Thirty issues! I'm not usually one for self-congratulation (actually, I lie; it's just usually there's not much cause for it), but thanks to the support Ibn Qirtaiba now receives from its many loyal contributors and readers I'm very pleased and proud for the magazine to have reached this milestone. To ensure this continues, please feel free to make your own submissions of fiction, non-fiction or artwork. Contributions on media SF topics will be especially appreciated.
We only have room for three pieces this issue, but I'm sure you'll enjoy them all. David McDaniel's contribution is an excerpt from a larger work, which I'm dying to read in its entirity based on what appears here! Frederick Rustam is a regular contributor of two part serials to IQ; his latest is entitled Adventures of a Data Organizer, and his source of inspiration for the subject matter is extremely apposite; you'll pick it up quickly. Fred Noweck concludes the issue with his regular reviews of science fiction novels - plus a fantasy inclusion, this time.
Our artist of the issue is Karl Thompson, an Irish graphic designer who has been drawing, painting and making things ever since he can remember. If you enjoy the images in this issue, you can click on them to visit a gallery with more of Karl's art. As with all artists featured in Ibn Qirtaiba, you should seek permission before using the images in any way.
Issue 30 being crowded enough as it is, I'd better stop here and get the show underway. I present our pearl anniversary issue for your enjoyment.
Short story: True
Story by David McDaniel Serial: Adventures of a Data Organizer,
part 1 by Frederick Rustam
True Story: A strange eerie night indeed, and I come awake in the wee morning hours, suddenly claustrophobic in my sleeping bag. The tent is breathing with the wind, swaying, sucking in and ballooning out like some kind of gigantic jellyfish. These new nylon dome jobs are built to be portable and lightweight, and that is exactly what they are in a good stiff breeze. I can hear the dog and he is restless - pawing around, snuffling and snorting and making other kinds of weird racket, and then it dawns on me, through the slowly ebbing sleep funk, that I don't have a dog. Great, beautiful... and the obvious question arises: If I don't have a dog, just what the hell is out there banging around in my camp. The brain zips into high gear and the ears kick into hyper-sensitive mode: auditory data, sensory processing, recall of past experience and the careful application of logic; the perfect union of intense listening and deep thought, a sane and pragmatic process to discern the exact nature of my nocturnal visitor... ah yes, the verdict (the envelope, please), and it seems that I have definitely decided (and the winner is) that I have a werewolf on my hands.
Holy shit, what to do now, and I am instantly deeply sorry for my swaggering arrogant
daylight agnosticism, oh sweet Jesus. Think man, think! I'm fresh out of silver bullets
and, then again, I don't even own a gun. In fact, the only silver for miles that I know of
is the two delicate hoops in my left ear, and, although I am in pretty good shape, I just
do not feel entirely capable of ambushing a werewolf and successfully stabbing the
sonofabitch to death with a goddamn earring. Maybe a hastily crafted blowgun or an
accurately hurled fork, end over end, embedding itself between the eyes...yeah, right.
Rambo could probably deal with this nasty turn of events, but I am a mere mortal and an
un-godly stench fills my nostrils, and I wonder lamely if it is
me or the beast or both of us.
The survival panic is upon me and I slip, inch by agonizing inch, into my jeans and creep,
inch by agonizing inch, through the tent flap and, inch by agonizing inch, out into the
inky darkness. Not that I have any addled plans to do battle with a full-grown werewolf,
or even a young one for that matter, but there is the overwhelming urge to be on my feet
and mobile and clad from the waist down. I'm scared shitless to be out in the open, but
the alternative of being mauled by a werewolf while laying on my back in my underwear
inside a tent is sheer terror, and I hate to digress, but I must, if only to prop this
thing up.
Everyone, or at least everyone I know, has a weird tale about being in a life-threatening
situation and, for no apparent reason at all, a strange casual off-beat notion will just
pop up out of the blue and occupy the attention, and it's like, why the hell am I thinking
about this when I'm about to die...maybe heavy jolts of fear short circuit a few integral
axons of maybe the brain tries to divert itself in the face of certain death or maybe it
is an ancient stalling technique to somehow occupy the modernized version of noggin while
the repressed animal within us awakens and tries to figure a way out of this scrape. I
don't know, but here's an example (I'm assuming perhaps you haven't followed). 
I'm 20 and I total my van - a screaming slam and roll job, and I'm
flinging around like a rag doll in a tornado and am worried about the state of my socks.
