FSF, April 2008 Read online

  * * *

  Spilogale, Inc.

  www.fsfmag.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Spilogale, Inc.

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  April * 59th Year of Publication

  * * * *

  NOVELETS

  THE FIRST EDITIONS by James Stoddard

  FIVE THRILLERS by Robert Reed

  THE NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE OF DR. O AND MR. D by Tim Sullivan

  THE 400-MILLION-YEAR ITCH by Steven Utley

  SHORT STORIES

  RENDER UNTO CAESAR by Kevin N. Haw

  THE FOUNTAIN OF NEPTUNE by Kate Wilheml

  DEPARTMENTS

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  BOOKS by James Sallis

  FILMS: THE APOCALYPTUS BLOOMS by Lucius Shepard

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  COMPETITION #75: REWRITE-KU

  CURIOSITIES by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

  COVER BY MAURIZIO MANZIERI FOR “FIVE THRILLERS”

  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 114, No. 4 Whole No. 671, April 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.fsfmag.com

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  * * * *

  CONTENTS

  The First Editions by James Stoddard

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Books by James Sallis

  Five Thrillers by Robert Reed

  Render unto Caesar by Kevin N. Haw

  The Nocturnal Adventure of Dr. O and Mr. D by Tim Sullivan

  Films: THE APOCALYPTUS BLOOMS by Lucius Shepard

  The Fountain of Neptune by Kate Wilhelm

  The 400-Million-Year Itch by Steven Utley

  F&SF COMPETITION #75: “Rewrite-ku"

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Curiosities: Ernestine Takes Over by Walter Brooks (1935)

  Coming Attractions

  * * * *

  The First Editions by James Stoddard

  James Stoddard is the author of The High House and The False House. He lives in Texas and owns several first editions, but none like the books our narrator encounters in this fantasy.

  It is said that every person's life is a book unto itself, a statement that is true, as I learned while on a business trip to find a source of latching gears for my coatpin factory.

  Departing from my home village of Giom, located across the border from France, I took the train through our tiny country of Aquitanita and soon arrived in Dumon, the capital city. It is always a pleasure to journey there, to see the moss-encrusted haciendas, the splendid palaces, the soldiers in their royal garb.

  My quest for raw materials proved successful by the second day, and I was in high spirits when I chanced to hear of Yon Diedo, a gentleman rumored to possess the largest library in all Dumon. As I am also an ardent collector of books, I determined not to leave the city without paying him a call.

  Messages were exchanged through the hotel concierge, and the following evening I found myself riding in a post chaise beneath the shadowed archways and ancient walls of the great city. Wide avenues turned to cobblestone streets, which gave way to dusty roads as the carriage moved farther and farther into Dumon's outskirts. Storm clouds covered the sky, so that darkness had fallen by the time I reached the entrance of a vast stone mansion enmeshed in cascades of ivy. A servant, wearing the brown, loose-fitting garments of his caste, stepped from beneath the doorway.

  "Good evening, sir. Welcome to the manor of Yon Diedo.” Without waiting for my comment, he turned to the coachman. “You can be on your way. Return transportation has been arranged."

  I gave the servant a questioning glance.

  "It is the custom of my master,” the man said.

  "That is very gracious and highly unexpected."

  The servant shrugged. I paid for my fare and followed through halls rich with the scent of burlwood and roasting meat. To my delight, for my ride had left me ravenous, I was led into a small chamber with a claw-foot table loaded with a repast of wild boar, sauteed potatoes, herb bread, and Antierian wine.

  My host soon entered, wearing a scarlet cape and short yellow doublet. A powerful man, with deep-set eyes and a heavy brow, he bore seven individually braided mustachios. He had a deep, smooth voice and an accent I could not place, but which I assumed originated in the South.

  "You will forgive the lack of festivity,” Yon Diedo said, as soon as we had shaken hands and seated ourselves at the table. “I am a scholar. Entertainment for me is solid food and the silence of study. Alas, I am also a bachelor, so there is none of the tender sex to provide lighter diversions."

  I shrugged. “I am unmarried myself, though my sister shares my household. Your home is both beautiful and inviting.” Yet, even as I spoke, I realized his manor was neither. And despite his pleasant voice, something about his eyes made me uneasy.

  "Ah, but you are young,” Diedo said. “There is plenty of time for marriage."

  I smiled at the compliment. “I have had my share of living in my thirty-odd years."

  "Then you must tell me of it,” he said, raising his glass, “for I am a student of the lives of others."

  Wine, the great pacifier, soon washed away any disquietude I felt toward my host. Yon Diedo was a man who knew how to draw others out. I was soon telling him of my youth in tiny Tien Manaar, of my father's work in the copper mines there, and of my own labor within those same mines until my rebellion at fourteen, when I set out to join the army in Itlan with but a water flask and half a loaf of bread. I told of returning home after serving in the war, of working in the factories of Oscoga, and of eventually founding my own factory in Giom.

