This is the elder scientist,
every year on the honors list,
who trained the young man full of pride,
whose gadgets work the first time tried
in a science fiction story.
This is the daughter, lush and young,
with golden hair and silver tongue,
born to the elder scientist.…
This is the bem of alien race,
with X-ray eyes and scabrous face,
that chased the daughter, lush and young.…
This is the ship on a trial run,
parsecs from the familiar sun,
seized by the bem of alien race.…
This is the hyperspatial lever
used by the hero, bold and clever,
to escape the ship on a trial run.…
This is the mutant with tendril beard
who ruled the planet remote and weird
at the end of the hyperspatial lever.…
This is the strange psionic force
that stopped the bem-race in its course,
learned from the mutant with tendril beard.…
This is the marijuana spree
that made these cosmic concepts be:
to wit, the strange psionic force
that stopped the bem-race in its course,
learned from the mutant with tendril beard
who ruled the planet remote and weird
at the end of the hyperspatial lever
used by the hero, bold and clever,
to escape the ship on a trial run,
parsecs from the familiar sun,
seized by the bem of alien race,
with X-ray eyes and scabrous face,
that chased the daughter, lush and young,
with golden hair and silver tongue,
born to the elder scientist,
every year on the honors list,
who trained the young man full of pride,
whose gadgets work the first time tried
in a science fiction story.
—Poul and Karen Anderson
EXTRACT FROM THE ENGLISH EDITION OF A GUIDE MICHELIN
POICTESME **—Michelin map no. 9913—pop. 12,345
This quiet and thinly peopled backwater is best known through its historical and literary associations, though unfortunately, few relics of its past are left. It is becoming an increasingly popular recreational center, and development is under way to cope with an anticipated large annual influx of foreign tourists as well as French vacationers.
A Former County—The archaeology of Poictesme is obscure. Prehistorians insist that certain finds made in the Morven and Amneran areas must be hoaxes, in very poor taste at that. The Roman occupation is memorialized only by a time-blurred slab inscribed SVFFRAGIMINI CLAVDIO CANDIDATO AMICO POPVLI, found in the ruins of the Cistercian abbey near Bellegarde where it had evidently been the top of an altar, and by a brief mention in the Tedium of Ibid. The invasion of the Northmen around 1200 A.D. caused the destruction of most earlier buildings and records, less by the barbarians themselves than by the Poictesmoises, who needed the material for mangonel ammunition and spitballs.
The invaders were cast out by Dom Manuel the Redeemer, who to this day is locally considered a saint not only for his heroism and perspicacity but for his piety, honesty, and chastity. However, the only properly canonized native is St. Holmendis, whose feast is celebrated by peasants in the Forest of Acaire with quaint rites. The regimes of subsequent Counts make a rather complicated chronicle.
The Puysanges—Of obscure origin, this ducal family played an outstanding rôle in the later history of Poictesme and, eventually, France as a whole. Their policies during the Hundred Years’ War led to widespread devastation, considerable loss of autonomy, and the flight of some members to England. Those who stayed behind had descendants who were often high in the service of the French state and had much to do with bringing on the Revolution.
Napoleonic Era—The reorganizations which followed passed Poictesme by, largely because the Emperor never could quite find it on any of his maps, and just when he thought he had done so, something else would come up. The period is thus notable chiefly because, at this time, the American connections of certain families inspired the beautiful folk song Reportez-moi vers la Vieille Virginee. Under the Third Republic, after incredible efforts, Poictesme was finally brought into the department of Paresseux-et-Boueux.
STORISENDE*
(tour: 1½ hours—excluding a tour of the wineries)
Starting from the Place Jurgen, take the Avenue d’Étalon Argent and then, to the right, the Rue Niafer to the Château.
La Gagerie.—This building, which fronts on the municipal parking lot, is said to have been the pawn-shop of the legendary Jurgen, but was actually built in the eighteenth century by Florian, fourth Duc de Puysange, when he had nothing better to do. It is worth a visit for its combination of Corinthian pillars and gargoyles, and because it houses the Syndicat d’Initiative.
