FSF, September 2008 Read online

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  Copyright ©2008 by Spilogale, Inc.

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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  September * 59th Year of Publication

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  NOVELLAS

  ARKFALL by Carolyn Ives Gilman

  NOVELETS

  PUMP SIX by Paolo Bacigalupi

  SHORT STORIES

  SEARCH CONTINUES FOR ELDERLY MAN by Laura Kasischke

  PICNIC ON PENTECOST by Rand B. Lee

  "SHED THAT GUILT! DOUBLE YOUR PRODUCTIVITY OVERNIGHT!” by Michael Swanwick and Eileen Gunn

  SALAD FOR TWO by Robert Reed

  RUN! RUN! by Jim Aikin

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by Elizabeth Hand

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  CURIOSITIES by Dave Truesdale

  COVER BY CORY AND CATSKA ENCH FOR “ARKFALL”

  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. 3 Whole No. 676, September 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

  Novelet: Pump Six by Paolo Bacigalupi

  Department: Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Department: Books by Elizabeth Hand

  Short Story: Search Continues for Elderly Man by Laura Kasischke

  Novella: Arkfall by Carolyn Ives Gilman

  Short Story: Picnic on Pentecost by Rand B. Lee

  Short Story: “Shed that Guilt! Double Your Productivity Overnight!” by Michael Swanwick and Eileen Gunn

  Short Story: Salad for Two by Robert Reed

  Short Story: Run! Run! by Jim Aikin

  Department: FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Department: Curiosities: Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft by Sir Walter Scott (1830)

  Department: Notice to Subscribers

  Department: Coming Attractions

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  Department: Editorial by Gordon Van Gelder

  It isn't every day that our own film editor, longtime contributor, and irrepressible gadfly is featured in his own documentary, so when Harlan Ellison's agent offered me a pass to see Dreams with Sharp Teeth screened in NYC, of course I said yes. (Thanks, Richard.)

  Before I get into the movie though, let me answer one of our most frequently asked questions and explain Harlan's position as our film editor. Longtime readers know that Harlan was our primary film reviewer through the 1980s before passing the torch to Kathi Maio. He actually offered his resignation as our film editor several years ago—as I recall, it was after one of Lucius Shepard's reviews irked him—but I didn't accept it. As long as there's a chance that Mr. Ellison will contribute another film review to our pages, he remains our film editor.

  Now, regarding the movie in question, it is (like most biographical documentaries) an attempt to capture the life and spirit of its subject. This film has interviews, archive clips, scenes of Harlan reading from his own work, and commentary from people who know Harlan well, like Neil Gaiman and Robin Williams. (I myself get a moment of screen time, from a panel Harlan and I did at the Nebula Awards in 2006, but if you glance down to find that last Goober in the candy box, you'll miss me.) Like the majority of documentaries I've seen, the film is a bit formless in structure, but there is some narrative arc to it, and I never found my attention wavering during the hour-and-a-half that the movie ran.

  Of course, there's one big reason why the movie was compelling, and his initials are H.E. This is not one of those documentaries where a minor character steals the show. Dreams with Sharp Teeth is all Harlan.

  It's Harlan the showman, reading from “'Repent, Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman” and “The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore."

  It's Harlan the businessman, discussing some of his business strategies and gloating over the dead gopher he mailed to a publishing executive back in the 1970s.

  It's Harlan the friend, hanging around with some of his many amigos.

  It's Harlan the artist, at work in his office and (in archive footage) in the window of a bookstore.

  It's Harlan the meek, tentatively putting forth a humble opinion and virtually trembling in fear that someone might disagree.

  Okay, I included that last one just to make sure you're still awake. If Harlan has ever done anything meekly, this film sure doesn't give an indication of it.

  In fact, it's because of Harlan's less than bashful nature that I suspect Dreams with Sharp Teeth will not get many reliable reviews. Harlan is bold, brash, and hugely opinionated. It's hard to watch this movie with anything resembling critical detachment. People might hate parts of it, they might love it, but they're unlikely to have a dispassionate reaction to it.

  And that's true to Ellison's spirit. As far as I can tell, Harlan has never done anything dispassionately—he cares, he cares if you care, and as a result, his work matters. That passion is one of the many reasons why his stories have been imprinted on my brain to such an extent that I can quote scenes and lines twenty-eight years after reading them, and one reason why I think readers will be reading his stories in the year 2114 and saying, “Where can I get more like this?"

