Besides running the SF SIG, I am the national SIG coordinator of Australian Mensa. One of the benefits of this position is that it enables me to peruse the publications of many other SIGs from around the world. For example, digging out an old issue of Icarus, the journal of the Literature SIG of British Mensa, I came across a wonderful article on romantic literature by Lionel and Patricia Fanthorpe. One passage especially relevant to science fiction fans is excerpted below (with thanks to the authors):
Literature which only reflects human society is a waterlogged barge sunk in a stagnant canal. Critics may buzz around it like mosquitoes - but it can take us nowhere. The true purpose of literature is to be a supersonic airliner that flies us to a million unexplored continents, to be the elusively transcendent vessel from hyperspace which will take us anywhere our imaginations can reach. Romantic literature is the fresh, cool mountain air that this stale, polluted contemporary atmosphere needs.
For those majority of Ibn Qirtaiba's readers who are not members of Mensa, I encourage you to take the test, so that you too might gain enjoyment from the wide variety of other Special Interest Groups available to members.
This issue's featured artist is Tom Repasky, a multitalented artist and author whose prolific body of artworks is represented here by a selection of digitally produced images. Tom explains his art as a manifestation of his inner drive to explain the spectrum of spiritual reality in a visual format; hence his fascination with the interplay between light and shadow, color and form.
Apart from Holly Day's excellent short story The Divorce Machine, the balance of issue 25 is taken up by our regular features: part 2 of Leann Arndt's Dear Sis letters, Fred Noweck's Sci-Fi Corner book reviews, and a poignant poem lox and roses by W Gregory Stewart. Your feedback is sought as always.
Short story: The Divorce
Machine by Holly Day
They stopped at the solid oak door with "George T. Baldwin, Attorney at Law" emblazoned in raised silver letters near the top. Harold and Harriet raised a fist to knock on the door at the same time. Harold glanced sharply at his wife and managed to rap twice before she could move.
The door opened, and a tall woman in a white lab coat stared down at the couple through delicate gold-framed glasses. "Mr. and Mrs. Ahern?" she asked. "That's us," answered Harold, holding out his hand. "I'm Harold."
"You're right on time," said the woman, ignoring the offered hand. "Mr. Baldwin will be with you in just a few minutes. Please have a seat." She stepped aside and motioned the couple in.
"We saw your ad on t.v.," Harriet began shakily. "You know, about the quickie divorces?"
"Yes, of course." The woman walked over to the black metal desk in the corner and sat down. She flicked on a small halogen lamp and quickly flipped through a small stack of Manila folders on her desk. "Ahern, Ahern," she muttered to herself. "Here we go," she said finally. "I need you two to fill these forms out while you're waiting. I'll let Mr. Baldwin know you're here." She got up and walked out of the room.
A few minutes later, George T. Baldwin himself entered the room. He was a slightly-built man with mussed blond hair and bulging red-rimmed eyes. "Sorry about the wait," he said, smiling broadly. "I was in with another couple and their session took a little longer than I had planned." He sat down in the chair next to Harriet and leaned forward to talk to both of them. "I don't have a real office," he explained. "Most of what I do takes place in the laboratory. I don't like to deal with too much paperwork, think it's a waste of my time and yours, so I'm just going to talk to you out here and then lead you into the showroom."
"We're just here for a divorce," said Harold quickly. "I don't think you need a laboratory to give us one of those." Harriet nodded in agreement, looking nervously at the door the receptionist had disappeared through.
"Okay, here's the deal,"
Mr. Baldwin said. He stared off into space for a moment and
paused dramatically. "A good thirty per cent of divorces end
in the couple remarrying each other. People don't realize how
much they need each other until they don't have one another, or
something corny like that, but you get the picture. What we have
in there," he pointed at the doorway, "is our new
state-of-the-art VDS, or Virtual Divorce Simulator. We can lead
you through the first year of your divorce in about fifteen
minutes by stimulating REM sleep electronically. It's perfectly
safe," he added, noting Harold and Harriet's concern.
"And if you still want to get a divorce after the
simulation, we can take care of that before you go home
tonight."
"Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through," grumbled Harold. "I can guarantee that the sooner Harriet and I are out of each other's lives, the better off we'll both be." Harriet said nothing, too busy looking down at her shoes.
"Then you'll agree to the Simulation?" Baldwin challenged.
