[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Piers Anthony
Alien Plot
The author wishes to thank Alan Riggs for developing this volume.
CONTENTS
Faces
Alien Plot
Nonent
20 Years
December Dates
Ship of Mustard
Soft Like a Woman
Imp to Nymph
E van S
Vignettes
Hearts
Revise and Invent
Baby
Cloister
Love 40
Kylo
Plague of Allos
Page 1
Think of the Reader
Acknowledgments
Faces
The plant labors all the year, green and growing and undistinguished. At last, in its season, it blooms, and
all the folk remark on the beauty of the flower. Yet that bloom is only the product of the plant. It is wrong
to see the flower as the only important thing, for it is the plant that makes it—yet it is the aspect of the
plant designed to receive attention, and should be judged as such.
Similarly the writer labors to produce his narrative, and if it is wrong to treat that narrative as if it had no
genesis, still it is the aspect the writer chooses to be represented by. Judge the writer by his narrative
rather than his picture—but do not scorn the picture any more than the green foliage of the plant, for
these may be alternative avenues to comprehension of the whole.
Alien Plot
I need to make a distinction: The title of this story refers to a plot of ground, while the title of this
collection refers to a dastardly conspiracy. It is the conspiracy by editors to frustrate writers, and a
number of the entries in this volume will harp on that theme. This present novelette is the major piece of
the volume, and the major example.
It started in Mayhem 1990, when I received a solicitation from an editor to contribute a story to a
volume titled
After the King: Stories in Honor of J.R.R. Tolkien,
to be published in mid-1992, the
100th anniversary of Professor Tolkien's birth. The guidelines were simple: stories that were true to the
spirit of Tolkien's great accomplishments, or stories that his work made possible. "Please note," the letter
said, "that you
cannot
use Professor Tolkien's characters and settings..."
Well, that seemed simple enough. Tolkien made possible the entire modern fantasy genre; virtually all
current fantasy fits under that broad umbrella. As for the spirit of his accomplishments, let me make this
plain: I was a Tolkien fan from the 1940's when I read
The Hobbit,
which I considered to be the greatest
fantasy adventure ever. I see few influences by others on my manner of writing, but surely Tolkien had a
significant effect. I didn't like THE LORD OF THE RINGS as well, finding it too long and diffuse, but it
was still great fantasy. It would be hard for me to avoid the spirit of Tolkien in my own fantasy.
But I was jammed for time, because I was answering an average of 150 letters a month that year and
had contracts for half a dozen novels. I couldn't just dash off a token entry; to do justice to the spirit of
Tolkien I would have to make a significant effort. That was apt to put me behind schedule on my existing
projects. So I wrote back, demurring because of the press of business. But the editor insisted, saying that
he really had to have me in that volume. So, reluctantly, I agreed. I finished the novel I was then in, the
108,000-word
MerCycle,
and delayed the next, the 141,000-word
Fractal Mode,
so as to make space
for the 16,000-word "Alien Plot."
I was not allowed to use any Tolkien setting or character, but was supposed to be true to the spirit of his
Page 2
fantasy. I pondered, and decided to go whole hog: I made a setting and characters that were nothing at
all like his, but a spirit that was exactly his: that of an ordinary man getting gradually into something quite
alien to the contemporary world, and finding fulfillment there. The original hobbit really wasn't looking for
adventure; he was a quiet homebody. But before he was through, he had had the greatest adventure of
them all. So I started with an ordinary, undistinguished contemporary man, who longed for the realms of
fantasy, but never expected to experience them. Then, by an unexpected and strange route, he found
himself in just such a realm, and managed to acquit himself honorably by its odd rules. Just as the original
hobbit did. The person was unprepossessing, but underneath he had character that was to be respected.
The spirit, the essence, without the form, just as the editor required.
I completed the story and shipped it off. The editor sent a brief scrawled acknowledgment, and didn't
mention the matter again. But I saw a note on the volume in a newsletter which listed Anthony as among
the contributors, so I figured that was set.