You see, it's a foregone conclusion that I'm going to the emergency room and Mom has
always berated me about the importance of matching socks (clean underwear) and how
embarrassed she'll be if she ever shows up at a hospital one of these days and finds her
son laying on a stretcher with mis-matched socks (dirty underwear). And I'm pretty sure my
socks don't match, the underwear is being soiled at this very moment, the van
disintegrates around me and you get the picture.
So anyway, I'm outside the tent on my feet clad from the waist down in the dark being
stalked by a homicidal werewolf, and my thoughts turn to urine; because I know that as
soon as the beast grabs me I'm gonna piss hard right down the leg of my jeans, and it's
gonna be a big press scene and the local yokel deputy is gonna immortalize me as a
middle-aged white male who died of unknown violent trauma in a huge puddle of his own
piss. ("Never seen anything like it, must have been at least 5 or 6 quarts...").
..."). (Is that proper punctuation? Looks kinda weird to me...").
Meanwhile the monster is snuffling, snorting, getting a good ripe snoutful of my scent, my
spoor, and probably forming some tentative plans for the attack; licking his chops, sizing
up the prey, gauging the possibilities of fight, struggle, resistance. (Well guess what,
you hairy mother - first you're going to be blinded by a powerful blast of piss to the
eyes, then you'll lose your footing in a slick patch of piss mud, and finally you'll find
yourself gurgling and strangling on a steamy amber ammonia froth, a virtual deluge of
piss). Whoa! Yikes! Egad! and I'm back... I have established a touch-and-go control over
the bladder and I realize that I cannot stand this suspense any longer. Something must be
done, even if it involves a sudden involuntary voiding. Waiting patiently in the dark to
be ripped up by a hideous werewolf has become unbearably difficult for some reason. Action
and damn the consequences and here we go; a super-human adrenaline rush lunge for the drop
lamp, fumblefumbleclick and let there be light oh my God Mother Mary brace for the
inevitable demonic body slam... and a squinty-eyed armadillo looks up in confusion at a
quivering idiot with a wet spot in his jeans. And it's gonna be a big press scene and the
local yokel deputy is gonna immortalize me as a middle-aged white male who died of a heart
attack and, somehow, managed to drown an innocent armadillo in a huge puddle of his own
piss. ("Never seen anything like it, must have been at least 5 or 6 quarts...that
pore little critter"). Bullshit, that was a big evil armadillo.
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"I can't go with you, Bobby. I can't leave the Community. Dee's been too good to me - and you," she subtly reminded him.
The two acolytes clung to each other in the dimly-lit hallway of the third-floor women's dormitory. They were outside Sister Lisa's room at the head of the stairs across from a Counselor's room. They spoke in whispers so they wouldn't awaken the older woman or Lisa's room-mate.
Lisa appeared more desirable than ever to Bobby. Her long, dark hair flowed onto her nightdress like dark water from a decorative fountain. Her lovely, pale face was distorted with sympathy and conflict.
"Dee's the problem now, Lisa. He's going to self-destruct - and take all of us with him... You heard him at the last Gathering. He's become suicidal. He must have cancer, or something, and he doesn't want to leave all he's built behind for someone else to run."
"That's your theory. I think Dee was just rambling on like he often does... You swore to obey him. He needs you more than ever, now."
Bobby swore, anew, at this reminder. "To hell with my oath. I'm not going down the tubes with Dee. Look, I've spent my whole life here; if I can see things clearly, you should be able to. You've only been here for a year." He was annoyed at Lisa's inability to forsee the oncoming catastrophe.
"I've been here long enough to learn to love Dee and everything he's created." Her calm blue eyes mirrored her mood. "He turned my life around. I trust him. You should, too."
"I trust my perceptions, Lisa. History is replete with examples of cult leaders bringing Armageddon to their followers. All the signs are here, if you care to read them. I want to save us both from Dee's folly. Let's go before it's too late."
Lisa brushed his cheek with her fingers and smiled at his academic manner. Datajacks sometimes acquired a veneer of sophistication because they spent so much time on the Web handling the works of the better-educated. "It's already too late for you, Bobby. You think too much and you have too little faith... Goodbye, and good luck." He released his hold on her and allowed her to reenter her room.
