children? Would he always give in, even when he knew he was right?
He hoped not, but he would have to wait to find out.
They would have to get back to Earth first. Neither he nor Tappy wanted to stay here, no matter how pleasant it might be. Despite all the madnesses and hideousnesses that stalked Earth, it was their home. And, now that the Imago was flooding the souls of its people, Earth would become far better. Perhaps the Earth that all sane people wanted it to be.
How to get back? That should be no problem. The honkers would know of a gate to it. If they did not, the Gaol would.
He laughed. Whoever would have thought that he could ask the Gaol to help him? Or that they would do so willingly, even gladly?
There was still one question unanswered. What had Tappy meant in her sleep-talk when she had said, "Reality is a dream"?
Later, much later, when they were living on an Earth the societies of which were greatly changing for the better, he asked her about the phrase.
She had to probe her mind for some time before she remembered where she had heard it. So much was buried there, and so much was still difficult to find.
"My father," she said. "He told me that several times. I was so young, I did not ask him what it meant. Or, if I did, I've forgotten his explanation. Anyway, I did puzzle over it, then I forgot about it. So many bad things were happening then. But my unconscious evidently did not forget it. I really don't know what he meant by it."
"He must have meant that dreams shape reality," Jack said. "The Makers had a dream of the means whereby they could conquer the Gaol even after they, the Makers, were gone. Hence, the Imago. The honkers and the humans allied with them continued to dream the Makers' dream. They made the Imaget, and they dreamed of how they could use it to let the Imago come to full bloom.
"Dreams shape reality. Thus, dreams are reality."
"That must have been what he meant."
Authors' Notes
PIERS ANTHONY
This really started in 1963. Back then I was a hopeful writer, with one sale to my credit. I was taking one year to stay home and write, while my wife went out to earn our living, and the year had started in September 1962. If I didn't prove myself by September 1963, I would have to return to the mundane grind and give up my foolish dream of being a writer. As it happened, I did sell two stories in that year, for a total of $160, so was technically a success. But realism intruded when it came to paying the bills. I did return to mundane labor, but in 1966 tried writing full-time again, this time doing novels instead of stories, and that was the one that took. It was after all possible to earn a living doing novels. I have been writing ever since. The details of my life and career are too tedious to go into here; they are in my autobiography, Bio of an Ogre. What concerns me now is just one story written in that first year, and the story of that story.
The story was "Tappuah." I wrote it for God rather than Caesar; that is, for love instead of money. The name derived from the Bible; I am hardly a Bible scholar, but in a concordance or some such I had seen the name, and learned that it meant apple, and it intrigued me. The setting was the Green Mountains of Vermont, where I was raised. The character turned out to be the first of a type I have explored considerably since: a young and tortured girl. Critics accuse me of having nothing but luscious and sexy women; Tappy is the evidence that I tried other kinds, but without success on the market.
In February I completed the monster story "Quinquepedalian," and in March I would complete my farcical fantasy story "E van S." Between them I fitted in "Tappuah." It moved better than anything else I had done up to that time. I wrote just over 2,000 words a day for three days, and had it complete at 7,000 words in February, my favorite. It had a fantasy theme: Tappy, lame and blind, nevertheless had an affinity for extinct creatures, and they tended to show up.
I was then in touch with several other hopeful writers, such as Robert E. Margroff, H. James Hotaling, and Frances T. Hall, with all of whom I subsequently published collaborations. I sent "Tappuah" to them for comment. They liked it; they felt it was the best I had done. That was my own sentiment.
I tried it on the market. It bounced at Playboy (as I said: about non-luscious girls and the market...) and at Cosmopolitan, Ladies' Home Journal, Redbook (probably they didn't like the fantasy element), The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and Fantastic. Evidently the genre magazines didn't want it either; one of them sent a scribbled note suggesting that I try it on the "straight" market. So I tried it on a mainstream literary magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, and it bounced there too. So much for that; seven markets had rejected it, and I had to retire it. For a while. But I did not forget it.
Meanwhile I went back to college to get my certificate to teach English, and I became an English teacher. It was a poor substitute for the real thing, creative writing. But I took advantage of the interim to show the story to my literature professor there, Wesley Ford Davis, himself a published novelist. Intrigued, he read it to one of his classes, and relayed the students' comments to me. They liked it, but felt that the human element of Tappy's situation warred with the fantasy of the extinct animals; it might be better as one type or the other.