"Why not?" Harold stood up and straightened his trouser legs. "Come on, Harriet. Let's get this thing over with."
Harold and Harriet Ahern stood shivering on the cold white-tiled floor, staring apprehensively at the two ominous black sleeptanks filling one end of the office. Tendrils of brightly-colored wires trailed out of the lid of each tank and disappeared somewhere into the next room.
"Generally, we have one person get into the tank five or ten minutes before the second person. It's easier for the computer to start the program in one brain at a time," explained Baldwin. "There will be a team of technicians and a full medical staff monitoring both of you for the entire hour of your - trip." Two young men in white lab coats began fiddling with the tanks, connecting and disconnecting various cables. "Well?" he asked. "Who wants to go first?"
"I do!" piped Harriet excitedly, grinning and raising her hand like a schoolgirl. Harold looked surprised, but said nothing. She modestly covered her breasts with one arm as a technician helped her remove her robe and climb into the first tank.
"Remember, this is just a simulation. Call it a dream," Baldwin said, leaning down to speak close to Harriet's ear. "You can do anything you want - within reason, of course. You can't fly or change shape or that sort of thing. The computer isn't designed to handle those situations. But you can get yourself a new career or go to school or even remodel your entire lifestyle. Go ahead and enjoy yourself." As he closed the lid and pressed a large yellow button on the side of the tank, he leaned over and whispered, "Sweet dreams."
Harold glared down at his watch and began tapping his foot, irritated. This was not how he had planned to spend his afternoon "Oh, don't be so impatient, Mr. Ahern," sighed Baldwin. "Five minutes'll be up before you know it."
Harriet climbed out of the tank. Her backside dripped the saline solution she'd been floating in. "Did it work?" she asked aloud. Her clothes were neatly folded on the floor beside her. She pulled on her dress and shoes, still looking around for the twenty-odd people who had been milling around her tank earlier.
The rest of the building appeared to be empty as well. The sky was growing dark; her watch revealed it to be eight o'clock. "I guess this must be The Dream," she muttered, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Now what?
The streets outside were clogged with traffic. She opened her purse for the car keys before remembering that she'd given them to Harold. "Damn!" A wrinkled-up copy of the divorce papers, her bank book, and a few dollars were all she could find. "Well, I guess I could go to the bank, get some cash, and take a taxi home."
Home. She was a divorcee now, she remembered. She had already agreed to be the one to move out the house she and Harold shared.
There was always the "new life" bit. Excited, she almost ran to the bank, formulating plans. She'd get out of this hell-hole, maybe fly to California. She'd always wanted to go there, that exotic corner of the world where movie stars lived and her favorite birds migrated to every winter. California sounded wonderful just about now.
Harold held his watch up for the lawyer's examination. "Ten minutes," he announced.
"So it is," agreed Baldwin, looking from the rows of flashing lights he had been monitoring. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Ahern. I completely lost track of the time."
"I can undress myself, thank you," Harold growled at the team of technicians fluttering anxiously around him. He pulled off his clothes, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor next to Harriet's clothes, and climbed the second tank. "Ready when you are."
She could still get picked up hitchhiking without any trouble. She wasn't a bad-looking thirty-five. Harriet walked down the road backwards, thumb out, somewhere in Nebraska. It was easily a hundred degrees outside, but she resisted the urge to strip down to her tank-top. The roads were lined with endless spikes of corn and waist-high wheat grass. She hoped she could get a ride before her allergies started acting up. Or at least the simulation of.
A badly dented blue Ford pickup slowed down and stopped twenty feet ahead of her. Gratefully, she waved and ran to the truck. "Where'ya goin'?" asked the old man at the wheel. He leered down at her through the rolled down window, his four remaining teeth chipped and yellow.
"California," she answered, trying to be pleasant. "Hollywood."
"I c'n drop you off in Phoenix," grinned the man. "You gonna be a movie star?"
"Don't know," she shrugged. She slung her army duffel bag into the back of the pickup and climbed in beside him. "Name's Harriet," she smiled, holding out her hand holding back an involuntary shudder as his greasy fist smeared with fried pork rind crumbs closed on her flesh.
"I'm Pete. Hope you don't mind if I drive real fast. We've gotta long trip ahead of us."
Harold maneuvered his car through the impossible traffic and pulled into the driveway. The house looked comforting in its emptiness. "Dirty movies 'til dawn," he grinned.