("Damn!") Bobby scowled, but wasted no time. He walked rapidly down the stairs and into the watchroom where Brother Michael was dozing. There, at the central control panel, he quietly disabled the front door alarm, then slipped out of the large house through the same door his parents had dragged him through as a toddler, twenty years ago. His years of loyal dedication crumbled away, and the remnants of his obedient faith were lifted from his troubled mind.
He moved down the street without looking back or shedding any tears.
Brother Robert's parents had been a counterculture couple looking for enlightenment. They'd hoped to find it at Searchment House, the home of the cult founded by the man who called himself, simply, "Dee." His cult was officially incorporated as "Web Possibilities, Ltd." to evade the scrutiny of government and private cult-monitoring organizations. Dee discretely sought no publicity and dealt with such as occurred with a glib disclaimer. "We're not a religion," he would say, "We're just a paternalistic corporation."
Web Possibilities, Ltd. was in fact an excellent Web design and infosearch firm... It was also a datajacking gang... Under the cover of legitimate enterprise, Dee's cultists cracked private and government information systems, and secretly sold their data to clients who dared not attempt such risky, illegal activity, but paid generously for the product of it.
Bobby's knowledge of Dee's secrets kept him on his toes. It showed him clearly and uneasily what kind of outfit he had become a part of: a criminal conspiracy organized as a cult and masquerading as a legitimate business enterprise.
Bobby's
restless parents had moved on to other enlightenments before they'd learned dangerous
secrets, but had left their young burden to be "temporarily" cared for by Web
Possibilities, Ltd. As the astute Dee knew they would, they never returned. Robert Osborn
Crawley was reared within the cult community.
In time, Bobby Crawley became Dee's best, but ultimately the least-faithful, datajack. Bobby manifested his increasing sophistication to Dee, but none of his developing cynicism. He matured as a quietly-skeptical young man - a result that would have surprised casual students of cultist behavior. By the time Dee began hinting at group suicide, Brother Robert was already planning his escape.
("I've got a lot to offer,") Bobby silently reassured himself as he sat near the rear-door of a metro monorail car, dressed in his plain cult suit. He was fairly confident about his employment potential, but less-confident about escaping from Web Possibilities, Ltd.
Dee always avoided seeming a stern authoritarian. But his acolytes had already forcibly "recovered" one escapee. When the young man had been returned to the Community, he showed the none-too-subtle effects of a "reorientation" by the Master. He remained silent about his experience and never attempted escape again... His example was not lost on his fellow cultists.
Bobby had been unable to obtain street clothes from the locked storeroom. In his distinctive, drab suit and collarless shirt, he could easily be identified. He was determined to reach the downtown urban Combat Zone, where he would disappear from sight until he could market himself to another datajacking outfit that would protect him. He glanced nervously around him at the few late-night passengers in the car. None seemed very aware of him. Most of them were asleep, or trying with difficulty to stay awake.
It was a measure of his talent that Bobby had managed to steal some money from the Community. He'd accumulated enough begin his escape, he hoped. He could have stolen a creditcard, but he knew better than to use one of those. He might as well drip white paint behind him as leave a spending trail Dee's datajacks could retrieve.
Bobby guessed that Dee employed private investigators, and that these would be loosed upon him like hounds after a fox as soon as his escape was confirmed. He considered obtaining a weapon - pepper spray was a legal choice. But he was doubtful of his physical prowess against tough, trained operatives... In front of a computer monitor, he was skillful and quick. Among the virtual structures of information, he was confident and a little arrogant. But, in the world outside the Community, he was anxious and uncertain. He'd lived a sheltered life for too long.
("I've got to learn some practical strategies, quickly,") he advised himself in the academic language of his chosen profession.
Brother Robert had been more than a datajack. He was an information organizer - Dee's best, by far. In an earlier age, he would have been a librarian or subject indexer. In this age of worldwide electronic information, his talents combined several traditional skills: computer programming, subject indexing/searching, and information structuring techniques.
He would have liked to migrate to the coast and offer his skills to one of the companies organizing Web data. He particularly preferred Yo!, Inc. They employed people like him to organize their indexed Web sites for search and retrieval... But he also knew this was a place where Dee's PIs would surely seek him. Yo!, Inc. was a dream that died aborning.
He was beginning to consider offworld employment alternatives when his speculations were suddenly interrupted.
"You got a joint, man?... I really need one."
Bobby whirled to stare at the disheveled young man standing in the aisle by his seat. The guy looked like a professional vagrant, but otherwise seemed harmless. His proffered hand shook with a palsy born of past excesses.
