Anthonology by Piers Anthony CONTENTS POSSIBLE TO RUE THE TOASTER QUINQUEPEDALIAN ENCOUNTER PHOG THE GHOST GALAXIES WITHIN THE CLOUD THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE IN THE JAWS OF DANGER BEAK BY BEAK GETTING THROUGH UNIVERSITY IN THE BARN UP SCHIST CRICK THE WHOLE TRUTH THE BRIDGE ON THE USES OF TORTURE SMALL MOUTH, BAD TASTE WOOD YOU? HARD SELL HURDLE GONE TO THE DOGS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS POSSIBLE TO RUE I started writing fiction seriously on the way to my B.A. in Creative Writing. My thesis for graduation was a 95,000 word novel, _The Unstilled World_, that kept the College President up much of the night. No, he wasn't a science fiction fan; he just had to read all the papers, and hadn't anticipated one that was 300 pages long. That novel was never published, though later I revamped a portion of it that is now part of the _Battle Circle_ volume. The first story I wrote, "Evening," I submitted to the first _Galaxy Magazine_ amateur story contest in 1954. In 1955 I received notice that my story was among the top ten entries, but that they had decided to have no winner. Sigh- my literary career had been launched in typical fashion. Meanwhile, my later friend andy offutt (that's the way he capitalized it) entered a similar contest sponsored by _If Magazine_ and won it. Fate has generally treated me that way; I seem to have a propensity for just barely missing the cut. But I have always been ornery. I refused to comprehend the message that I wasn't wanted in Parnassus. This is my advice to other hopeful writers: be ornery, keep trying, don't get the message, so that you, too, can suffer years of frustration, irony and humiliation. Once every decade or so the worm does turn. I tried other stories on other markets, receiving rejection slips and a curt note from H.L. Gold not to try to compete with the big boys. (And where are you now, H.L.? Suppose I had followed your arrogant advice?) In 1958 my story "The Demisee" was accepted by Damon Knight at _If Magazine_-which then ceased publication just long enough to unsell my story. I had missed the cut again. But I kept trying, while earning my living in such mundane pursuits as delivery driver, the U.S. Army, electronics technical writer and state social worker. But still I longed to be a writer; the dream would not let go. Finally my wife went to work, so that I could try writing full-time for one year. This is my second major item of advice to other hopefuls: have a working spouse to earn your living while you grasp for the impossible. We agreed that if I did not succeed, I would recognize the nature of my delusion, give it up, retire to productive mundane work and be at literary peace. One of my fifth cousins did exactly that, ending his writing attempts to become an executive at Sears. It was now late in 1962. I wrote a fantasy story and sent it off to the _Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction_-let's just call it F&SF-and a science fiction story that I sent to _Playboy_. They both bounced. I wrote another fantasy and tried F&SF again, while trying the first two at other markets. They all bounced. I thought I might try a British magazine-I was after all born in England, and was a subject of the King/Queen for twenty-four years-but I didn't have the address. So while I was trying to get it, I sent my second fantasy story to _Fantastic_, just to keep it in circulation. And suddenly it sold. After eight years, nineteen stories, and thirty rejections, I had a $20.00 sale. I was a success! That story, of course, was "Possible to Rue." It was published in the April 1963 issue of _Fantastic_, and thereafer sank without a trace, until this moment. I make no special claims for its merit; it just happened to be the chip thrown up by the wave. I include it simply because it was the point at which my worm turned, my first success as a commercial fiction writer, of interest for historical consideration. Perhaps scholars more intelligent than I am will be able to trace in this story the genesis of my later career as a writer of light-fantasy novels. The rest of you can take satisfaction in the fact that at least it isn't very long. * * * I want a pegasus, Daddy," Junior greeted him at the door, his curly blond head hobbling with excitement. "A small one, with white fluttery wings and an aerodynamic tail and-" "You shall have it, son," Daddy said warmly, absent-mindedly stripping off jacket and tie. Next week was Bradley Newton, Jr.'s sixth birthday, and Bradley, Senior had promised a copy of _Now We Are Six_ and a pet for his very own. Newton was a man of means, so that this was no empty pledge. He felt he owed it to the boy, to make up in some token the sorrow of Mrs. N's untimely departure. He eased himself into the upholstered chair, vaguely pleased that his son showed such imagination. Another child would have demanded something commonplace, like a mongrel or a Shetland pony. But a pegasus now- "Do you mean the winged horse, son?" Newton inquired, a thin needle of doubt poking into his complacency. "That's right, Daddy," Junior said brightly. "But it will have to be a very small one, because I want a pegasus that can really fly. A full grown animal's wings are non-functional because the proportionate wing span is insufficient to get it off the ground." "I understand, son," Newton said quickly. "A small one." People had laughed when he had insisted that Junior's nurse have a graduate degree in general science. Fortunately he had been able to obtain one inexpensively by hiring her away from the school board. At this moment he regretted that it was her day off; Junior could be very single-minded. "Look, son," he temporized. "I'm not sure I know where to buy a horse like that. And you'll have to know how to feed it and care for it, otherwise it would get sick and die. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?" The boy pondered. "You're right, Daddy," he said at last. "We would be well advised to look it up." "Look it up?" "In the encyclopedia, Daddy. Haven't you always told me that it was an authoritative factual reference?" The light dawned. Junior believed in the encyclopedia. "My very words, Son. Let's look it up and see what it says about... let's see... here's _Opinion to Possibility_... should be in this volume. Yes." He found the place and read aloud: " 'Pegasus-Horse with wings which sprang from the blood of the Gorgon Medusa after Perseus cut off her head.' " Junior's little mouth dropped open. "That has got to be figurative," he pronounced. "Horses are not created from-" " '...a creature of Greek mythology,' " Newton finished victoriously. Junior digested that. "You mean, it doesn't exist," he said dispiritedly. Then he brightened. "Daddy, if I ask for something that does exist, then can I have it for a pet?" "Certainly, Son. We'll just look it up here, and if the book says it's real, we'll go out and get one. I think that's a fair bargain." "A unicorn," Junior said. Newton restrained a smile. He reached for the volume marked _Trust to Wary_ and flipped the pages. " 'Unicorn-A mythological creature resembling a horse-' " he began. Junior looked at him suspiciously. "Next year I'm going to school and learn to read for myself," he muttered. "You are alleging that there is no such animal?" "That's what the book says, Son-honest." The boy looked dubious, but decided not to make an issue of it. "All right- let's try a zebra." He watched while Newton pulled out _Watchful to Indices_. "It's only fair to warn you, Daddy," he said ominously, "that there is a picture of one on the last page of my alphabet book." "I'll read you just exactly what it says, Son," Newton said defensively. "Here it is: 'Zebra-A striped horselike animal reputed to have lived in Africa. Common in European and American legend, although entirely mythical-' " "Now you're making that up," Junior accused angrily. "I've got a picture." "But Son-I thought it was real myself. I've never seen a zebra, but I thought- look. You have a picture of a ghost too, don't you? But you know that's not real." There was a hard set to Junior's jaw. "The examples are not analogous. Spirits are preternatural-" "Why don't we try another animal?" Newton cut in. "We can come back to the zebra later." "Mule," Junior said sullenly. Newton reddened, then realized that the boy was not being personal. He withdrew the volume covering _Morphine to Opiate_ silently. He was somewhat shaken up by the turn events had taken. Imagine spending all his life believing in an animal that didn't exist. Yet of course it was stupid to swear by a horse with prison stripes.... " 'Mule,' " he read. " 'The offspring of the mare and the male ass. A very large, strong hybrid, sure footed with remarkable sagacity. A creature of folklore, although, like the unicorn and zebra, widely accepted by the credulous....' " His son looked at him. "Horse," he said. Newton somewhat warily opened _Hoax to Imaginary_. He was glad he wasn't credulous himself. "Right you are, Son. 'Horse-A fabled hoofed creature prevalent in mythology. A very fleet four-footed animal complete with flowing mane, hairy tail and benevolent disposition. Metallic shoes supposedly worn by the animal are valued as good luck charms, in much the same manner as the unicorn's horn-' " Junior clouded up dangerously. "Now wait a minute, Son," Newton spluttered. "I know that's wrong. I've seen horses myself. Why, they use them in TV westerns- " "The reasoning is specious," Junior muttered but his heart wasn't in it. "Look, Son-I'll prove it. I'll call the race track. I used to place-I mean, I used to go there to see the horses. Maybe they'll let us visit the stables." Newton dialed with a quivering finger; spoke into the phone. A brief frustrated interchange later he slammed the receiver down again. "They race dogs now," he said. He fumbled through the yellow pages, refusing to let himself think. The book skipped rebelliously from _Homes_ to _Hospital_. He rattled the bar for the operator to demand the number of the nearest horse farm, then angrily dialed "O"; after some confusion he ended up talking to "Horsepower, Inc.," a tractor dealer. Junior surveyed the proceedings with profound disgust. "Methinks the queen protests too much," he