He turned on the t.v. in the living room and popped a frozen dinner into the microwave. He sat down in his favorite armchair and lit a cigar. Panda, their fluffy black-and-white Persian, meowed at the door. Harold opened the door and glared. "You're Harriet's cat," he announced, and shut the door. Panda stopped meowing and ran to the neighbors' house for food.
"This is the life," sighed Harold, cracking open a cold beer.
Harriet walked around the tackily-furnished studio apartment, sniffing at the stale air. Hollywood definitely had its own special smells. "It's cheap, and it's in the safest part of town," stated the cranky old woman standing in the doorway, taking a long drag off her cigar.
"I'll take it." Harriet handed over the seven hundred dollars for the first month's rent and the deposit, barely containing her excitement.
"Thank you." The landlady bustled out of the apartment. "If you need anything, just let me know!" she shouted over her shoulder. Harriet sighed and flopped down on the dusty couch. She had almost six thousand dollars left in her account - enough for a cheap car and a few month's rent. She could easily find a job in that time.
"Anything can happen," she whispered to herself.
Harold quit his job on the first-day-of-the-rest-of-his-life. The only reason he'd kept working so hard was to support Harriet, and she was gone.
He called a real estate
agent the next day about selling the house. A newlywed couple
came by with the agent later that day and offered Harold a flat
sum of sixty thousand.
"Sold." Harold knew he could do better, but what the heck - this was a dream, right? He had a huge garage sale and got rid of all of the clunky old "antique" furniture and paintings and cute little knickknacks. It felt good, watching his old life disappear so quickly around him.
He kept a couple of his old suits and his best tie, just in case he needed work someday. But for now? He was Retired.
Harriet finally landed a job modeling lingerie for older women. She felt a little apprehensive about taking the position, but she needed work and modeling paid very well. She never thought she'd get used to stripping in front of strangers, but Jon, the company photographer, had a manner that made her feel extremely comfortable.
Harold bought the perfect house. You could see the Ozark Mountains from one window of the little brick cottage, and a small swiftly-moving stream through the other. He spent the first week in his new home dressed like a lumberjack and practicing on his accent. He wanted to leave New York far behind him; he wanted to belong to this world.
He sent Harriet's mother his new address, wondering how his former wife was doing without him to take care of her.
Harriet missed Harold. Hell, she'd spent almost ten years with him. She wished they'd had children.
She called him at their old house two months after the divorce. A woman's voice answered the phone, giggling. "May I speak to Harold Ahern?" Harriet stammered.
"Who's this?" The voice sounded very young.
"Tell him it's Harriet."
There was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of popping gum. "Honey, it's Harriet!"
"Hello?" Harold sounded out of breath.
"If - if you're too busy to talk, I can call later." Harriet's hand squeezed the phone receiver hard.
"Don't worry about it. How're you doin'?"
"Oh, I'm fine. I got a little studio apartment in Hollywood."
Harold laughed incredulously. "California? Geez, I'm impressed. You really wanted to get away from me, didn't you?"
"Well, I guess we both needed some space," Harriet sighed. "I was just calling to say 'hi' and see how you were." She hung up and lay wrapped up around her pillow, crying, for the rest of the night.
Jon noticed how puffy her eyes were the next day and refused to photograph her. "The pictures would ruin your reputation as a model," he joked. "You look like you've lost your best friend in the world. Sorry to use the cliché', but that's how you look."
The sympathy started Harriet's tears all over again. "I think I have, maybe," she sniffled.
Jon put down his camera equipment. "You are coming with me to dinner tonight," he ordered. "And you are going to tell me what's wrong."
Harriet responded almost immediately to Harold's letter. She'd found an apartment near their old house and was working as a receptionist for a construction company. She was very upset when she heard he had moved, and would like to fly up sometime to see his new place. If it was all right with him, of course.
Harold didn't see anything wrong with that. The old girl was probably lonely; even though they were divorced, they could still be friends. They'd been friends, best friends, for at least five of the ten years they'd been married.
He arranged for her to fly up for a visit the following Saturday.
"Don't turn off the light," pleaded Jon as Harriet reached for the switch. She pulled her hand away reluctantly.
"I'm embarrassed," she confessed. Jon laughed.
"Harriet, I've taken hundreds of pictures of you naked. Why would you be shy now?"
"You've never seen me naked!" protested Harriet. "I've always had my underwear on."