L’Èglise de St. Holmendis.—A portion of the ancient oratory is incorporated in the crypt of a nineteenth-century Gothic restoration made according to the theories of Bülg. This portion is shown to men only. Behind the altar is a large and exceptionally inspiring mural of the Christian knight Donander, who fell in battle against the heathen, ascending to Heaven.
Château.—(Open 9 to 11.30 a.m. and 2 to 4 p.m. (from 1 October to Easter), 6 p.m. (Easter to 30 September). Admission:1F. There is also a Son et Lumière in summer, French 8.30, English 9.45 p.m. Admission: 1.50 F.)
Little remains of the stronghold of Dom Manuel, and nothing of his tomb, whose ornate monument was razed during the Revolution. The existing structure is mainly the work of Florian, fourth Due de Puysange, restored according to Bülg, and looks about as one would expect. It houses a museum which includes some interesting relics (among them two balls said to have belonged to Jurgen the pawnbroker, an iridescent shirt of undoubted antiquity whose radioactivity cannot be accounted for, a chastity belt in pristine condition bearing the arms of Alianora of Provence, and a set of specifications for a solar system initialled “K”) as well as an inexplicable collection of manuscripts and other scribblings by some obscure American writer.
The remnant of the original building is known as the Room of Ageus and contains three unusual windows.
Other Things to See
Pont de Duardenez.—This bridge over the river is a favorite spot for anglers, whose catches are occasionally of a unique variety of blind fish.
Hôtel Freydis.—Look into the courtyard of this somewhat peculiar inn for a sight of ten amusing small statues.
—Poul and Karen Anderson
ROBERT A. HEINLEIN
Guest of Honor, World Science Fiction Convention, 1976
Your universe is ruled by common sense:
Though on the road to glory Waldo saw
Magic incorporate the Devil’s law,
Your empire’s logic holds by pounds and pence;
And though your misfits build a crooked house,
Or by their bootstraps find the door to summer,
Though double stardom trap a passing mummer,
Your roads will only roll where trade allows;
And men must sell the moon—lunch isn’t free.
If starship troopers march, and blowups come
(Solutions with no satisfying sum)
Can citizenhood win the Galaxy?
But fear no evil: for, these things above,
Each life-line still binds time enough for love.
—Karen Anderson
TREATY IN TARTESSOS
Iratzabal’s hoofs were shod with bronze, as befitted a high chief, and heavy gold pins held the coils of bright sorrel hair on top of his head. In this morning’s battle, of course, he had used wooden pins which were less likely to slip out. As tonight was a ceremonial occasion, he wore a coat of aurochs hide dyed blue with woad, buttoned and cinched with hammered gold.
He waved
his spear high to show the green branches bound to its head as he entered the humans’ camp. No one spoke, but a guard grunted around a mouthful of barley-cake and jerked his thumb toward the commander’s tent.
Standing in his tent door, Kynthides eyed the centaur with disfavor, from his unbarbered hair to the particularly clumsy bandage on his off fetlock. He straightened self-consciously in his sea-purple cloak and pipeclayed linen tunic.
“Greetings, most noble Iratzabal,” he said, bowing. “Will you enter my tent?”
The centaur returned the bow awkwardly. “Glad to, most noble Kynthides.” he said. As he went in the man realized with a little surprise that the centaur emissary was only a couple of fingers’ breadth taller than himself.
It was darker inside the tent than out, despite the luxury of three lamps burning at once. “I hope you’ve dined well? May I offer you anything?” Kynthides asked politely, with considerable misgivings. The centaur probably wouldn’t know what to do with a barley loaf, and as for wine—well, there wasn’t a drop within five miles of camp. Or there had better not be.
“That’s decent of you, but I’m full up,” said Iratzabal. “The boys found a couple of dead … uh, buffalo, after the battle, and we had a fine barbecue.”
