F. Wilson: The Tery

Thanks to the editors who over the years have nursed

The Tery through various iterations to its present form:

Vincent McCaffrey

James Frenkel

Betsy Mitchell.

FOREWORD

THE TERY has had a long strange trip to this place. My science fiction beauty-and-the-beast tale had its start in 1971 as a novelette called "He Shall Be Jon." I'd intended it for John W. Campbell Jr. and Analog , but he died just as I was finishing it. His replacement, Ben Bova, passed on it so I sold it the following year to Vincent McCaffrey at Fiction ; it appeared in the fourth issue.

A few years later Jim Frenkel, then science fiction editor for Dell, approached me at Lunacon about a series of books he was putting together called Binary Stars . Each volume would consist of two novellas, much like the venerable Ace Doubles; the books would have interior illustrations and each novella would be introduced by the author of the companion piece.

At that time I was breaking ground on a new house and needed all the cash I could lay my hands on. I signed on and went to work. "He Shall Be Jon" became the basis of the first ten chapters of the novella and I continued the story of Jon the tery from there. I added a new character named Tlad who linked the story to my LaNague Federation future history. I also tried my hand at overt horror for the first time.

I called the resultant novella The Tery . It was twice the length of the novelette and ended with a satisfying catharsis. A bit thin in spots, I thought, but I'd reached the word limit and the submission deadline was upon me, so I had to let it go as was.

The Tery appeared in Binary Stars #2 in 1978 and was graced with five wonderful Steve Fabian illustrations. Unfortunately, only those who have seen the originals know how wonderful they are. Everyone else was subjected to the muddied, almost indecipherable reproductions on the cheap paper Dell used. Fabian's delicate half tones were lost, reducing his illos to elaborate smudges.

In 1989 I went back to the story. I fleshed out the characters and fine-tuned the choices facing them until I finally was satisfied. THE TERY was now novel length-a short novel, to be sure, but I couldn't see padding the story just to bring it up to a certain word count. Some writers are putter-inners. I tend to be a taker-outer. In 1990 Baen published the novel-length version in paperback. The completed THE TERY was finally before the public, although it was the only one of my novels without a hardcover edition.

Dave Hinchberger of Overlook Connection Press said he could rectify that. I jumped at the chance.

But in reviewing the scans I realized that the prose needed work — a lot of work. I was in the middle of three other projects at the time but could not let the book go back into print as it was. So I made time and did an extensive edit. It’s still not perfect, but it’s as good as it’s going to get.

You now hold the definitive edition of THE TERY — the same text as revised for Overlook Connection Press edition.

This is it. No more changes.

I swear.

As they approached the crude stone chapel, the priest’s hopes became a subvocal litany — A whole planetful of Christians. . too good to be true. . bound to be disappointed — running through his head in a reverberating circuit until it blurred all other thoughts. But its inherent defeatism could not damp the tingling anticipation charging through him.

The planet had been opened only recently to outside contact and trade. Its original settlers had cut themselves off from the rest of humanity many centuries ago. But their descendants — most of them, anyway — had different ideas.

The present population was divided into two nations. The smaller island country — inhabited, it was said, by "Talents," or something like that — wanted nothing to do with the Fed and so was to be left alone. The larger nation, however, welcomed the chance to rejoin the mainstream of interstellar humanity, and it was this segment of the population that interested Gebi Pirella, S.J.

His mission was one of critical importance to the Amalgamated Church of Unified Christendom because the inhabitants here had been described as followers of a distinctly Christian-like religion, complete with crucifixes. Early trade envoys who had been permitted a brief glance inside one of the chapels mentioned that the crucifixes were somehow different , but gave no specifics.

No matter. News of the existence of a planet-wide Christian enclave would prove incalculably important to the stagnating Unified Church, spreading its name and hopefully drawing converts from all over Occupied Space.

"The cross is just a symbol, of course," Mantha was saying as he pointed to the top of the chapel. He was a big, fair-haired man wearing only a loincloth in the heat. His grammar and speech pattern carried an archaic ring. "Not an object of worship. We revere the one who died upon it and hold to the lesson of brotherhood he taught us."

Father Pirella nodded. "Of course"

Heartening to know, and the first exposition of faith he had been able to wrest from this taciturn native who seemed to serve as some sort of ecclesiastical administrator to the locale.

The Jesuit had pushed their initial conversation toward a discussion of theological concepts but soon discovered that he and Mantha did not share the same vocabulary on religious matters. Beyond determining that the religious sect in question was less than two centuries old — unsettling, that, but surely not without a satisfactory explanation — Father Pirella’s most basic questions had been met with an uncomprehending stare. He had suggested that the easiest and most logical solution was to go to the nearest structure and start there with concrete articles. After establishing a little common ground, they could then progress to abstractions.

Mantha had agreed.

The native held the door open for him — hinges…the technological level here was startlingly depressed — and Father Pirella entered the cool dim interior.

He saw seats but no altar. Stark and alone, a huge, life-size crucifix dominated the far end of the chamber. He hurried forward, eager to study it. Merely to find the Christ figure here on this isolated world would be quite enough; but to demonstrate that it held a central position in the culture would be more than anyone in the order or the Church had ever dreamed. It would be the consummation of –

" Mother of God! "

The words echoed briefly in the dimness. Father Pirella's feet began to slide on the polished floor as he recoiled in horror at the sight of the figure on the cross. Crushing disappointment fanned his indignation.

"This is sacrilege!" he hissed through clenched teeth framed in tight, bloodless lips. " Blasphemy! "

For a moment he almost gave in to the urge to hurl himself at the astonished and confused Mantha, then he shuddered and rushed out into the bright, wholesome daylight.

"I did not know what you were looking for," Mantha said when he finally caught up to Father Pirella, "but I had a feeling you would not find it in there."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

Mantha gently took the priest's arm and began to lead him down a path through the trees.

"Come. Come with me to God's-Touch and you will perhaps understand."

Father Pirella allowed himself to be led. God's-Touch? What was that? It certainly couldn't be any worse than what he had just seen.

"Everything starts a long time ago," Mantha was saying. "One hundred and sixty-seven of our years, to be exact. It begins in a field not too far from here…"