  I should mention another pair of reasons why I doubt you'll find many reliable reviews of the movie, but to do so, let me digress and tell you about the most entertaining panel I've ever seen at a science fiction convention. It took place in 1991 at the World Fantasy Convention in Tucson and the subject of the panel was, “How Do You Respond to a Negative Review.” Gene Wolfe started things off by saying, “When I get a negative review, I look to see who wrote it, and I ask, ‘What do I have on this guy? How can I get back at him?'” The other two panelists—Ed Bryant and Bill Warren (I think; maybe it was Bill Nolan)—scarcely got in a word before the last two panelists started. Robert Silverberg said, “I don't read my reviews. They're not written for me and they have nothing to say to me.” To which Harlan replied with something akin to, “Are you kidding? Don't you want to hunt down these jerks and rip out their aortas?” What ensued was forty-five minutes of Bob and Harlan playing out a big-brother/little-brother relationship—much to the audience's amusement—and then wrapped up at the end when David Hartwell spoke up from the audience in favor of
good, serious, well-considered reviews. All the panelists agreed that reviews are a worthy endeavor, especially when those reviews are evaluating someone else's work.

  Since Harlan has made no secret of his feelings about unfavorable reviews, I suspect a lot of critics will resist tempting Harlan to rip out their aortas. I know I much prefer having mine in my chest rather than seeing it between Harlan's teeth.

  The other reason you won't see many dispassionate reviews is that Harlan knows everybody. Everyone. The list of people whose paths cross Harlan's in just this one documentary is impressive: Tony Bennett, Gene Rodenberry, Tom Snyder, Richard Thompson, and droves more whom I can't recall now. (I wasn't taking notes.) Screenwriter Josh Olson (A History of Violence) came to the screening with the schoolteacher who turned him on to Harlan's work when he was thirteen. This guy Ellison has lived an outsized life....

  ...Which leads me to my biggest complaint about the film. Too many people are left out of it. Harlan himself told me that he encouraged filmmaker Erik Nelson to seek out some of Harlan's enemies, only to be told, “We don't need to. You're your own worst enemy.” But it's not the commentary from Harlan's foes that I missed—it's the comments from people who know him best. Where are the interviews with Robert Silverberg and Norman Spinrad? Why are we deprived the great experience of hearing Michael Moorcock tell about the times when he picked Harlan up bodily and made a scene? And Susan—Harlan's wonderful wife—gets some screen time, but why so little commentary from her?

  While I'm at it, let me ask too: why does the film lack interviews with any of Harlan's former wives? Even more importantly, Harlan mentions in the movie that he hasn't spoken with his sister since their mother died—but did that mean the filmmakers couldn't speak with her? Dreams with Sharp Teeth reminds me a lot of Terry Zwigoff's amazing documentary Crumb, about comix artist R. Crumb, but where Mr. Zwigoff struck gold in digging into his subject's family history, Erik Nelson shied away too much from delving into Harlan's family. The movie has a beautiful scene of Harlan watching some family films of his father (who died when he was thirteen). I wish it had dug deeper and found more.

  Perhaps that's too much to ask from one documentary, but I must say that I think it's only right to demand excellence from a movie about a man who has spent his whole life fighting mediocrity.

  I've read that Dreams with Sharp Teeth is due for theatrical release in June, so maybe some of you will have seen the film by the time you read this editorial. If so, I hope you'll take a minute to comment on our online forum, or to send us a line and sound off about the film. I'm particularly interested in finding out how the movie goes over with people who don't know Harlan already. Is it an intriguing introduction to a genius of a writer, or is it ninety minutes about a ranting lunatic?

  Me, I think it's a good film about a great writer and I hope someday we'll see more about him. Meantime, I plan to follow up on something I learned from Dreams and see if I can find a copy of the one feature film written by Mr. Ellison. Harlan says The Oscar often winds up on lists of the worst movies of all time, but I want to see for myself. I seriously doubt that a movie written by Harlan is even half as bad as Gigli.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelet: Pump Six by Paolo Bacigalupi

  Paolo Bacigalupi reports that he's currently working on a pair of novels, one set in the same universe as his story “Yellow Card Man” and the other in the Young Adult genre. His new story first appeared in his recent short story collection, as you might have guessed by the fact that the collection is titled Pump Six and Other Stories. This tale is hard-hitting and it might not be appropriate for younger readers. (Then again, as noted in the editorial, screenwriter Josh Olson is still grateful to the teacher who gave him Harlan Ellison's Deathbird Stories at a young age.)

  The first thing I saw Thursday morning when I walked into the kitchen was Maggie's ass sticking up in the air. Not a bad way to wake up, really. She's got a good figure, keeps herself in shape, so a morning eyeful of her pretty bottom pressed against a black mesh nightie is generally a positive way to start the day.

  Except that she had her head in the oven. And the whole kitchen smelled like gas. And she had a lighter with a blue flame six inches high that she was waving around inside the oven like it was a Tickle Monkey revival concert.

  "Jesus Christ, Maggie! What the hell are you doing?"

  I dove across the kitchen, grabbed a handful of nightie and yanked hard. Her head banged as she came out of the oven. Frying pans rattled on the stovetop and she dropped her lighter. It skittered across the tuffscuff, ending up in a corner. “Owwwwww!” She grabbed her head. “Oooowwww!"