Jon kissed her forehead and smiled. "I have a good imagination," he whispered, causing goosebumps to rise up all along the backs of Harriet's arms.
Harold met Harriet at the Springfield airport. She looked slimmer; there were dark circles under her eyes from long work days. She put her bags down when she saw him and waited, arms crossed defensively across her chest, a little smile quivering on her lips. "Hello, Harold," she greeted him, timidly. They hugged, briefly, like friends who hadn't seen each other for a long time.
She loved his cottage. "Let's go hiking," she begged, eyes bright. They both put on their sensible shoes and headed out towards the giant blue mountains looming in the distance.
Jon brought his little boy, Jack, to the studio one day. He was as beautiful as his father had boasted: pale skin and wavy black hair and huge dark eyes. They all went out together to eat, and afterward, Jack fell asleep on Harriet's lap as they sat together on a concrete bench at the end of the Santa Monica Pier. Harriet stroked Jack's hair with one hand and leaned against Jon. He felt safe, safer than Harold had ever felt, even including the time they were still dating, when she thought he was "Mr. Wonderful".
"Are you happy?" Jon whispered, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Of course, stupid," she whispered back, giggling.
It was dark by the time they reached the base of the mountains. Harriet sat down and wiped the sweat from her face. "I had no idea this was so far away," she panted. Harold flopped down on the soft grass beside her.
"Me neither." He looked up
at the emerging stars and sighed. "We won't be able to make
it back before midnight."
"Let's camp out here," Harriet suggested. "We could build a fire and just sleep outside. The weather's perfect for it," she added, stretching out on her back. "I never knew there were so many stars."
Impulsively, Harold brushed a loose strand of hair from Harriet's face. "You look real nice," he whispered. "I guess I sort of missed you."
"I kind of missed you, too." She kissed his fingers as they traced her lips. "Let's just sleep," she said. "I just want to sleep with you." She rolled over and over until she was snuggled against him, her soft hand resting on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed gently, inhaling the fresh scent of her hair.
Harold woke to total darkness, suffocating from the heat of his own body trapped in the metal tank. "Let me out!" he shouted, pounding against the lid with both fists. Blinding light flooded his eyes as two technicians helped him out of his prison. "Where's Harriet?" he gasped, shaking the fuzziness from his head.
George T. Baldwin, Attorney at Law, got up from his chair and strode across the room. "She left, Mr. Ahern," he answered. "Sign here." He handed Harold a small, neat stack of divorce papers, Harriet's crisp signature blackening the top sheet.
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02-20-2006
Dear Sis:
Sis, you know of course about my alien abduction caused by that infernal pink nightie?
Darling one, it gets only worse. I'd finally made it away from Zartos and back to Earth. I had to have taken a wrong turn when passing through Main. I swear, I saw this sign that said highway to, well you know, but I had no idea. I thought it was a kid's joke. Maybe somebody just didn't like their town.
Sis, it was a highway to, you know. Apparently the devil himself had seen one of the pornographic films I'd done when on Zartos. He wanted to see me in person, he wanted to be my agent. Okay, I go from a concubine on an alien world to having the devil as my personal agent and you used to claim that life didn't have it for me? That shows what you knew.
Right now, Lucy I call him, is keeping me close by like some sort of trophy. I get to attend parties where their angel hierarchy hang out. I can't say that it has been enriching but it has been an experience.
I'll try to break away soon. He has scheduled me to go on a tour of the best haunted mansions and terror spots on the planet. Remember the old Harris place? That is one of the worst and is in the top ten on the list. I'll go for it when we get there. You see, some of those fallen angels really aren't bright.
Mina
04-15-1966
Dear Sis:
Well Sis, I made it to the old Harris place, except, right now, from where I'm standing, it isn't old anymore.
You heard me. Lucy popped me and his main minion right on the curb in front the brand spanking new Harris place! Not only that, but it officially isn't the Harris place. Why do I say that? Well, right now, Harris and the soon-to-be dead Harris, along with junior soon-to-be dead Harris, are moving in a sofa.
"Hey Beezlenut," I said to
dark and demonic. "What are we doing on the curb, why can't
they see us, and what the heck are we doing back in nineteen
sixty-six!"
Well, needless to say, he wasn't about to cooperate.