Kynthides winced. Another yoke of draft oxen gone! Well, Corn Mother willing, the war would be settled soon. It might even be tonight. “Won’t you, er … Sit? Lie down? Er, make yourself comfortable.”
Iratzabal lowered himself to the ground with his feet under him, and Kynthides sank gratefully into a leather-backed chair. He had been afraid the discussion would be conducted standing up.
“I got to admit you gave us a good fight today, for all you’re such lightweights,” the centaur said. “You generally do. If we don’t get things settled somehow, we could go on like this till we’ve wiped each other out.”
“We realize that too,” said the man. “I’ve been asked by the heads of every village in Tartessos, not to mention communities all the way back to Thrace, to make some reasonable settlement with you. Can you speak for centaurs in those areas?”
“More or less.” He swished his tail across the bandaged fetlock, and flies scattered. “I run most of the territory from here up through Goikokoa Etchea—what men call Pyrene’s Mountains—and across to the Inland Sea. Half a dozen tribes besides mine hunt through here, but they stand aside for us. We could lick any two of them with our eyes shut. Now, you take an outfit like the Acroceraunians—I don’t run them, but they’ve heard of me, and I can tell them to knuckle under or face my boys and yours. But that shouldn’t be necessary. I’m going to get them a good cut.”
“Well, remember that if the communities don’t like promises I make in their names, they won’t honor them,” said the man. He slid his fingers through the combed curls of his dark-brown beard and wished he could ignore the centaur’s odor. The fellow smelled like a saddle-blanket. If he didn’t want to wash, he could at least use perfume. “First, we ought to consider the reasons for this war, and after that ways to settle the dispute.”
“The way I see it,” the centaur began, “is, you folks want to pin down the corners of a piece of country and sit on it. We don’t understand ground belonging to somebody.”
“It began,” Kynthides said stiffly, “with that riot at the wedding.”
“That was just what set things off,” said Iratzabal. “There’d been a lot of small trouble before then. I remember how I was running down a four-pointer through an oak wood one rainy day, with my nose full of the way things smell when they’re wet and my mind on haunch of venison. The next thing I knew I was in a clearing planted with one of those eating grasses, twenty pounds of mud on each hoof and a pack of tame wolves worrying my hocks. I had to kill two or three of them before I got away, and by then there were men throwing spears and shouting ‘Out! Out!’ in what they thought was Eskuara.”
“We have to keep watchdogs and arm the field hands, or we wouldn’t have a stalk of grain standing at harvest time!”
“Take it easy. I was just telling you, the war isn’t over a little thing like some drunks breaking up a wedding. Nor they wouldn’t have, if the wine hadn’t been where they could get at it. There’s blame on both sides.”
The man half rose at this, but caught himself. The idea was to stop the war, not set it off afresh. “At any rate, it seems we can’t get along with each other. Men and centaurs don’t mix well.”
“We look at things different ways, said Iratzabal. “You see a piece of open country, and all you can think of is planting a crop on it. We think of deer grazing it, or rabbit and pheasant nesting. Field-planting ruins the game in a district.”
“Can’t you hunt away from farm districts?” asked Kynthides. “We have our families to support, little babies and old people. There are too many of us to let the crops go and live by hunting, even if there were as much game as the land could support.”
“Where can we hunt?” shrugged the centaur. “Whenever we come through one of our regular districts, we find more valleys under plow than last time, more trees cut and the fields higher up the slope. Even in Goikokoa Etchea, what’s as much my tribe’s home as a place can be, little fields are showing up.” A swirl of lamp smoke veered toward him, and he sniffed it contemptuously. “Sheep fat! The herds I find aren’t deer any more, they’re sheep, with a boy pi-pipping away on a whistle—and dogs again.”
“If you’d pick out your territory and stay on it, then no farmers would come in,” said Kynthides. “It’s contrary to our nature to leave land unused because somebody plans to hunt through it next autumn.”
“But, big as Goikokoa Etchea is, it won’t begin to feed us year round! We’ve got to have ten times as much, a hundred times if you’re talking of Scythia and Illyria and all.”