quoted sweetly. In desperation, Newton called a neighbor. "Listen, Sam-do you know anybody around here who owns a horse? I promised my boy I'd show him one today...." Sam's laughter echoed back over the wire. "You're a card, Brad. Horses, yet. Do you teach him to believe in fairies too?" Newton reluctantly accepted defeat. "I guess I was wrong about the horse, Son," he said awkwardly. "I could have sworn-but never mind. Just proves a man is never too old to make a mistake. Why don't you pick something else for your pet? Tell you-whatever you choose, I'll give you a matched pair." Junior cheered up somewhat. He was quick to recognize a net gain. "How about a bird?" Newton smiled in heartfelt relief. "That would be fine, Son, just fine. What kind did you have in mind?" "Well," Junior said thoughtfully. "I think I'd like a big bird. A real big bird, like a roc, or maybe a harpy-" Newton reached for _Possible to Rue_. THE TOASTER Buoyed by my first sale, I kept writing. I submitted a long science fiction poem, "Strange is the Measure," to four markets and retired it. Then I wrote "The Toaster" and tried it on the leading SF magazine, _Analog_. That magazine, in its prior guise as _Astounding_, had been the light of my life in the late 1940's when I discovered the genre; how nice it would be to have one of my own stories represented on its hallowed pages! Alas, three and a half months later my story came back, rejected. I have always wondered how a magazine that publishes every month can take several months to consider a story; surely the editor should run out of stories at that rate! (The answer, of course, is the slush pile: that towering stack of unsolicited manuscripts from hopeful writers like me that the editor postpones reading as long as humanly possible. Editors don't take three months to look at my fiction _today_.) I tried it on _Galaxy_, and then on _Fantastic_, and finally on _Cosmopolitan_. All bounces, so I retired it, as I had run out of markets and postage adds up. Hopeful writers have to pay the postage both ways, you know, if they want to get their stories back. This, then, is a failed story; it has never before appeared in print. Is it worse than "Possible to Rue"? Only about one in four of my stories ever sold, which is one reason I had to graduate to novels. It was economics, not natural inclination, that forced the move-but once I had done it, I discovered that I liked being a novelist better than being a storyist. Some of my fans today don't realize that I ever did write stories. * * * The announcer bonged respectfully. "Speak your piece," the cheerful white- haired woman said briskly. "Miss Porter to see Miss Porter," it said. The woman frowned, but with a twinkle. "You make about as much sense as a cheese factory on the moon," she commented. "Now let's try it again, and this time use _names_." The announcer paused in confusion, then got its circuits adjusted. "Miss Ophelia Porter is present at the subterranean access and has expressed the desire to pay a personal call on resident Miss Adelaine Porter." "Why that's fine, just fine." Miss Porter busily smoothed her old-fashioned apron. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" "I'm already in, Auntie," a voice tinkled behind her. "I snuck into the 'vator while you were dickering with the blurt-box." Miss Porter smiled without surprise and turned to face the girl. Ophelia stood in front of the freight receptacle, resplendent in purple pantaloons and a conical hat. Her dark hair was gathered into a single enormous braid, and her eyes were artfully shadowed. "Why do you think I stalled the contraption, dear? What on earth are you wearing?" "Playsuit, Auntie. See?" Ophelia pirouetted into the center of the room, the sides of her garment parting to reveal her thighs. Miss Porter snorted. "Seems to me you're still a little young for that sort of play. Nine years old-" "Ten, Auntie. And I-" The announcer rang urgently. "Miss Porter can not be-" It hesitated. "Miss Ophelia Porter can not be located," it said with mixed triumph and chagrin. "Well, find her, Blurtbox," Ophelia exclaimed with impish glee. She knew that the announcer was too primitive to discern the difference between voices. "It's a pleasure to serve you, madame," the machine said dubiously. The old woman clapped her hands together sharply. "Don't call me 'madam,' you clamorous contraption. Get back to your business." "Yes, Miss Porter," it said, cutting off quickly. Ophelia had already made herself comfortable in the archaic couch. "When's it coming, Auntie?" she demanded. "The Toaster, I mean." Miss Porter favored her with a mock frown. "I should have known you didn't come calling all by yourself out of love for your old maiden great-great aunt." She settled into a chair herself. "It's due at ten o'clock. That will be in a quarter of an hour. Why don't you run out and play for a little while, dear, while you're waiting?" Ophelia looked baffled. "Outside?" "Why certainly, dear. When I was a girl a century ago I used to delight in running through the forest paths, feeling the wind take my dress. When I was your age-" "But Auntie-what about the radiation?" Miss Porter looked up, surprised. "Dear me! I had forgotten about that. I suppose you can't go out these days." "Why do you still use those old-fashioned toasters, Auntie? Is it because you're eccentric?" Miss Porter raised an eyebrow. "Your father's been putting strange notions into your head, dear. Toasters and I have an ancient affinity." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "I was just ten years old when I used my first toaster-if you could call it that." She smiled reminiscently. "That was in the year 1930. My mother let me put slices of homemade bread on a clean section of the old wood stove. Sometimes the pieces burned-but oh, my, it was delicious." Ophelia was pleased. "We learned about bread in Cultural History class." Miss Porter didn't seem to hear. "Of course, when I became a young woman I bought my own toaster. That was in 1940; it was one of those simple side-door affairs. I had to plug it in to start, and unplug to turn it off. When I opened the doors the toast was supposed to slide down and flip itself over, so that I could do the other side without burning my fingers. But it didn't always work." "How come you didn't have any children of your own?" Ophelia inquired directly. "Back when you were a luscious young piece?" Miss Porter opened her eyes, tolerant of the child's language; times had changed. "Why you see, dear, I never married-" "But you don't need to be married to have children. Down at the free love clinic-" "Some people feel that marriage has its advantages nevertheless, dear," Miss Porter said gently. "And a woman must wait until she's asked." "Daddy says he heard lots of men asked you. He says they were howling after you like hounds after a bitch in he-" "Your father's long overdue for a spanking, I'm sure," Miss Porter said severely. "Oh, they don't spank people anymore, Auntie." "Really?" she inquired with interest. "And what do they do these modern days?" "You were telling me about your toasters," Ophelia said uncomfortably. "What did you get in 1950?" Miss Porter leaned back again and let her old eyes close. "I was thirty then, and thrilled by the advances they had made in toasting. Two slots in the top for the bread, and when you pressed down the handle it ticked away for three minutes-or was that the egg timer?-and then up popped the toast." "What's an egg?" Ophelia asked. The old woman sighed. "Ask me that on another day. Today is Toaster Day. In 1960 there were no levers at all-you just dropped in the bread, and the toaster lowered it and popped it back at you in less than a minute. Sometimes I would eat a few berries, too-" "Berries?" Ophelia put in, shocked. "You _ate_ them?" Her eyes were big and round. "Why of course, dear. High bush blueberries fresh from the wilderness, though of course there wasn't much of _that_ left even then. And sometimes strawberries-" "Oh, _Earth_ berries," Ophelia said, sighing with relief. "I thought you meant Betelguese Berries." Miss Porter wondered briefly what kind of fruit that could be, but decided not to inquire. Her great-great niece could be disconcertingly graphic. "Let me see-in 1990 my toaster took the bread out of the package by itself, and buttered it hot and served it up on a little plate. I didn't have to do anything except order the bread and sweep up the crumbs. And in 2000 I didn't even have to do that." "It's here!" Ophelia squealed. Miss Porter opened her eyes once more and saw that a machine had materialized in the freight receptacle. It was larger than the old model and looked exceedingly complicated. She was not as enthusiastic about its arrival as Ophelia evidently was; the old one had served her well for ten years, also fixing meals, answering the viz, washing dishes and making the bed. The new one might be more ambitious, and that was not necessarily good. "Are you going to show me a toast now, Auntie?" Ophelia exclaimed, dancing in front of the machine. "Gracious, dear-do you mean to tell me that your family never fixed toast? We'll attend to that right away." She eased herself to her feet and faced the machine. "Toaster: front and center!" The machine rolled forward a few inches and hesitated. "Is Mistress addressing me?" it rumbled sonorously. "Don't call me 'mistress,' you overstuffed tin can. At least, not in that masculine voice. Yes, I mean you. Come here." The machine moved into the center of the room and cleared its speaker. "I am your new Automated Service Tribune," it said in a feminine pitch. "I am a utility deluxe robotic housekeeper, model T-Zero. May I be of service?" "You certainly may," Miss Porter said crisply. "I am Miss Adelaine Porter, your new mis-your new owner. I want you to prepare me two pieces of your finest buttered toast, with jelly on the side." "Beg pardon?" Tribune said. "Did the Mistress ask for toads?" "I said toast, you box of bolts. Two pieces." Tribune retreated in confusion. "Perhaps if the Mistress would describe what she wants-" "I want two slices of bread heated until they char on the outside, with churned bovine extract spread on the upper surface. Does that make it quite clear, hardwarebrain?" "Mistress