"No... But I can tell you where to get one. They have a Web site," Bobby offered, confidently. He guessed this guy needed medgrass more than some of those who qualified for it.
The homeless drifter stared, bleary-eyed and heavy-lidded, at Bobby. Then, he withdrew his trembling hand and stumbled, wheezing, back toward his seat at the rear of the car.
"Shee-it... I need some real stuff, man."
("So do I,") thought Bobby. ("I need a real life now.") He turned back to the window and its passing parade of nightlighted streets. But he knew that datajacking was a real life. A dangerous one... One he would be stuck with for a long time.
From the loading platform of the Combat Zone North metro station, Bobby saw a small crowd gathered around the entrance to a garish, neoned girlie bar. There was a guy lying on the sidewalk. A siren announced the imminent arrival of an ambulance aircar. Policemen were already at the scene questioning bystanders.
Despite his fear that his escape might have been reported to the police, Bobby found himself drawn to the scene. He moved cautiously down the stairway to the street and over to the crowd.
This was the kind of street scene Bobby had only viewed on televideo. The sheltered life he'd led in Searchment House had insulated him from acts of criminal violence. He found himself fascinated by the crowd. He reached the fringe and asked a stranger about the victim who was sprawled in a pool of blood.
"I dunno, man. Some guy started a ruckus with someone and got stabbed. I heard 'em yellin'. Then a fight started."
Just then, an older man in a spacer's uniform came running down the sidewalk and elbowed his way into the inner circle. Bobby noticed that he had the traditional four sleeve-stripes of a spacer Captain.
The spacer cursed at the sight of the victim on the sidewalk. A policeman began to question him: "You know this guy, Captain?" The spacer's reply could be heard by the suddenly-hushed crowd.
"He's one of my crewmen. I've been looking for him... We lift off tomorrow, and he comes down here and gets himself killed in a fight, the stupid..."
"Who is he, and what's your ship? Let's see some ID, Captain." The policemen showed the shipmaster more respect than they were accustomed to showing citizens in the Combat Zone, an area where the official municipal attitude was "Almost Anything Goes."
The Captain handed over his ID chipcard and added, "I'm Harold Brickbender, Master of the dataship Terrinforma. Your victim was my Data Organizer, First Class, Sergei Novakov. He should have had his chipcard on him, separate from his wallet."
"We found his card, but his wallet was stolen by the guy that stabbed him... Looks like you need a new crewman now, Captain," the cop said as the medics from the ambulance pushed through the crowd with their gurney.
A little thrill jolted Bobby, and he moved back into the shadows. ("Data Organizer, First Class!") He'd considered the possibility of joining the crew of a dataship, but he was a groundhog with no experience in spacing, and he figured the odds of a ship-job were remote... Now, though...
Captain Brickbender stepped out of the crowd. He stood on the curb to hail an autotaxi... ("It's now or never.") Bobby moved from the shadows toward the spacer, who was having trouble finding a cab. Autotaxis were scarce in the Combat Zone, where hailers were often drunk, doped, or robbed of their valuables. An autotaxi's sensors were skillfully programmed to detect reliable customers and to reject undesirables. This technology was a closely-held secret.
"Captain Brickbender?..." Bobby asked in a timid voice.
The Captain glanced around at the black-suited cultist, casually at first, then with interest. "Who're you?" Brickbender asked, unsmiling, still annoyed at the needless loss of his crewman. "You look like one of Dee's datajacks."
Bobby's heart sank at the spacer's savvy, but he was determined to keep his composure to impress the man. He cooly fudged his precarious situation. "I've recently left Searchment House, sir. I'm looking for a new position as a data organizer... I see you need a new man."
"I don't need a data thief, son. I need someone who can manipulate legally-obtained information. That's my business: selling information above the counter, not below it."
"Then I'm your man, sir. I was a datajack - that's true - but I was Dee's best data organizer, too. If you access the Web Possibilities website, I can show you what I've done for the organization. Their Revised Subject Classification, Version 3, is mostly my work."
The spacer squinted at Bobby. "If you were so good, why did you quit?" he inquired, bluntly. "I didn't know anyone could quit Dee's cult outfit."
Bobby lowered his eyes and strove for humble frankness. "I escaped, sir. I didn't want to steal data, anymore. I want a job where I can feel clean after a day's work."
