The Perseids and Other Stories

by Robert Charles Wilson

  Deirdre’s love of the strange represents, I think, a real and legitimate esthetic impulse, though one not held in much esteem. Science fiction and fantasy cater to that urge the way “literary” fiction caters to the human need for intelligent gossip. The nineteenth century gave the impulse its due (that Pleasure Dome, that Raven), but the twentieth dropped it like a hot Freudian potato.

  So the Strange put on its Appollonian suit and tie and went to live in the low–rent neighborhood of Astounding Stories and Thrilling Wonder.

  You hear talk now and again of the death of science fiction, but I suspect the twenty–first century will be good for us—that the Strange will come leaping out of the closet with its ray gun in one hand and its bottle of laudanum in the other, delirious with possibility.

  Thanks to those who were present at the creation: Jo, Jesse, and Devon; Tarai (because I’ve been mining our conversations for story ideas for years); Phil (for being hard to impress); Janet and Paul; Alan Rosenthal (thanks, Alan) and Hope Leibowitz (thanks, Hope); Don Hutchison; and Sharry, who supplied research material, proofreading, and inspiration.