  My story told, the last shred of boar eaten, I set my glass aside.

  "I have gone on far too long,” I said, waving my hand. “I fear I've been tedious."

  "To the contrary,” Yon Diedo said, with great earnestness. “you have lived more in the last fifteen years than many men do in sixty. You should write a book."

  "I fear my love of literature does not include the penning of it. But perhaps, if we might...."

  Diedo smiled. “Ah, my library. Yes. I have kept you waiting long enough. Come this way."

  We stepped through double-paneled doors into the largest and most beautiful library I have ever seen. Its walls, floors, and shelves were of burlwood. It was built like a great wheel, with a circular central c
hamber and dozens of outlying rooms—small alcoves really. An enormous hearth, decorated with stone minotaurs and Aquitanitan cherubesques, curved along one side of the main room, its stones glowing from the heat of a happy fire.

  Yon Diedo smiled smugly as I gaped.

  "So many volumes!” I cried. “Unbelievable."

  "There is no love like that for the printed page."

  I strode to the nearest shelf. “You have Kephrin! And Invaldres! This volume, I dare not even breathe upon it. It is priceless."

  "Yes, those are quite valuable. But I have books beyond value as well, one-of-a-kind volumes kept in a special section. Come and see."

  I followed into one of the alcoves, an agreeable nook with a small hearth, a quilted rug, and a spacious, comfortable chair with reading lamp and table alongside. A peculiar buzzing noise arose when I first entered, as if an insect circled the room, a sound that subsided too quickly to be located.

  "These are my special treasures,” Diedo said, “shown only to those I deem worthy. I often retreat here to lose myself in my reading."

  I studied the volumes, but my brow soon furrowed. The spines displayed only the writers’ names, not the titles. “Yon Diedo, forgive my ignorance. I recognize none of these authors."

  "Nor would I expect you to. Only one copy exists of each of these books. Sit and I will show you."

  I sat in the chair, which seemed to wrap itself comfortably around me. Each of the volumes had a single eye looking out from the spine, but despite that uniformity the books were of all colors and sizes, some ornate, some plain, some of leather and many of cloth.

  Yon Diedo eyed me carefully. “Each volume is an autobiography of the most personal kind, all unabashedly frank, revealing those secrets most would never tell. The writers bared all, withholding nothing."

  "Truly?” I asked, disappointed. Such faux-biographical books, supposedly relating the adventures of a real person, were quite common. But I had anticipated more than the ribald tales so popular with the unlearned.

  "You are unimpressed.” His face twisted with unexpected rage, as if I had committed some unpardonable effrontery, the change in his demeanor so violent I recoiled in the chair.

  He instantly mastered himself, his voice smooth again, but the suddenness of his return to good humor chilled me even more than his anger. I abruptly realized how vulnerable I was, seated, my host blocking any escape from the alcove. I remembered how far I was from home.

  Yon Diedo chuckled and shrugged. “Should I expect you to be impressed? No, not at all. But perhaps you will be more interested if I tell you I am a sorcerer."

  I laughed uneasily. “Yon Diedo, you make sport of me because I am from a small village. Such superstitions—"

  My words remained unfinished. Diedo made no movement, spoke no spell. A flash of jade light passed over his eyes.

  My sight grew unsteady. I found myself lying on my back in the chair, my head level with Yon Diedo's knees. Chuckling, he reached toward me, his groping hand covering my vision.

  Then Yon Diedo picked me up and held me in his grasp. I found myself looking down at his feet, unable to see his face.

  "You have told fascinating tales of your life,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Yet, you will tell me so much more."

  I felt the pressure of his hands upon my sides. And then he opened me. I heard a soft creaking, the slight shuffling of paper. With numb horror I realized I had been transformed into a book.

  "Yes,” he said, pleasure in his voice. Though I could not see his expression, I could feel his eyes upon me, studying my contents. “You will make a worthy addition. I have given you a great honor, Jakob Mamolok. The chance of a lifetime. How fortunate you are."

  I screamed; I cursed; I implored him to change me back. If he heard he gave no answer—my voice had become no more than a shuffling whisper, emanating from somewhere between the pages.

  He shut me; I felt my sides snap together as I closed. He pulled me upright. From the single eye on my spine I could see his arm and face once more, but the hand that held me, being too close, was blurred. He lifted me somewhat higher than his head, and I felt pressure on both of my sides. Releasing me, he stepped back, leaving me at what seemed the edge of a precipice. Seeing dark wood above and below, I realized I had been placed on a shelf with the other volumes.

  He beamed at me like a child, apparently pleased at my presentation, heedless of my supplications. And yet, a moment later, his face writhed as if in torment.