When I taught English at the Admiral Farragut Academy in St. Petersburg, Florida, I read the story to my tenth graders. They liked it, and offered thoughtful comments. I hope that they profited from this examination of an actual piece in the throes of revision; I was trying to teach them meaningful things, as well as the required material. (If you suspect that I am implying a disparagement of the standard material, you are on target; I feel that much of American education is wasted on irrelevancies.)
So I rewrote it, eliminating the fantasy element, and put it in for comment when I attended the 1966 Milford Writer's Conference. There were a number of comments there; I remember Harlan Ellison advising me that women didn't talk the way Tappy's mother did, condemning her crippled child. Damon Knight criticized Tappy's leg brace, thinking it was inconsistent to mention it once as being on her foot and another time as on her leg. Was it on her foot or her leg? he asked. It was on both, of course; apparently he had not seen such a brace. Gordon Dickson had no problem with his critique, but took time out to walk by himself in order to figure out how to present it in such a way that I would not freak out. That sort of thing makes me wonder just how I come across to others
, but I appreciated his sensitivity. I don't remember the critique itself, except that it seemed reasonable. So I eliminated Tappy's mother and tightened the story up in various other suggested ways and clarified references. Then I tried it on the market again.
No luck. Knight rejected it in late 1966, and in 1967 so did Good Housekeeping, Playboy (after four years, changed editors might make a difference), Cosmopolitan, Redbook, McCall's, Atlantic, and Mademoiselle. Tappy had now been rejected fifteen times. But I didn't give up; I included the story along with all my other rejected stories in a volume titled Anthonology and tried that on the market in 1970. You guessed it: that, too, was solidly rejected. Later I used the title for a collection of previously published stories, and that was published in 1986, but it's not the same volume unless you count two unsold stories I slipped in. But "Tappuah" was not one of them. She still languished.
Then in late 1986, I believe, I received a proposal from Hank Stein for a round-robin novel titled Lightyears. It was to have ten or twelve established genre writers, each doing one chapter. A number of noted genre figures were interested, such as Poul Anderson, Robert Silverberg, and Philip José Farmer. In fact, this had the potential of being one of the most star-studded genre novels ever. Naturally I agreed to participate. Then, early in 1987, the word came that I was to do the lead-off entry. This surprised me; I had expected to be buried somewhere in the middle. I was of course jammed for time— this is a chronic condition with me, perhaps typical of workaholics. How could I start a novel which others would finish, and do it rapidly and well?
Then I thought of Tappy. I reasoned that to achieve bestseller status, this volume should at least start in the contemporary mainstream. Later it would get into the deep space, alien monsters, universe-destroying elements, but it needed to have one or two main characters with whom the average mainstream reader could identify. I remembered how The Wizard of Oz started with an ordinary Kansas girl, then got into full-scale fantasy, and was successful. My story of Tappy fit the criterion. Also, and by no means incidentally, I very much wanted Tappy to have her place in the sun. My characters are real to me, and I hurt when they hurt; I did not want to allow Tappy to be as brutally treated by the market as she had been by her folks.
So I adapted the story in two ways. First I changed it from first person, Jack's viewpoint, to third person. This was because I did not think it was fair to lock other writers into the first person mode. I regretted the necessity, because there was a certain cadence in first person that third person lacked. Such as the line "My mind meanders when I paint." That has a poetic beat and alliteration—"His mind meandered when he painted" just doesn't do it. I do write for sound as well as sight; when I edit my material, I often read it aloud. But it had to be. Second, I added back in some hints of the fantastic, so as to give following writers something to work from. I made it evident that there was more to Tappy than her mundane existence.
I turned it in to the editor, and he loved it. In due course I was paid for it. I had succeeded in finding a place for Tappy. The second chapter was written by Phil Farmer, and the following chapters by other writers.
But there were problems, and the project foundered. Oh, no! Once again Tappy was cast into the street.
Then Charles Platt, who had been editorially involved with the project, made a suggestion: suppose I worked with Phil Farmer, taking our first two chapters and continuing as a two-writer collaboration? That way we could eliminate the major problem of the first attempt, which was such a diversity of styles and directions that there came a point when no other writers would tackle the later chapters. The notion appealed to me, for three reasons. First, I don't like to have anything I start go unfinished; I'm ornery and don't quit readily, as you may have gathered. Second, I have admired Phil Farmer's work since seeing his 1952 novel The Lovers; I am not alone in regarding it as a classic of the genre. That's by no means the only significant writing he has done; I believe it is fair to say that he is regarded as one of the outstanding figures of the genre. (In case you are curious, the consensus of the critical establishment seems to be that I am pedestrian in style and theme, and not a credit to the genre. It has been suggested that I owe my commercial success to the fact that my pseudonym begins with the letter "A.") I have done seventeen collaborative novels, but never with a writer of Phil's stature. I was eager for this chance to work with him. Third, I wanted to save Tappy, and this was a way.