must be aware that no bread has been manufactured for a number of years," Tribune protested. "And the zoo would hardly allow any of its valuable endangered-species bovines to be molested-" Miss Porter tapped her foot menacingly. "I want you to know that I'm a hundred and ten years old and set in my ways and I WILL HAVE MY TOAST. I'm going to give you just one more chance to perform, you-what did you say your name was?" The machine drew itself up on its rollers. "I am your Automated Service Tribune. You may call me AST for convenience. Model number T-Zero." "Well, give me some T-zero-A-S-T. T O A S T! Do you understand me, you silly Ast?" The machine retreated and clicked to itself. Finally it rumbled to a decision. "If Mistress persists in making an illogical or nonsensical request, it will be necessary to escort her to a clinic for a psychiatric examination." Ophelia came up to her nervously. "It can do it, Auntie," she warned. "Those T-Zero models have special-" Miss Porter patted the girl's hand. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," she quoted. "I'm consistent, but I'm not foolish. I've had experience with willful machines." She opened her purse and extracted a small object. "Auntie-that's a megawatt disrupter!" Ophelia cried. "It certainly is, dear." She activated it and slapped it against the braincase of the machine. "But that will burn out the computer circuits of the AST!" "It certainly will, dear." "But then it won't be able to answer the viz or do your shopping or supervise your entertainment," Ophelia said. "It won't be able to do _anything_." Miss Porter laughed as she nonchalantly discarded the spent disrupter. "You are mistaken, dear. Stripped of its modernistic, male-inspired notions, it will have to revert to the limited functions of its ancestry. In short, it will MAKE TOAST." "Yess Misstresss," the machine slurred dutifully. It retreated into itself for a few minutes of internal clicks and gurgles. Evidently something quite complicated was going on inside. At length, a slot opened and a plate emerged containing two pieces of hotly buttered toast. "That's very good, Tribune," Miss Porter said, patting the machine on its lobotomized dome. "Thank you, Misstresss," it replied slavishly. Miss Porter took the plate and handed one of the pieces to her niece. "This, my dear, is toast. Eat it." Ophelia took it and bit in doubtfully. Suddenly her face lighted. "Auntie!" she exclaimed incredulously. "It's GOOD!" QUINQUEPEDALIAN By early 1963 our situation was getting desperate. My wife had been unable to find regular work-she got turned down for being "overqualified"-and we were afraid I would have to terminate my year's writing at six months despite my one sale. Writers and their families don't exist on air, you know. But then she landed a job at the _St. Petersburg Times_ newspaper and we were okay for the nonce. Still, I had some trouble turning out fiction steadily; the creative genius doesn't necessarily function on a set schedule. This was, in fact, my first and only siege of the dreadest malady of the trade: Writer's Block. I indulged in a lot of correspondence-about 40,000 words a month-and compiled a massive Index of Book Reviews-later virtually pirated by another outfit-and struggled to keep at least one story in the mail at all times. And in the course of that year I did learn how to conquer Writer's Block, and have never suffered from it since. Then in June 1963, seven months after my first sale, I had my second. This was a science fiction story, seven thousand words long, for which I was paid $140-two cents a word. It was a good rate, and I was thrilled. It was published in the November 1963 _Amazing Stories_ and reprinted six years later. I do feel that this story represents the kind of innovative imagination and logic that characterize my science fiction novels, and I remain pleased with it. I can't think why _Galaxy_ bounced it before _Amazing_ took it; the fact is, all my first ten sales were rejected somewhere before being accepted elsewhere. Maybe I was overqualified. A note on the original editing: The magazine editors have a habit of inserting meaningless spaces in the author's text. Maybe blank lines make them feel more at home. So when you see these in the remainder of this volume, don't blame me; there are no blanks in _my_ narrative, or pointless untitled chapters. * * * It lay there, an indentation in the soil, two inches deep and nine feet in diameter. It was flat, it was smooth, and the sand and the dirt were twined with rotted leaves and stems in a marbled pattern. The edge, cut sharp and clean, exposed a miniature stratum leading up to the impressed forest floor, and spoke of the weight that had stood on that spot, molding the earth into the shape of its fundament. It was the mark of a foot, or a hoof, or whatever it is that touches the ground when an animal ambulates. One print- Charles Tinnerman shook his head somberly. A single print could have been a freak of nature. This was one of many: a definite trail. They were spaced twenty or thirty feet apart, huge and level; ridges of spadiceous earth