  "My collection,” he half-whispered in a tone of dread or disbelief.

  He turned and rushed from the room.

  I wept in fear, trembling like a dog terrified of the thunder. There were other sounds around me, but I was too agitated to hear. I do not know how much time passed—an hour, half a day—it was all one to me in my pain, but finally I grew calm enough to recognize a woman's voice, emanating from nearby.

  "Please,” she crooned, “I know it's a shock, but you must calm yourself. You are not alone. We're here. We are all here."

  "Who are you?” I demanded. “Where are you? I can't see you."

  "I'm right beside you. You can feel me touching your side."

  "I ... Beside me?"

  "Yes."

  She was right. I could feel her against me, a gentle warmth.

  "I am a fellow prisoner, Janine Laroque."

  "Why has he done this?"

  "Because he is a collector of stories. And what greater ones than those of a human life laid out in detail? In the evenings, he comes to read one of us."

  "This is madness. It can't be happening."

  "You will discover it is quite real. You will learn to accept it."

  But despite her efforts at consolation, I was too overwhelmed to listen. Nor could I bear to learn of the particulars of my circumstance. Fortunately, though no longer human, I still retained the ability to sleep, and I soon blotted out the horror of my condition by escaping into the sanctuary of a deep slumber.

  I awoke to the sound of Janine singing Two Silver Pesatas, a popular tune from four years before. She had a lovely voice, and for a moment I thought myself still in my comfortable inn in the heart of the city. Only when I opened my single eye and stared out at the narrow alcove, my vision flat and one-dimensional, did I recall my situation. From my vantage, I could glimpse a patch of morning sun emanating from an unseen window, warming the burlwood walls in the library's main room, but my vision was otherwise restricted to the surrounding shelves.

  I moaned.

  "Hello,” Janine said. “Are you better?"

  "How can I be?” I asked.

  When she did not answer, I said, “I'm sorry. It is a shock."

  "It is,” she agreed.

  "What will become of us? What of my work? My business. I need to return home."

  "You must forget your home. You can never go there again."

  "He can't keep us here forever!"

  "Books and sorcerers share one thing in common: they can both be destroyed, but they never die. I have been here for only two years, but there are volumes in this library seven hundred years old."

  "What can we do?” I asked, horrified.

  "We can become friends. You haven't introduced yourself."

  I told her my name.

  "Very well, Jakob Mamolok. You have a good feel about you—a strong cover and a stout binding. You're a dark-green leather, you know."

  "What do you look like?"

  "You can tell, as long as we're touching. We see not only with our eye. Feel my cover against you? Concentrate on it."

  No sooner did I comply than I realized I could indeed sense her. An image more tangible than any ordinary mental picture rose in my mind. I saw gilded pages and red leather embossed with ornate scrollwork, a magnificent book, one a collector such as myself would have lusted to own. She was beautiful, this Janine Laroque.

  She laughed sweetly, as if sensing my thoughts. “I think we will become good friends."

  After a moment's
silence, I asked, “All these books, all of us, are here solely for Yon Diedo's entertainment?"

  "For his pleasure and for our degradation."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Look inside yourself. No, I mean no common metaphor. You are a book now. Look inside yourself. You can do so, even as you were able to see me. Shut your eye. Turn inward. Concentrate on the center of your being."

  At first, I did not comprehend what she meant, but after several tries I saw within my own pages. I could scan the words; I could skip from page to page. Everything was there: my thoughts, my dreams—and my humiliations and cruelties. Nothing was omitted. I inwardly blushed to see my lowest desires in print.

  "Yon Diedo will read me?” I asked.

  "All of you,” she said bitterly.

  * * * *

  The first days in the library were the worst. I spent every waking hour seeking a way of escape, and when its impossibility became clear, I thought I would go mad. Perhaps, if not for Janine's guidance, I would have. She helped me deal with the limited depth-perception brought on by having only one eye. She showed me how to move by rippling my cover, an action that propelled me forward by the barest fraction of an inch. She taught me how to feel the musty air of the library, the warmth of the surrounding books, the dark wood of the shelves. But most of all, I was aware of her cover, lightly touching my side.

  Hers was a sweet, discerning nature. She was talkative, and unlike myself, little given to brooding. If she had not entirely accepted her lot, she had learned to deal with it, day by day.

  The other volumes welcomed me as a new friend—fresh pages, they called me. I received greetings from everyone. I could only converse with the books immediately surrounding me—even our loudest shouts were minuscule—the buzzing I had heard when I first entered the library had been the books crying out to warn me—but the library had a system of passing messages from volume to volume, so that books from every part of the alcove sent their best wishes. It was impossible to learn everyone's names at first, though I assumed I eventually would. A library has nothing but time.