"Hmmmm..." The Master of the Terrinforma pulled at his neatly-trimmed vandyke beard. "Have you ever spaced before?"
"No, sir. But I'm young and willing to learn. And there's one place I'm right at home: in front of a computer terminal. I've been learning that business since my parents gave me to Dee as a baby."
Captain Brickbender considered the possible consquences of stealing one of Dee's crack datajacks... But not for long. He turned to the street just in time to hail an autotaxi. Its computer approved his sensed characteristics, and it pulled over to the curb and opened its door. "Welcome to Autotaxi," said a vox.
"Get in, son. I figure you don't have much time to stand around on the streets like this before Dee's guys grab you."
"Thanks, Cap'n," said Bobby, hoping to get just the right tone of obedience into his voice. He and the officer entered the cab, and it sped off toward the spaceport.
As the neon signs of the Combat Zone rushed by, Captain Brickbender gave Bobby some straight talk. His demeanor was that of a vessel's Master to a crewman. Bobby had no doubt that the officer would expect him to perform well in exchange for his rescue.
"I'll expect you to demonstrate your skills right away. This isn't a training cruise."
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.
"And, boy, if you try to desert the Terrinforma with some of my data, you'll end up freeze-dried in orbit around a star."
Captain Brickbender stopped at a clothing mart and had Bobby fitted with a crewman's uniform. Then, they visited a dingy photographer's shop near the spaceport, where Bobby had a change of identity. He entered as Brother Robert - green-eyed, short-haired, clean-shaven datacultist - and left as Data Organizer, Third Class, Eldon Roath: brown-eyed, long-haired, and mustachioed... Staring into the lighted makeup mirror, Bobby satisfyingly beheld a stranger.
Getting
through spaceport security was a breeze. Captain Brickbender was well-known, and the
guards didn't seem to be looking for anybody in particular, yet.
By the time the sun arose, setting the early morning sky ablaze, DO/3d Roath was oriented and bunked in the Terrinforma, an aging tramp vessel. As he peered out a port at the sky, Bobby recalled the old rhyme: "Red sky at morning - sailor take warning."
Would Dee have his PIs checking dataships?... The truth was that because the Web was so huge and pervasive, there were many places where Brother Robert could seek employment. Even the resourceful Web Possibilities, Ltd. could only check a few of them in the hours before the Terrinforma hyperjumped for the far reaches of space.
Dataships were spaceships that downloaded selected information from Web sites and from free and pay-for-use infosystems into their large, database-optimal computers. They then transported this information into space, stopping at Terran colonies and alien worlds which hungered for the latest data and infotainment from the human home-world, but were too far from Earth to receive timely radiodata transmissions. There, the ships sold their data at a profit.
Ultrawave communications was still a dream, although many outfits were striving to devise a faster-than-light commsystem which could compete with hyperdrive courierships.
Tramps like the Terrinforma downloaded their data to customers on the smaller, more-remote colony and alien planets - worlds which couldn't afford to contract for datasupply from big corporations like Universal Data or DataStream... Bobby knew that it would be some time before he returned to Earth and discovered if Dee had put out an intercept-and-recover contract on him - if he returned, at all.
"Well, crewman, you haven't vomited on my deck, so I guess I can put you in front of a terminal without fear you'll foul the keyboard and microphone." Captain Brickbender gave Bobby a little smile as a reward for his constitutional stability.
DO/3d Roath had been given a quick course in spacemanship before the Terrinforma leaped into space. After the short shakedown-period of freefall - during which Bobby fought to keep down his breakfast as he learned to maneuver himself without fracturing his bones against bulkheads and decks - the ship spun-up an artificial gravity which increased from the core outward. Since the dataterminals were near the ship's database computer in the forward core, Bobby had to get used to working in a lower gravity which required him to be belted to his terminal seat.
Brickbender introduced Bobby to his new supervisor: Data Organizer, First Class, Eleanor Schroeder - newly promoted to fill the vacancy created in the Combat Zone of Terminal City, the data center of the Terran Alliance. Then, the Captain retired to the ship's bridge, and Bobby rarely saw him afterwards.
"The Captain thinks you may be of some use to us, Roath... I'll determine that for myself, now and later. If you measure up, we'll get along okay. If not ...well... you'll have plenty to learn."
Schroeder reminded Bobby of an old-fashioned librarian, the kind who tolerates no foolishness in her reading room.
