Гарри Гаррисон: Galactic Dreams

Another fragment: Osaka, Japan. I was the first-ever foreign SF writer to be the Guest of Honor at a Japanese national convention. The twentieth annual convention. (Honored perhaps because I paid my own way there?) Much signing of books, signing the back of the jacket of one of the fans. Who, when he thought I wasn’t looking, pressed it to his heart and raised his eye heavenward in thanks. So much for the inscrutable Orient; a thoughtful look at the way SF readers prize this form of fiction.

Rio de Janeiro: Meeting a millionaire SF fan. Who never thought he would meet the author of some of his favorite books. Signing copies of my paperbacks — bound in leather.

Signing a copy of a Finnish translation of a book in Helsinki. And realizing I had never signed a contract for this book.

Doing the same in Germany, an ugly-looking translation of Deathworld, retitled for some obscure Teutonic reason Planet aus die falsch Zauberer, or Planet of the False Wizards.

Gallic fragment: Joan and I having lunch in Paris with Jacques Sadoul and important French SF people. Jacques, a camera fiend, clicking away as always. Within a month he sent a copy of his just-published French encyclopedia of science fiction, years in production. With our picture in it — looking very filled with food and wine. The book had already been printed, but not bound when we had that lunch. He saw to it that the event was immortalized in the glossy photo section that was bound in.

American fragment: Working on a screenplay in Hollywood, eating alone at an Italian restaurant and reading a book for company. A talkative headwaiter; do you like to read, sir? Asked if I was a writer — apparently the only people who can read in Hollywood-extracted a reluctant yes. Eyes glowing he asked if I might reveal my name. Reluctant revelation. But what a response! “Not Harry Harrison-world-famous science fiction author!”

Moment of pure bliss for author. Only tempered slightly by the revelation that he was a true SF fan, attended conventions, etc.

Most authors are indeed reluctant to reveal their occupation to strangers. This is not from shyness — never that! — but from sad experience. (When questioned I usually say that “I’m in publishing,” which is indeed true.) Science fiction fans and readers don’t do it — but all mundanes do. There are two questions that are always asked. And I mean always.

1. Where do you get your ideas from?

2. Under what name do you write?

The second question is a roundabout way of saying “I never heard of you.”

In a fit of pique I once answered “Mark Twain.”

My interlocutor nodded wisely and said that, yes, he thought he had heard of me.

These are memories that I treasure. Not only for the egoboo — an SF fan term, contraction of “ego boost” — which is of course pleasurable. But more for the fact that I am not writing in an ivory tower, that I am writing for an intelligent readership that values my work, gets satisfaction from it — and is not ashamed to tell me so.

Yes, I work for money since I am a writer who likes to eat — not to mention drink — and who enjoys fending for his family. But once you get past the money you must look at the fulfillment of reader satisfaction. SF writers are incredibly lucky in their readers. They organize conventions and give feedback and moral aid when needed. I do not envy Barbara Cartland. She may write a book every four hours and have as much money as the late Mr. Maxwell. But she has no BC fans as I have SF fans.

The stories in this book were written over the span of many years. They reread well — even better once I had taken out all errors that printers let creep into typeset manuscripts. I admit to a certain amount of polishing; an unkempt phrase here, a maladroit sentence there. But nothing major; they were written to the best of my ability the first time around.

I enjoy writing. I shall keep doing it as long as my quavering fingers can fumble across the keyboard.

I also enjoy the awards that come with a writing career. A few weeks ago I was in London, in a branch of the booksellers W. H. Smith. Looking at the shelves, I discovered that I had been awarded one of the greatest prizes in publishing — and no one had told me about it.

My name was posted on the shelf in the science fiction section.

This is for real — like having your name on a star in the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard. There are only ten names on the SF shelves. Which means that enough people liked my books and bought my books to put me there in the top ten.

This is a prize that cannot be purchased or fought for. It is given by you, friendly reader. Thank you very much indeed.

HARRY HARRISON

DUBLIN, IRELAND

The little boy lay sleeping. The moonlight effect of the picture-picture window threw a pale glow across his untroubled features. He had one arm clutched around his teddy bear, pulling the round face with its staring button eyes close to his own. His father, and the tall man with the black beard, tiptoed silently across the nursery to the side of the bed.

“Slip it away,” the tall man said. “Then substitute the other.”

“No, he would wake up and cry,” Davy’s father said. “Let me take care of this. I know what to do.”

With gentle hands he laid the second teddy bear down next to the boy, on the other side of his head. His sleeping cherub face was framed by the wide-eared unsleeping masks of the toys. Then he carefully lifted the boy’s arm from the original teddy and pulled it free. This disturbed Davy without waking him. He ground his teeth together and rolled over, clutching the substitute toy to his cheek. Within a few moments his soft breathing was regular and deep again. The boy’s father raised his forefinger to his lips and the other man nodded; they left the room without making a sound, closing the door noiselessly behind them.

“Now we begin,” Torrence said, reaching out to take the teddy bear. His lips were small and glistened redly in the midst of his dark beard. The teddy bear twisted in his grip and the black-button eyes rolled back and forth.

“Take me back to Davy,” it said in a thin and tiny voice.

“Let me have the thing back,” the boy’s father said. “It knows me and won’t complain.”

His name was Numen and, like Torrence, he was a Doctor of Government. Despite their outstanding abilities both DGs had been made redundant, were unemployed by the present government.

They had no physical resemblance. Torrence was a bear, though a small one, a black bear with hair sprouting thickly on his knuckles, twisting out of his white cuffs and lining his ears. His beard was full and thick rising high up on his cheekbones and dropping low on his chest.

Where Torrence was dark Numen was fair, where short he was tall, thick, thin. A thin bow of a man, bent forward with a scholar’s stoop and, though balding now, his hair was still curled and blond and very much like the golden ringlets of the boy asleep upstairs. Now he took the toy animal and led the way to the shielded room deep in the house where Eigg was waiting.

“Give it here-here!” Eigg snapped when they came in, reaching for the toy. Eigg was always like that, in a hurry, surly, square and solid with his width of jaw and spotless white laboratory smock. But they needed him.

“Gently,” Numen said, but Eigg had already pulled it from his grasp. “It won’t like it, I know …”

“Let me go … let me go…!” the teddy bear said with a hopeless shrill.

“It is just a machine,” Eigg said coldly, putting in face down on the table and reaching for a scalpel. “You are a grown man, you should be more logical, have your emotions under greater control. You are speaking with your childhood memories, seeing your own boyhood teddy who was your friend and companion. This is only a machine.”