FSF, December 2008 Read online

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  Copyright ©2008 by Spilogale, Inc.

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  December * 60th Year of Publication

  * * * *

  NOVELETS

  A FOREIGN COUNTRY by Wayne Wightman

  LEAVE by Robert Reed

  A SKEPTICAL SPIRIT by Albert E. Cowdrey

  HOW THE DAY RUNS DOWN by John Langan

  SHORT STORIES

  FALLING ANGEL by Eugene Mirabelli

  CLASSIC REPRINT

  THE ALARMING LETTERS FROM SCOTTSDALE by Warner Law

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by James Sallis

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  FILMS: BLOODY HELL ON LAKE NEUCHATEL by Lucius Shepard

  INDEX TO VOLUMES 114 & 115

  CURIOSITIES by Lucy Sussex

  COVER: “THE MOMENT” BY BOB EGGLETON

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 115, No. 6, Whole No. 678, December 2008. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $4.50 per copy. Annual subscription $50.99; $62.99 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2008 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Curtis Circulation Co., 730 River Rd. New Milford, NJ 07646

  GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030

  www.fandsf.com

  CONTENTS

  Department: Editorial by Gordon Van Gelder

  A Foreign Country by Wayne Wightman

  Department: Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Department: Books by James Sallis

  Short Story: Falling Angel by Eugene Mirabelli

  Novelet: Leave by Robert Reed

  Classic Reprint: The Alarming Letters from Scottsdale by Warner Law

  Novelet: A Skeptical Spirit by Albert E. Cowdrey

  Department: Films: Bloody Hell On Lake Neuchatel by Lucius Shepard

  Novelet: How the Day Runs Down by John Langan

  Department: Index to Volumes 114 & 115, January-December 2008

  Department: FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Department: Curiosities: Anno Domini 2000; or, Woman's Destiny, by Julius Vogel (1889)

  Department: Coming Attractions

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  Department: Editorial by Gordon Van Gelder

  This issue marks the start of our sixtieth year of continual publication. To celebrate our diamond jubilee, we're planning a special, extra-large October/November issue and it promises to be memorable.

  But one issue didn't seem to be enough to celebrate sixty years. So we decided to extend the celebration throughout the year.

  We've invited various members of our staff (past and present) to pick one F&SF story each from our sixty-year history and say a few words about it. Assistant Editor John Joseph Adams selected this month's story. In the coming year, you'll see selections from Kris Rusch, both Audrey and Ed Ferman, and several other blasts from the staff.

  Your humble editor, who is not above patting himself on the back every once in a while, came up with another good idea. There was a question of what to do about the cover for our anniversary issue. Reprint old covers in a collage? Commission a new cover? Eventually, I realized the best approach was to turn the process over to the talent. I contacted several artists and invited them to submit proposals for the anniversary cover. David Hardy's cover is the one we selected, but they were all terrific and we'll be running them throughout the year. The art on this month's issue—"The Moment” by Bob Eggleton—is indicative of the level of submissions we received, so I have no doubt that the debate will be healthy as to which of the year's covers is the best.

  On a less joyous note, subscribers continue to report that they're receiving deceptive subscription solicitations, so I thought I'd drop in another reminder here to watch out. If you want to be sure a renewal notice is from us, look for two things: (1) our return address of PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030, and (2) your sub expiration date at the end of the line above your name. Any notice you receive that's missing this information is not authorized by us. Please don't be deceived.

  —GVG

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Foreign Country by Wayne Wightman

  This story marks Wayne Wightman's twelfth story in F&SF (including one collaboration with Richard Paul Russo), but his last one was almost ten years ago. Many of his short stories are collected in Ganglion & Other Stories. These days he lives in Oregon.

  When C. M. Kornbluth wrote about “The Silly Season,” he wasn't describing that stretch of autumn every leap year that leads up to the first Tuesday in November ... but he should have been.

  My Essay On What You'd Be Happier Not Knowing, But Live With It, Since You Will Anyway

  by Q. A. Denmore

  I'm not that smart, maybe C+ if I work hard. And maybe somewhere along the line I got dropped on my head and I'm just totally nutzoid, but maybe I'm not. Maybe I actually saw the “catastroclysm” coming down the road but didn't adequately vociferate my suspicions, etc., which is the same as not seeing anything at all, as some people would think, with whom I would agree with reluctance. My purpose here, however, is to tell you what is going to happen to you. And this isn't any kind of prophecy. It's way worse than that.

  Call me naïve or a little slow on the uptake, but I always dreamed about being a respected news reporter, scouting out major headline stories, which I would report realistically. As things went, and without going into all the self-serving “I-grew-up-so-poor-I-ate-dirt-for-dinner” stuff, I considered myself VERY lucky to be hired by United News Association (UNA) as a fourth-string temporary sometime go-fer. I also had a girlfriend then. Her name was AnnaJanina, spelled like that with the capital in the middle. Because I had this job with UNA, I got to take her out to a few upscale restaurants, which was extremely nice and made her like me more. But I don't have a girlfriend now, or anybody else, because my life went into a suckhole like nearly everybody else's, except I know it and you probably won't until it's too late.