I later found out, right before we were due to head on to the next stop, that we were there to ensure that the seed of insanity was planted deep in the heart of Harris. Apparently we did our job. We know that Harris slaughtered the husband and kid. Of course, the authorities blamed it on PMS but we know the truth.
Just a few minutes ago, as I started writing again, I saw old Beezle manipulating some sort of gadget. I didn't think he had it in him. Sis, I'm going to cozy up to him, grab the gadget, and see if it'll get me somewhere other than Lucy's claws. I'll let you know what happens. Oh yes, if I can remember I'll tell you how I get these letters delivered. Take care. Beeze is looking this way. I got to go.
Mina
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Hello, boys and girls! Its time once again to look at some books, both old and new. For your edification and education, we have selected:
Steal the Dragon, tells the story of Rialla, once of a horse-trader clan, whose clan was massacred in a slave raid.
Made into a dancing-slave, she finally escaped to a nearby country of mercenaries. There, she became a soldier and trainer of horses until she was recruited to be a spy in the very country from which she escaped slavery... as a slave...
This is a tightly
reasoned story dealing with murder, magic, slavery, and the love
of a maid for her "man". A very good read.
I didn't find out what the title referred to until about halfway through the story. Steal the Dragon is the name of that world's analogue of chess (which really doesn't have much to do with the story).
Chrome Circle is the latest in the stories from the SERRAted Edge, tales about the Elves who have infiltrated the Carolina racing circuit... I mean, really, where is the last place that you would expect to find Elves...?
Tannim, a human mage working with the Elves, has been dreaming about the perfect woman for him for years. And now he has found her but there is just a couple of things wrong... #1) her father is a dragon and #2) it seems she wants to kill him...
Now what else could possibly go wrong...?
This is another fast read, well thought out, and leaves you begging for more. I liked it enough to get the rest of the SERRAted Edge stories.
A Darker Geometry deals with the universe created by Larry Niven. Set in the time between the third and the fourth Man-Kzin War, it deals (superficially) with the origins of the race known as the Outsiders and the interactions that they have with other obscure races in Niven's universe.
Overly complex, with little substance, those who have not read any of Niven's stories will get little out of this book. This story depends on your having read and remembered all about every one of the Known Space stories.
I rate this one at 3 out of 10.
One of Anderson and Kurland's older collaborations, Ten Years to Doomsday recounts the difficulties that an undercover operation can get into by trying to (secretly) advance the technological progress of a backward planet in order to prepare them to try to hold off an alien invasion that is due to sweep through that area in a mere ten years. To bring these primitives from a medieval theocracy to nuclear weapons in ten years. Can it be done? In time?
Thought provoking, with a slightly twisted humor, this one is an excellent book for someone who has been reading the genre for a little time, but may be a little shallow for the experienced SF reader.
As usual, keep reading, keep sending comments and questions to Fred the Sci-Fi man at Ibn Qirtaiba and I'll see you again next month!
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i remember - fifth year -
that we were brought together
many times in the school auditorium.
at this point - and it is likely
that for many points prior to this -
i could not tell you were on the school grounds
that auditorium was located. i do seem
to recall that it was on the east side
of the campus, but i have never had
any real reliable sense of direction. (my brother
has always been amazing in this regard,
however; blindfold him, put him on a plane,
spin him about constantly
as you fly him anywhere on the planet,
and once on the ground again
he will point out north for you
unerringly. I grant that if you were to unload him
precisely upon the North Pole itself,
he might experience some confusion - still,
the point is really only that he
got whatever directional gene there may be,
while I got none of it. so.)
actually, the location of the auditorium
is not important. what i wish to tell you about
is one particular presentation therein
that stands me still in memory. this
school - and so its associated auditorium -
was in Florida, not far from the Cape,
and this was in the time of Kennedy,
after the birth of the space program,
but before the Cuban thing, and so
space-related science was quite
in the minds of us all.
and so it was that one day they brought
us into the great hall for a demonstration
of liquid oxygen. (this is the lox
of the title, you see - liquid oxygen.
we were told that the scientists called it lox.)
anyway - lox is rocket fuel, that was the point.
and lox was colder that anything.
at least, colder than anything
we children knew. then.
colder than anything
we knew about as children. to prove this,
our guest lecturer dipped a rose into a pot of lox,
and struck that rose against a table top,
and shattered the rose.
it is one of seven things i still remember clearly
from grade school, the shattering of that rose.
it is one
of seven things i remember at all.
and the only truth.