“I live in Thessaly myself,” Kynthides pointed out. “I have to think of Illyria. What we men really want is to see all you centaurs completely out of Europe, resettled in Asia or the like. Couldn’t you all move out of Sarmatia and the lands to the east? Nobody lives there. It’s all empty steppes.”
“Sarmatia! Maybe it looks empty to a farmer, but I’ve heard from the boys in Scythia. The place is filling up with Achaians, six feet tall, each with twenty horses big enough to eat either one of us for breakfast, and they can ride those horses all night and fight all day. By Jainco, I’m keeping away from them.”
“Well, there’s hardly anybody in Africa. Why don’t you go there?” the man suggested.
“If there was any way of us all getting there—”
“Certainly there is! We have ships. It would take a couple of years to send you all, but—”
“If we could get there, we wouldn’t like it at all. That’s no kind of country for a centaur. Hot, dry, game few and far between—no thanks. But you’re willing to ship us all to some other place?”
“Any place! That is, within reason. Name it.”
“Just before war broke out in earnest, I got chummy with a lad who’d been on one of those exploring voyages you folks go in for. He said he’d been to a place that was full of game of all kinds, and even had the right kind of toadstools.”
“Toadstools?” To make poison with?” cried Kynthides, his hand twitching toward the neatly bandaged spear-jab on his side.”
“Poison!” Iratzabal ducked his head and laughed into his heavy sorrel beard.” That’s a good one, poison from toadstools! No, to eat. Get a glow on at the Moon Dances—same way you people do with wine. Though I can’t see why you use stuff that leaves you so sick the next day.”
“Once you’ve learned your capacity, you needn’t have a hangover,” Kynthides said with a feeling of superiority. “But this place you’re talking of—”
“Well, my pal said it wasn’t much use to men, but centaurs would like it. Lots of mountains, all full of little tilted meadows, but no flat country to speak of. Not good to plow up and sow with barely or what-not. Why not turn that over to us, since you can’t send any big colonies there any
way?”
“Wait a minute. Are you talking about Kypros’ last expedition?”
“That’s the one my pal sailed under,” nodded Iratzabal.
“No, by the Corn Mother! How can I turn that place over to you? We’ve barely had a look at it ourselves! There may be tin and amber to rival Thule, or pearls, or sea-purple. We have simply no idea of what we’d be giving you.”
“And there may be no riches at all. Did this guy Kypros say he’d seen any tin or pearls? If he did, he didn’t tell a soul of his crew. And I’m telling you, if we don’t go there we don’t go anyplace. I can start the war again with two words.”
The man sprang to his feet, white-lipped. “Then start the war again! We may not have been winning, but by the Mother, we weren’t losing!”
Iratazabal heaved himself upright. “You can hold out as long as we give you pitched battles. But wait till we turn to raiding! You’ll have fields trampled every night, and snipers chipping at you every day. You won’t dare go within bowshot of the woods. We’ll chivy your herds through your crops till they’ve run all their fat off and there’s not a blade still standing. And you’ll get no harvest in, above what you grab off the stem and eat running. How are the granaries, Kynthides? Will there be any seed corn left by spring?”
The man dropped into his chair and took his head in trembling hands. “You’ve got us where we hurt. We can’t survive that kind of warfare. But how can I promise land that isn’t mine? It belongs to Kypros’ backers, if anyone.”
“Pay them off in the grain that won’t be spoiled. Fix up the details any way it suits you. I’m not trying to make it hard on you—we can kick through with a reasonable number of pelts and such to even the bargain.”
He looked up. “All right, Iratzabal,” he said wearily. “You can have Atlantis.”
—Karen Anderson
A PHILOSOPHICAL DIALOGUE
“Hey, a great idea for an essay!” exclaimed the lady. “A sure-fire attention-getter. Come out against God, motherhood, and apple pie, and in favor of sin and the man-eating shark.”
“That’s new?” answered the gentleman. “You must have a different angle—”
The Unicorn Trade Page 17