  So anyway, out of nowhere, for whatever reason, my number came up with UNA and I got my first actual reporting debut: “Send Denmore to Arizona to cover the dog racing.” I wanted to squirt. Pardon me, but I did want to. Humiliatingly, I did the dog races like a good sport and met some really nice dogs and some alleged human beings who act like Nazi psychos with their dogs. With this assignment, I proved to UNA that I was a willing tool.

  Everyone was busy with the Rep and Dem candidates, what with the various scandals, the shooting, and the attempted kid
napping. But there stood Quentin A. Denmore, third string temp, with the dog racing credit to his name. As a reward, my next assignment was to cover the final election days of the third party's gomer candidate, Roger Allen Faber, who was, in my C+ opinion, a complete set of mental issues, except without any spark of excitement or anything remotely newsworthy, which is why I got the job. I wrote this:

  Not the Same Old Same Old

  by Q. A. Denmore

  (UNA)—While Joseph J. Weddell and Evan Lawrence attacked each other's positions on everything from haircuts to UN membership, Roger Allen Faber shook hands at Monkson's Hardware in Center, Colorado, and then drove on to glad-hand in Monte Vista at Glenn's Diner.

  As usual, Faber promised “happy times” if elected, winked and smiled a lot, and signed several autographs.

  When asked what “happy times” meant in terms of economic policy, Faber did his expected “Everyone's Drifty Uncle” routine.

  "Happy times, my boy,” he said with his arm across the reporter's shoulders, “are what you can remember in those moments of your past where there was kindness and goodness and the kind of safety you had when you never thought about it."

  In spite of Faber's non-answer, the crowd of twelve seemed charmed.

  [Etc.]

  * * * *

  AnnaJanina did a little fixing on the writing for me. I miss her some of the time.

  So, okay, what is this so-called “catastroclysm"?

  I have no shame in now making reference to my romantic life with AnnaJanina, which I must do in order to answer the catastroclysm question. How shameful could it be to make reference to our romantic interludes, what with rude messianic lesbian women rushing up and down the streets and talk shows discussing the protective—I kid you not—PROTECTIVE powers of certain prime numbers, which people then tattooed on their bodies in all sorts of places, some of which were allegedly aligned with their so-called chakras, which I think is a load. So I'm supposed to be Puritanical with all that going on? I don't think so.

  The first clue was this, which was during the last time AnnaJanina and I were intimate, at Singh's Motor Inn, just outside of Huntington Beach, California, room 203. Afterwards I sensed uneasiness in her repose. I asked her if she was troubled about some issue, but she was reluctant to proclaim it and said if she had a few hundred dollars for her bills, it would reduce her concerns to some extent, so I wrote her a check.

  At any rate, three weeks later (note: three weeks later) in a phone conversation, I sensed more unease in her when I asked about her bills.

  "Do you have other unspoken concerns?” I asked quizzically.

  "Yes,” she said, “All along I have been afraid of losing you."

  "How can that be?” I asked worriedly.

  "Well,” AnnaJanina said, “it is this that worries me. I feel so alone, what with you so far off away, and with me in Huntington Beach and in truth I can hardly remember you.” (Note: this is three weeks later.) “It's probably just me."

  I had just recently seen on TV that when someone says, “It's probably just me,” they mean, “It's all you and I'm not going to talk about it.” So I braced for the worst.

  What we said next was private, but what it amounted to was AnnaJanina was seeing some guy named Henry who lived closer. At the time, I was crushed.

  So this was the first clue, of how everything went south, her forgetting me after three weeks. But at any rate, I now had no reason not to stick with Faber, whom I was at the time considering leaving in order to propose to and marry AnnaJanina.

  I didn't know what else to do, crushed as I was, so I kept doing what I'd been doing, which was following Faber through the backwoods to shake fifty hands a day.

  "Fifty hands,” he would say. “Now that's a good day, isn't it?"

  I would say, “Whatever you say, Mr. Faber,” and file some kind of story. I felt my life on the edge of being swallowed up by black gloom. AnnaJanina was gone, and I got to visit three to five versions of Nowhere Town every day.

  Actually, Faber is a charming “nitwit,” who might be a safer choice than the other two. Joseph J. Weddell's usual solution for any problem is to send the police or the National Guard to take care of the issue. On the other hand, I have heard that he was generous to his underlings, although what he gave when he was generous he often demanded back when he was foaming at the mouth. Or so I heard. Reporters feared his generosity.