I heard from my agent: Another editor was offering me more than ten times as much for the story. Now
this was surprising in more than one respect. First, I hadn't used the agent on this story; I had dealt
directly with the editor. The agent was handling my novels, but stories were really not worth his while.
Second, the amount: I was being offered more than I got from some novels. What prompted such
interest, which I hadn't solicited? It was a resounding endorsement of the story, but an odd proceeding.
I pondered, but concluded that it would not be right to pull my entry from the Tolkien memorial edition
for which it had been written. My sympathy for editors is small, as this collection will document
abundantly; I try not to miss an opportunity to make a snide remark about editors. But I try to hold
myself to a higher standard than that practiced by editors, and to honor all commitments I make, whether
express or implied. Though I had not yet received the contract for the story, so was not legally bound, I
was ethically bound. So, with regret, I turned down the far richer sale.
Time passed. When, a year after sending in the story, I still had not received a contract for it, I realized
that there had been a slipup somewhere. So I queried the editor, gently: Wasn't it time for a report on my
story?
He didn't answer. Instead I heard from the other editor: "Alien Plot" had been rejected. The first editor
hadn't bothered to inform me. I had never received notice, and I never got my manuscript back, but it
seemed he had decided that my story wasn't right for the volume. Maybe I should have ignored the
editorial instructions and done a clone of Tolkien, as I readily could have. That was, it seemed, why the
second editor had felt free to make the richer offer. I had turned it down in favor of a sale I never had.
I mentioned editorial ethics. Well...
In this manner this story came to join my collection of rejects, so was available for this volume. I submit
it as Exhibit A in my case against editors, who can treat seasoned pros as shabbily as hopeful unsold
writers.
I do believe in my story. There are things here that I subscribe to, such as protection of the environment
and a longing for a better world. It is an editor's right to reject what doesn't suit his taste. But it is a
writer's right to make his own case. Here is mine.
It was a desolate region. What pollution hadn't stunted, the drought had wilted. Duff turned his eyes
Page 3
 away from the dreary scene and snoozed as the taxi carried him on.
He imagined a melange of the great realms of fantasy, where magic worked and fantastic creatures
roamed and swords were the state of the art in weaponry. Where wizards cast horrendous spells, and
maidens were not only beautiful but innocent. He had used fantasy settings in role-playing games, and had
tried many fantasy computer games, but none of them were quite enough. Mostly he just read and reread
the wonderful adventures; they were his main escape from dullness.
For Duff had long since resigned himself to the fact that though he had the aspirations of an adventurer,
he had the body and mind of a nonentity. He wasn't handsome or brilliant; about all he could claim was
decency, and decency didn't carry much weight in the military life. Or the civilian life, he knew. So he
longed for the realms where magic could supply what he lacked.
Soon he achieved his desire: He dreamed he was in such a land. He didn't have a quest; he was just
walking through a world he knew was magic. He was sure that if he walked far enough, he would
encounter both dragons and sweet maidens. He didn't even want to hurt the dragons; he just wanted to
be in the same world with them. For in such a place, he would have some kind of magic ability that would
make him a person of note. Not of great reputation, just someone to be respected for himself, that one
woman would find intriguing.
He woke as the car slowed, approaching the project grounds. Here, at least, there was greenery, and
the main building looked like an old hotel. It probably was just that, converted to military use. Behind it
was a tall wire fence with the top angled, the kind used to contain dangerous men or animals. But all that
was visible within that compound was a forest, with a hill in the background.
A portly man in civilian clothing was waiting as the taxi stopped. Duff climbed out, and hesitated. "Sir?"
he inquired.
"Colonel Clelland, but don't salute," the man said, proffering his hand.
"Sergeant Duff Van Dyke, sir," Duff said, taking the hand.
"Come in. Leave your things; you won't be using them." The Colonel drew him on into the lobby.