"Yes, ma'm," he replied, obediently. He was determined to accept this formidable woman's supervision the same way he had obeyed Dee's lieutenants at Web Possibilities, Ltd... Schroeder was a plain woman in her forties, an age that alone showed how tough she was. Spacers of that age were experienced and committed to their profession. They'd survived the hazards and boredom of service in the far reaches of the galaxy. Schroeder's prematurely-graying hair was unfashionably short - a warning to those who might mistake her for a fragile fem.
"Here's a list of subjects. Don't look at it yet." She handed him a folded sheet of paper. "You'll find all the Web resources you can on these subjects. You'll rank them in order of relevance... I'll measure your retrieval time, your recall ratio, and the general worth of your data-ranking."
"Recall ratio?" Bobby inquired.
"I have a file of all the relevant resources I've found for those subjects on your list. Your recall ratio is the percentage of those you retrieve. The higher your R/R is, the better you've performed, other factors being equal... Any questions before you begin?"
"How much of the Web will I be searching, ma'm?... You can't have but a small fraction of it uploaded into your ship's computer." He wondered if she would take offense at this factual remark.
Instead, she smiled at him for the first time.
"Crewmember, we have enough of the Web here to keep you plenty busy as we weave our way through the stars. There's a lot of organization to be completed before we start presenting our product to our customers."
"Yes, ma'm."
"You see that Latin motto up there on the bulkhead above the data-terminals? It tells you what we've got here: 'RETICULUM IN LAGONAE' - 'The Web in a Bottle.'"
She stabbed a timer's button on her supervisory terminal.
"Now fetch, Roath."
When Bobby finished his task, his supervisor measured his ranked list of relevant Web sites on her monitor... His recall ratio was 107%.
"Not bad. You found some data I didn't, and your time was fairly good," Schroeder sniffed... In fact, Bobby's scores were the best ever achieved on that particular test - better than the DO/1st had accomplished, herself... The Captain hadn't told his DO supervisor that Bobby was the datastar of the infamous Web Possibilities, Ltd. He'd represented his stolen cultist as merely a qualified datanerd.
But DO/1st Schroeder had an ace-in-the-hole she would use to overcome her shock and her envy of the new crewmember's superior dataskills.
"Get aquainted with the other datadope, Roath. I've got to report to the Captain." She left to display Bobby's test results on Brickbender's readyroom monitor - together with something she'd retrieved even before the new crewman began taking his qualification test.
Bobby grinned at her use of shipboard slang. He'd known that radar operators were known among themselves as "scopedopes." He looked over at the other datadope on this shift. The attractive, dark-skinned young woman smiled shyly at him. She seemed to be an AfroAsian. She tried to put him at ease after his encounter with their starchy supervisor, as if to say, "I'm not like her."
"We call her 'Herr Schroeder.' But she's okay so long as you don't push the wrong buttons... She's been waiting for the old DO/1st to get fired so she could move up to his position. She figured Novakov would drink himself off the ship, though - not get killed."
Then, she introduced herself. "I'm Ranavalona. Call me Ranny." Her uniform bore the rankmarks of a DO/3d.
"Bob - uh, Eldon Roath." To cover his slip of the tongue, He added, quickly, "You're Malagache, I'm guessing."
"Oui," she replied. "Is it Bob, or Eldon?"
"Call me Bobby... "Will Herr Schroeder worry that I'm after her new position?"
"She worries about everything. She's a classic Library Lady - in a bottle... Don't ever make the mistake of correcting her, though, or she'll roar at you like a cranky old lioness."
"Ja wohl, mein Freund... Danke."
"Bitte," she replied, sweetly.
"Captain, I found something about our new crewmember you should see." Without waiting for the Master's reply, DO/1st Schroeder turned his desktop monitor around and requested display of a file she'd stored. Then, she half-rotated the screen back, so he could view the data.
"After you told me about our new man - but before we hyperjumped - I did a radioWebsearch for jobseekers with data-organizing skills, and I found this unusual entry." Brickbender scanned the display. "Note the resemblance in the ID photo," she added.
"Hmmmm."
The Captain frowned. ("This damn woman is pushing things, again.") An inability
to control DO/2d Schroeder's impulses had contributed to DO/1st Novakov's alcoholic
excesses. The man had told him this on several occasions... Nonetheless, Schroeder had
turned up a disturbing datanotice. Web Possibilities, Ltd. had acted to recover their
missing datastar faster than he imagined they would.