  Evan Lawrence is a sociopath, in my opinion. My college psych professor made a big deal about recognizing sociopaths (I think he must have had some early encounter with one), so I occasionally recognize one of them out in real life. So what I see, if I may speak freely, is that if ever a conscienceless human-looking skinbag walked the earth, it was Evan Lawrence. He saw the world as consisting of three categories: that which he could buy, that which he could steal, and that which could be profitably screwed without being bought or stolen. Word was he beat up a hooker in Little Rock when she threatened to tell people what he wanted her to do. He also didn't pay her, which would have been out of character.

  And then there was Roger Allen Faber, six feet tall, an old sixty-two years old, skinny, stooped, thin, thin hair, big stained teeth, and that never-ending grin, holding steady at 13%, plus or equal 3 in the polls. “I'm just a simple light bulb salesman,” he'd say so charmingly that people actually believed him. “Elect me and I'll turn on the lights.” Everybody figured the 13 percent was the sympathy vote and would evaporate. He had a background in home fixture sales, but few people had clear memories of him. The man was Bland with a capital B.

  How would he deal with economic or foreign policy issues? The answer: “You know, when problems face me, they just go right away.” And he'd wink. He winked a lot with the grin.

  All the real political reporters shifted back and forth from one of the major campaigns to the other, getting the big picture, depending on who was hot, who was rot, or who was snot, as I have heard it said. But I got permanently stuck with Faber.

  I would file a story, and the news carriers that had a deal with UNA all got what I wrote. I could be in as many as six newspapers a day. Whoopee.

  But good old Faber was a person no one could personally dislike. He was anybody's Uncle. He smelled like old clothes, he never had a harsh word for anyone, and he never slipped off-message, which was “Elect me and you'll see happy times,” always followed by a wink, the grin, and sometimes by a little “Heh heh."

  No matter what I tried, I couldn't get Thing One out of him about what he wanted to do except bring on those “happy times."

  Late one night, in a diner by the name of EAT in the middle of Nebraska, I was out of my mind with intense boredom, and there's old Roger Allen Faber, gobbling down waffles and oooing and yumming like it was his best meal of the last twenty years, on the happiest day of his life.

  "Mr. Faber,” I proposed confidentially, “look. It's late, no one's around but you and me. You're locked at thirteen percent or so, so what is the deal? Why are you doing this? I promise to God I won't tell anyone anything you say in the next two minutes—but I'm getting depressed, Mr. Faber, and the nearest person I know is two thousand miles away. As some kind of friend, why are we doing this?"

  He looked up, his eyes watery blue, the grin tamed down a little, and he held that square of dripping waffle on the end of his fork, and said, “Happy times, son. That's it. Two words. And I'm out here to get the lay of the land, to meet people. Let me buy you some of this. These blueberries are wonderful. They're a harbinger of happy times to come."

  I had to look up harbinger.

  As far as I was concerned, he was probably right. I was thinking, and I remember this, that things probably would get better because the only way things could get worse was if the Earth opened up and swallowed me down to hell. Later on, from that harbinger moment, I also learned one of life's really true lessons: Don't ever say, “Things can't get any worse."

  Weddell Rising, Lawrence Fades,

  Faber Pursues Alternate Real
ity

  by Q. A. Denmore

  (UNA)—As November nears, the gap between Lawrence and Weddell continues to increase, 43% to 32%, with Faber dropping to 12% with 13% undecided (margin of error plus or equal to 4.5%).

  On condition of anonymity, one Weddell follower conceded that they were against the ropes. Weddell's donations have been reduced to a trickle in the last three weeks while Lawrence supporters are writing bigger and bigger checks.

  Meanwhile, Roger Allen Faber treks through New Mexico at the rate of three villages a day in a campaign few take seriously except Mr. Faber himself.

  Whereas the other campaigns run along predictable lines, Faber's 12% juggernaut runs along in an eight-year-old Toyota.

  Every day, Mr. Faber and his entourage can be seen along lonely highways of the Southwest.

  [Etc.]

  Who could have known that how I got to be his driver was my second clue. It was simple enough. Faber's driver ran off one night, we presumed, so guess what? I became the driver—his entourage.

  Related to this, though I didn't connect the dots till it was way too late, was this: Several weeks before I joined the campaign, Faber's vice presidential choice died. I say “died,” because that is what is generally assumed, because his body was never found after he presumably wandered off from a motel one night into a Kansas cornfield. He was seventy-six and often raved about the gold standard and trade with South America—real “hot button” issues—so news-wise he got old in about ten minutes. Then he died, or at any rate disappeared.

  As a result of the VP's bad reality contact and presumed death, interest in Faber dropped off the charts, until UNA found a barrel they could scrape the bottom of, and I was selected the “pool reporter,” soon to be “his entourage.” Faber was now back on the charts, though usually as a footnote. My career was soaring.

  The day before the election, Faber now down to nine percent, we had breakfast in Carrizozo, New Mexico, and lunch in Tinnie where Faber did his usual “good times” ramble and signed three autographs. Later, as we were standing in front of the Linger Longer Lounge, with toothpicks in our mouths, I suggested to Faber that we might head over to Roswell, since it was close and ridiculous. He loved the idea.