Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

He laughed. “Not full-time anyway.”

“Who the hell is the Censorship Board?”

He told me:

When I was twenty-two I lived on a rural road in Oregon, he said, outside of Portland. Mailboxes out on the road. I was writing, I was a playwright, I thought there’d be a career in that; I was just starting to try fiction. I went out one morning after the mailman had gone by. It was drizzling slightly. But I didn’t much care. There was an envelope there from my Hollywood agent. It was a contract. Not an option—a sale. A

hundred thousand dollars. It had just occurred to me that I was getting wet and I ought to go in when two men came out of the bushes—yeah, I know, I guess they go for dramatic entrances. They were in business suits. God, I hate men who wear business suits. The one guy just held out his hand. He said, “Give it to me now and save yourself a lot of trouble.” Give it to him? I told him what I thought of his suggestion. They looked like the mafia, or like a comic parody of the mafia, actually.

They were about the same height, and they seemed almost to be the same person, right down to a duplicate glint of fierceness in the eyes; but then I realized that my first impression had been deceptive. One was blond, one dark-haired; the blond had a slightly receding chin that gave his face a meek look from the nose down; the dark one had once had a bad skin problem and his neck was treeish, giving him an air of stupidity, as if a face had been pasted on the front of the neck with no room for a head at all. Not mafia at all. Ordinary people.

Except the eyes. That glint in the eyes was not false, and that was what had made me see them wrong at first. Those eyes had seen people weep, and had cared, and had hurt them again anyway. It’s a look that human eyes should never have.

“It’s just the contract, for Christ’s sake,” I told them, but the dark one with acne scars only told me again to hand it over.

By now, though, my first fear had passed; they weren’t armed, and so I might be able to get rid of them without violence. I started back to the house. They followed me.

“What do you want my contract for?” I asked.

“That film will never be made,” says Meek, the blond one with the missing chin. “We won’t allow it to be made.”

I’m thinking who writes their dialogue for them, do they crib it from Fenimore Cooper? “Their hundred thousand dollars says they want to try. I want them to.”

“You’ll never get the money, Murphy. And this contract and that screenplay will pass out of existence within the next four days. I promise you that.”

I ask him, “What are you, a critic?”

“Close enough.”

By now I was inside the door and they were on the other side of the threshold. I should have closed the door, probably, but I’m a gambler. I had to stay in this time because I had to know what kind of hand they had. “Plan to take it by force?” I asked.

“By inevitability,” Tree says. And then he says, “You see, Mr. Murphy, you’re a dangerous man; with your IBM Self-Correcting Selectric II typewriter that has a sluggish return so that you sometimes get letters printed a few spaces in from the end. With your father who once said to you, ‘Billy, to tell you the honest-to-God truth, I don’t know if I’m your father or not. I wasn’t the only guy your Mom had been seeing when I married her, so I really don’t give a damn if you live or die.”

He had it right down. Word for word, what my father told me when I was four years old. I’d never told anybody. And he had it word for word.

CIA, Jesus. That’s pathetic.

No, they weren’t CIA. They just wanted to make sure that I didn’t write. Or rather, that I didn’t publish.

I told them I wasn’t interested in their suggestions. And I was right—they weren’t muscle types. I closed the door and they just went away.

And then the next day as I was driving my old Galaxy along the road, under the speed limit, a boy on a bicycle came right out in front of me. I didn’t even have a chance to brake. One second he wasn’t there, and the next second he was. I hit him.

The bicycle went under the car, but he mostly came up the top. His foot stuck in the bumper, jammed in by the bike. The rest of him slid up over the hood, pulling his hip apart and separating his spine in three places. The hood ornament disemboweled him and the blood flowed up the windshield like a heavy rainstorm, so that I couldn’t see anything except his face, which was pressed up against the glass with the eyes open. He died on the spot, of course. And I wanted to.

He had been playing Martians or something with his brother. The brother was standing there near the road with a plastic ray gun in his hand and a stupid look on his face. His mother came out of the house screaming. I was screaming, too. There were two neighbors who saw the whole thing. One of them called the cops and ambulance. The other one tried to control the mother and keep her from killing me. I don’t remember where I was going. All I remember is that the car had taken an unusually long time starting that morning. Another minute and a half, I think—a long time, to start a car. If it had started up just like usual, I wouldn’t have hit the kid. I kept thinking that—it was all just a coincidence that I happened to be coming by just at that moment. A half-second sooner and he would have seen me and swerved. A half-second later and I would have seen him. Just coincidence. The only reason the boy’s father didn’t kill me when he came home ten minutes later was because I was crying so damn hard. It never went to court because the neighbors testified that I hadn’t a chance to stop, and the police investigator determined that I hadn’t been speeding. Not even negligence. Just terrible, terrible chance.

I read the article in the paper. The boy was only nine, but he was taking special classes at school and was very bright, a good kid, ran a paper route and always took care of his brothers and sisters. A real tear-jerker for the consumption of the subscribers. I thought of killing myself. And then the men in the business suits came back. They had four copies of my script, my screenplay. Four copies is all I had ever made—the original was in my file.

“You see, Mr. Murphy, we have every copy of the screenplay. You will give us the original.”

I wasn’t in the mood for this. I started closing the door.

“You have so much taste,” I said. I didn’t care how they got the script, not then. I just wanted to find a way to sleep until when I woke up the boy would still be alive.

They pushed the door open and came in. “You see, Mr. Murphy, until we altered your car yesterday, your path and the boy’s never did intersect. We had to try four times to get the timing right, but we finally made it. It’s the nice thing about time travel. If you blow it, you can always go back and get it right the next time.”

I couldn’t believe anyone would want to take credit for the boy’s death. “What for?” I asked.

And they told me. Seems the boy was even more talented than anyone thought. He was going to grow up and be a writer. A journalist and critic. And he was going to cause a lot of problems for a particular government some forty years down the line. He was especially going to write three books that would change the whole way of thinking of a large number of people. The wrong way.

“We’re all writers ourselves,” Meek says to me. “It shouldn’t surprise you that we take our writing very seriously. More seriously than you do. Writers, the good writers, can change people. And some of the changes aren’t very good. By killing that boy yesterday, you see, you stopped a bloody civil war some sixty years from now. We’ve already checked and there are some unpleasant side effects, but nothing that can’t be coped with. Saved seven million lives. You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”