Schroeder continued, "This notice has been posted on several different sites. It seems that WebPoss's datastar has flown the coop and ended up in our vessel. His real name is Robert Osborn Crawley - Brother Robert," she emphasized. "You know what a cult WebPoss is."
"Yes," replied Brickbender, calmly. His seeming unconcern annoyed the new DO/1st. She continued, gratuitously. "That's why he aced our retrieval test. The guy's been in this business since he came to WebPoss's kindergarten. My guess is that Dee, the cult-honcho there, either wants 'Eldon Roath' back soon - or out of the picture."
"Thanks, Eleanor." The Captain rotated his monitor back to face him. But Schroeder was not to be put off that easily.
"What're we going to do about him?"
"We're going to keep quiet about it and make full use of DO Roath's skills while we have him."
"But..."
"Thanks Eleanor. I'll take it from here... Dismissed."
DO/1st Schroeder turned and left in her usual huff.
Brickbender wondered if Web Possibilities, Ltd. would have operatives waiting at his next stop with a seize-order for their datastar. It wouldn't be the first time he'd lost a crewmember that way, but it would be the first time he'd had a datadope grabbed.
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Hey! I got a scanner! Now if I could only figure out how to use it... anyway, I am experimenting with it and I think I can get pictures out of it.
The books this month are:
The God Box tells the story of Korvas, a rug merchant in an analogue of Baghdad, who through mischance (his trained beetles got loose) takes up the trade of adventurer. When he is given the God Box, his life takes a turn for the strange. For, whatever you need (in the gods' opinions ) becomes available to you from the many drawers of the box. Not what you want. Not what you think you need. The choice is entirely out of your hands once you make the request. And Korvas can't get rid of it either. It follows him around. And, once it brought him back to life (this was in the first few days he had it ), he didn't want to get rid of it.
This is a very entertaining story. Told in the first person, it is not strictly scifi but comes more under the fantasy label. So sue me! I liked it.
Tool of the Trade on the other hand, is a hard science thriller. Nicholas Foley is a KGB mole working in the USA, and he accidentally discovers a device which allows him to control human behavior. With control in his hands, he must make a choice...give it to the KGB or use it himself for the betterment of the world. Obviously, since the book runs 248 pages, he uses it himself. It would be a pretty short story if he gave it to the KGB.
It doesn't take the combined intelligence agencies of the world long to realize that something not quite kosher is going on... and come after Foley.
So what would you do if you could control the actions and thoughts of anyone you saw (with one exception which I'm not going to tell you... read the book)?
Warriors of Virtue is a made-from-the-movie-screenplay book. As a result, it has all the faults of the movie and none of the redeeming qualities. When you are watching a movie, you tend to enter the action and identify with the main character. Reading about it, on the other hand is dreadful. The book is generally done by a ghost-writer who only has the movie manuscript and none of the inventive intuitive creation that goes into the original concept. And that is how it reads. I have almost decided not to see the movie on account of the book.
Basically, it is about a kid who, although gimpy in one leg, wants to hang out with the "popular crowd" who are the stereotypically "beautiful people who only care about their own kind". When a hazing goes wrong, the gimpy kid finds himself on another world which is being systematically destroyed and only he can stop it. Please!
Give this one a miss.
FreeMaster details the difficulties a Terran agent-on-planet has in keeping alien technology away from the natives while trying to conclude a trade agreement with the natives in charge of the area of the planet that has what she wants. An untrained psionic, she learns how to use the inherent powers that the natives wield on a daily basis. This one has potential to be a series. I would be interested in more by Jensen.
And now, to the letters:
Fred, I've written you before to praise your column and I have seen that indeed you have now outdone yourself. Your reviews continue to be insightful, imaginative and concise to the point. I am asking that you publish a list of 10 books each month (without reviews) of those you recommend in different categories, i.e. time travel books, hard Sci-Fi books, series, fantasy (ulp!) alternate history books ala Turtledove. This would really give your readers an insight into what books to look for in their particular genre that they enjoy. Just a suggestion--keep on writing.
Jay W., Georgia
Wow, my fan club! No folks, I'm not writing these things myself. This is an idea, though. How about it? Lets take a survey. Send me your thoughts about this. Lets stuff my mailbox with your opinions and suggestions as to categories. As always, my address is Fred@sf.sig.au.mensa.org.
Come on! Let me hear from you! Until next month, Space cadets!