But there were complications. The rights to the material in the Lightyears project were not clear. I finally clarified them the hard way: I bought the project and returned the rights of the entries to the authors. Phil Farmer and I had different literary agents. I settled that with the finesse and politeness for which I somehow seem not to be known: My agent will handle it, I said, refusing to negotiate. I had reasons which made sense to me, and Phil, being a nicer person than I am, yielded gracefully.
We moved on with it, at first alternating chapters, then—well, if you can tell who wrote what, more power to you, but you're probably wrong. Our styles and notions meshed nicely, and I think we have a good book. It was of course impossible to have it absolutely smooth, because each of us had to read the other's latest chapter before deciding where to proceed. This is the first collaboration I have done this way, and I suspect it's not the best way. But it was set by its genesis; we had alternated at the beginning, so we continued.
There is a round-robin story game, done either verbally or in writing, in which each participant tells a segment of the story, setting it up for the next one. Person A may have Boy meets Girl, but as they are indulging in their first kiss, the barricade at the edge of Lover's Leap gives way and they plunge down a thousand-foot cliff. Now it is Person B's turn. He establishes that there is a deep lake at the base, somehow not mentioned before. The lovers plunge in, bob to the surface, finally break their kiss, and realize that something is amiss. So they swim to shore, but are in a strange region uninhabited by man. They make a fire and dry their clothing, then spend the night, preparing for an arduous trek in the morning. But great eyes loom out of the darkness, and an enormous hand reaches down to pick them up, screaming. Oops—it's Person C's turn. And so on, in a gentle contest to see who can mess up whom the worst.
Naturally professionals such as Anthony and Farmer would not stoop to such one-upmanship. Or would they? Well, maybe on a subtler level. We had a mutual interest in having a good novel, because we were not doing this for our health. Amateurs may write just for fun, but professionals write for money. Fun, too, but the professional who does not keep an eye on commercial prospects does not remain professional long. So we tended to be conservative, making sure there was a reasonable continuation. When each of us forwarded his latest chapter to the other, he also sent a few notes indicating what he had in mind and where he thought it might proceed, and what baffled him. Thus, had I been the one to drop my lovers off the cliff, I would have indicated that there indeed was water below, while allowing my collaborator the option of having them go splat on the rocky shore instead if he preferred. As with chess: you don't just wipe your opponent's king off the board, you announce your intention by saying "Check" and giving him a turn to respond. Not that this was any contest; we were going to win or lose together, by the success or failure of the final novel.
Still, there was a current. I hoped that Phil would make contributions with the imagination and vigor of The Lovers or one of his "Mother" stories, or maybe like The Night of Light, in which good wars with evil in a religious setting and at one point the Boy cracks the Girl's head open and a snake jumps out from the shell of the skull. What he hoped for from me I'm not sure; perhaps that I just manage not to drop the ball before scoring. So I did set him up with some brinks to hurdle (or whatever) which he neatly finessed and tossed back to me. Meanwhile, it seems to me that our approaches melded nicely, so that there really wasn't much jerkiness in the progress of the story. That's one reason I prefer to be slightly ambiguous on exactly who wrote what: so that armchair c
ritics can't say, "It's plain that we had one superior writer and one hack; the Farmer chapters are outstanding. Too bad he didn't have a better collaborator." They are going to have to figure it out without merely checking off every second chapter. (If you get the impression that I don't have any more respect for critics than they have for me, you're two for two.)
We brought the novel to the halfway point, and my agent marketed it. It was just in time for what appears to have been the worst slump in novels sales and prices in a decade or two. This is the inevitable luck of writers. Nevertheless two or three publishers were interested, and we finally landed a satisfactory contract. Now all we had to do was complete the novel.
I mentioned the luck of writers. Well, about the time we were heading into the home stretch, Phil Farmer's wife, Bette, had to have surgery. They went from Illinois to California for two weeks to take care of it. Right: it took longer than anticipated, and Phil was stuck for months without his notes, prior text, or computer as the deadline loomed. He had to write out his material longhand and type it manually. I'd hate to see the color of the air around his working place while he commented on the situation! So he summarized what he had written for me, so that I could start my section without waiting to receive his. In this manner we moved it along despite his situation.
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