  She spun around and slapped me. “What the fuck did you do that for?” She raked her nails across my cheek, then went for my eyes. I shoved her away. She slammed into the wall and spun, ready to come back again. “What's the matter with you?” she yelled. “You pissed off you couldn't get it up last night? Now you want to knock me around instead?” She grabbed the cast-iron skillet off the stovetop, dumping NiftyFreeze bacon all over the burners. “You want to try again, trogwad? Huh? You want to?” She waved the pan, threatening, and started for me. “Come on then!"

  I jumped back, rubbing my cheek where she'd gouged me. “You're crazy! I keep you from getting yourself blown up and you want to beat my head in?"

  "I was making your damn breakfast!” She ran her fingers through her black tangled hair and showed me blood. “You broke my damn head!"

  "I saved your dumb ass is what I did.” I turned and started shoving the kitchen windows open, letting the gas escape. A couple of the windows were just cardboard curtains that were easy to pull free, but one of the remaining whole windows was really stuck.

  "You sonofabitch!"

  I turned just in time to dodge the skillet. I yanked it out of her hands and shoved her away, hard, then went back to opening windows. She came back, trying to get around in front of me as I pushed the windows open. Her nails were all over my face, scratching and scraping. I pushed her away again and waved the skillet when she tried to come back. “You want me to use this?"

  She backed off, eyes on the pan. She circled. “That's all you got to say to me? ‘I saved your dumb ass'?” Her face was red with anger. “How about ‘Thanks for trying to fix the stove, Maggie,’ or ‘Thanks for giving a damn about whether I get a decent breakfast before work, Maggie.'” She hawked snot and spat, missing me and hitting the wall, then gave me the finger. “Make your own damn breakfast. See if I try to help you again."

  I stared at her. “You're dumber than a sack of trogs, you know that?” I waved the skillet toward the stove. “Checking a gas leak with a lighter? Do you even have a brain in there? Hello? Hello?"

  "Don't talk to me like that! You're the trogwad—” She choked off mid sentence and sat, suddenly, like she'd been hit in the head with a chunk of concrete rain. Just plopped on the yellow tuffscuff. Completely stunned.

  "Oh.” She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “I'm sorry, Trav. I didn't even think of that.” She stared at her lighter where it lay in the corner. “Oh, shit. Wow.” She put her head in her hands. “Oh ... Wow."

  She started to hiccup, then to cry. When she looked up at me again, her big brown eyes were full of tears. “I'm so sorry. I'm really really sorry.” The tears started rolling, pouring off her cheeks. “I had no idea. I just didn't think. I...."

  I was still ready to fight, but seeing her sitting on the floor, all forlorn and lost and apologetic took it out of me.

  "Forget it.” I dropped the pan on the stove and went back to jamming open the windows. A breeze started moving through, and the gas stink faded. When we had some decent air circulation, I pulled the stove out from the wall. Bacon was scattered all over the burners, limp and thawed now that it was out of its NiftyFreeze cellophane, strips of pork lying everywhere, marbled and glistening with fat. Maggie's idea of a home-made breakfast. My granddad would have loved her. He was a big believer in breakfasts. Except for the NiftyFreeze. He hat
ed those wrappers.

  Maggie saw me staring at the bacon. “Can you fix the stove?"

  "Not right now. I've got to get to work."

  She wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Waste of bacon,” she said. “Sorry."

  "No big deal."

  "I had to go to six different stores to find it. That was the last package, and they didn't know when they were going to get more."

  I didn't have anything to say to that. I found the gas shut-off and closed it. Sniffed. Then sniffed all around the stove and the rest of kitchen.

  The gas smell was almost gone.

  For the first time, I noticed my hands were shaking. I tried to get a coffee packet out of the cabinet and dropped it. It hit the counter with a water balloon plop. I set my twitching hands flat on the counter and leaned on them, hard, trying to make them go still. My elbows started shaking instead. It's not every morning you almost get yourself blown up.

  It was kind of funny, though, when I thought about it. Half the time, the gas didn't even work. And on the one day it did, Maggie decided to play repairman. I had to suppress a giggle.

  Maggie was still in the middle of the floor, snuffling. “I'm really sorry,” she said again.

  "It's okay. Forget it.” I took my hands off the counter. They weren't flapping around anymore. That was something. I ripped open the coffee packet and chugged its liquid cold. After the rest of the morning, the caffeine was calming.

  "No, I'm really sorry. I could have got us both killed."

  I wanted to say something nasty but there wasn't any point. It just would have been cruel. “Well, you didn't. So it's okay.” I pulled out a chair and sat down and looked out the open windows. The city's sky was turning from yellow dawn smog to a gray-blue morning smog. Down below, people were just starting their day. Their noises filtered up: Kids shouting on their way to school. Hand carts clattering on their way to deliveries. The grind of some truck's engine, clanking and squealing and sending up black clouds of exhaust that wafted in through the window along with summer heat. I fumbled for my inhaler and took a hit, then made myself smile at Maggie. “It's like that time you tried to clean the electric outlet with a fork. You just got to remember not to look for gas leaks with a fire. It's not a good idea."