"Sir?"
"We have less than an hour to get you into action," the Colonel said. "Keep your mouth shut and listen
while we get you ready."
Duff obeyed, knowing better than to argue with an officer. But he was beginning to doubt his wisdom in
accepting this mysterious assignment. He had admitted to being bored with military life, and to the
consideration of letting his hitch lapse so he could return to civilian life. But he still had three months to go,
and his commander had made him an offer he couldn't refuse: finish out his hitch with this special
assignment, and if thereafter he wished to re-enlist he would receive a jump promotion. If he elected to
leave the service, he would be given an equivalent civilian job in any region he chose. The commander
was a man of honor; Duff could trust the deal. So he agreed, without knowing anything about it. In fact,
he had been flattered that his re-enlistment was so strongly sought; he had been no more than a quiet,
hardworking paper-pusher. He hadn't figured they would miss him.
He still did not know the nature of his assignment. It was evidently secret. But strange.
Page 4
 The Colonel brought him to a private chamber. A middle-aged woman was there. "Dress him," the
Colonel told her.
She approached Duff immediately and began to remove his clothing. "Sir—" Duff protested, surprised.
"Stand still; there's no time for that." The Colonel flashed a momentary glare that showed that he had
indeed had decades of command, and Duff was cowed. He tuned out the woman as well as he could,
and listened.
"As you know, we have been exploring alternate aspects of reality," the Colonel continued after a pause.
Duff hadn't known that, but masked his surprise. The military cult of secrecy was one of the things that
had made him yearn for civilian life. Evidently the Colonel assumed he had been briefed. "Most of the
alternates we have discovered are similar to our own culture, with distressingly similar problems of
overpopulation, depletion of resources, and fouled-up political systems. There really is no point in
establishing relations with them; they can't help us and we can't help them. We have been looking for rich
wilderness worlds to colonize and exploit; we could solve all our problems with a few of those."
"Yes, sir," Duff said. But he remembered how the Western Hemisphere had represented such a solution
for crowded Europe. He was something of a fan of medieval Europe, because that was the implied
setting for much of heroic fantasy. It was even said that Middle Earth was merely a map of Europe turned
sideways. But in real life, Europe had destroyed most of its heroic natural resources. All too soon the
New World had been fully colonized and exploited, and now had problems just like the old ones. Was it
really good to have man laying waste pristine lands for short-term benefits?
Meanwhile, the woman was undressing him. She was perfectly businesslike, but it was hard to tune it out
completely.
"A year ago, we discovered an ideal world," the Colonel said. "Phenomenal resources of wood, coal,
oil, gold, diamonds, pure water—everything this Earth of ours ever had, because it
is
this world, but with
all its assets untouched. There are people there, but they do not use these things. They do not seem to
amass wealth. They do not practice war. They seem to live in absolute peace and harmony with nature.
It's uncanny, and of course suspicious."
"Of course, sir," Duff agreed. Oh, to live in such a culture! He was tired of the rat race that was daily
existence. He had enlisted in the military life because of the security of money, housing and health care it
offered, but felt stultified by its lack of adventure. It would not be better in war time, he knew; then there
would be excitement of a sort, but it could kill him. He wanted ultimate security and ultimate freedom,
and it didn't seem to exist.
Which reminded him: He was now standing naked, the woman having stripped him completely. The
Colonel didn't seem to notice.
"So we sent in an armed party to subdue them, naturally. And it disappeared. So we sent in planes and
tanks—and they disappeared. Obviously the natives have some kind of weapon we don't know about.
We don't dare try to colonize and exploit that world until we have pacified those dangerous aliens. But
we can't pacify them until we nullify their weapon, and we can't do that until we know what it is."
"That makes sense, sir," Duff said. But in his private heart, he was rooting for the folk of the other world.
Let them remain undespoiled!
Now the woman was dressing him in odd clothing. Strange thick underwear, and a winding around the
Page 5
  [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]