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  www.fsfmag.com

  Copyright ©2009 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

  March * 60th Year of Publication

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  NOVELETS

  THE CURANDERO AND THE SWEDE by Daniel Abraham

  THE UNSTRUNG ZITHER by Yoon Ha Lee

  QUICKSTONE by Marc Laidlaw

  SHADOW-BELOW by Robert Reed

  CLASSIC REPRINT

  THAT HELL-BOUND TRAIN by Robert Bloch

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITORIAL by Gordon Van Gelder

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  MUSING ON BOOKS by Michelle West

  PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: AN EDITOR DARKLY by Paul Di Filippo

  FILMS: WHAT'S MY MOTIVATION by Kathi Maio

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  CURIOSITIES by David Langford

  COVER: “GRAY DAWN” BY JILL BAUMAN

  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 116, No. 3, Whole No. 681, March 2009. 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 © 2009 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

  Editorial by Gordon Van Gelder

  The Curandero and the Swede: A Tale from the 1001 American Nights by Daniel Abraham

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Musing on Books by Michelle West

  The Unstrung Zither by Yoon Ha Lee

  That Hell-Bound Train by Robert Bloch—and a kind of excuse-it-please memoir by William Tenn by Robert Bloch and William Tenn

  Plumage From Pegasus: An Editor Darkly by Paul Di Filippo

  Quickstone by Marc Laidlaw

  Films: What's My Motivation? by Kathi Maio

  Shadow-Below by Robert Reed

  Department: FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE

  Curiosities: Transfinite Man by Colin Kapp (1964)

  Department: Coming Attractions

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  Editorial by Gordon Van Gelder

  A little more than ten years ago, I wrote an editorial predicting changes in the book industry. My chief forecast was that “recyclebacks” would replace the mass-market paperback. I guess that shows you how good I am at forseeing the future.

  When I wrote the editorial, Ed Ferman suggested that I try a follow-up piece that applied the same guesswork to the magazine that I tried on the book. I didn't feel at the time that I knew enough about the magazine business to make any guesses.

  Here we are a decade later and I've held the title of “Publisher” for two presidential terms in office, but I still don't feel I know enough to hazard any guesses about the future of the magazine biz. These have been times of rapid, forceful changes for the magazine industry, and every time I think I understand it, the rules change.

  One thing I do understand, though, is the pivotal role that the postal service plays in this enterprise. So when a trade journal posted the projected rate increases for 2009, I realized something had to change. If the rates I saw are accurate (they came from a reliable source, but I only saw them three days before my deadline for this issue and I haven't been able to verify them yet), we can't maintain our monthly-but-one schedule. Look for us to shift from eleven issues a year—including one double issue—to six double issues published on a bimonthly schedule. (Actually, the double issues will probably be longer than our current Oct./Nov. issues.) I spoke with our distributor about trying some combination of single- and double-issues, but we both felt that a regular bimonthly schedule would be more durable. We can expect the bimonthly schedule to last us decades, while an irregular schedule is more apt to change from year to year.

  As long as we're changing our schedule, I expect to make some other changes to F&SF, so now's a good time to drop us a line or post your thoughts on our message board about what you'd like to see more of.

  One thing that seems obvious to me is that the whole nature of what a magazine is has shifted during the last decade. As one of our longtime readers wrote:

  When I started reading science fiction magazines in the late seventies, the features (book reviews and letters columns) spoke directly to me and created a sense of community. I wasn't the only person reading this stuff (although it often seemed that way), and there was a body of literature I should look for. Today, I turn to the science fiction sites on the Internet to see there are other people out there reading this stuff, and I can actually interact with them.

  Things have certainly changed a lot since those late seventies days—and since the late nineties days—and you can help us change with them.

  You can also help us with our jumbo Sixtieth Anniversary issue. We'd like to know what you consider the best stories and the best cover we've published since that first issue came off the presses in October of 1949. You can vote online at www.fandsf.com or just send a postcard to us at P.O. Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Results that we receive by April 10 will be tabulated and printed in our anniversary issue.

  —GVG

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Curandero and the Swede: A Tale from the 1001 American Nights by Daniel Abraham

  Daniel Abraham's previous contributions to F&SF include “Pagliacci's Divorce” and “Flat Diane.” In recent years, the bulk of his literary efforts have gone toward his “Long Price” quartet of novels, the final volume of which, The Price of Spring, is due out later this year.

  However, he has not entirely forsaken short fiction while immersed in a long series. His story “The Cambist and Lord Iron: A Fairy Tale of Economics” was a finalist for both the Hugo Award and the World Fantasy Award last year, and now we bring you a contemporary tale we think you'll like.

  The night I took Abby to meet my Atlanta family, we spent about three hours beforehand going over the rules. The dress sleeves had to cover her tattoo at all times. She couldn't say anything snarky about the casserole, even if it totally deserved it. Her analysis of Bill Clinton as reincarnation of Elvis was funny among our mutual friends, but wouldn't go over well with Oma Hauptmann. It would to be hard enough for the family to accept that I'd proposed to a Yankee girl without rubbing their noses in it. Abby's smile got more and more fixed, and her eyes started to get the glazed look of a deer facing a semi. When we pulled up at Aunt Mary's, I'd started to think the whole thing might have been a mistake.

  Abby squeezed my hand hard as we walked up the drive.

 
"This is going to be all right,” she said, as if she was telling me. And all through the meal, the announcement, and dessert, it was. Then the time came in the dance that was unspoken family tradition for the women to kick the men out onto the porch.

  The late August heat had convinced Aunt Mary to pull out the wading pool and fill it with the garden hose. All the kid cousins between five years old and fifteen were shrieking and splashing and hopping in and out of the water in the darkening twilight. Inside, Mama and Aunt Mary led the rest of the family in singing hymns while Oma Hauptmann cleaned away the remains of the wrapping paper and snuck the last few squares of sheet cake. Between these two celebrations, one pagan and the other pious, was the back porch and Uncle Dab.

  "So, boy. Engaged, are you?” he said with a wide grin. “Big news."

  I craned my neck. The harmonies of Christian praise floated in the dim air like pollen. I could just make out Abby's voice, still finding its place within the music. The back window showed a small slice of the living room, but her lemon-creme meeting-the-family dress wasn't there. I hoped the tattoo hadn't slipped. Abby had a way of unconsciously pushing up her sleeves.

  "Yeah,” I said. “I s'pose it is."

  Uncle Dab lit one of his little black cigars then leaned back, white hair haloed by smoke.

  "I ever tell you about how I met Mary?” Uncle Dab asked.

  "The grain boat that caught fire, and her father's truck,” I said, nodding. It was one of Dab's favorite stories, but he'd told it more times than I could count. It was always full of comedy and romance and smart-mouthed remarks made at just the right time. I knew from my mother that it skipped over the fact that Mary had been pregnant by someone besides Dab at the time and had lost the baby.

  He took being cut off with good grace, nodding and smiling as if he'd gone through the whole adventure. One of the older cousins—Paula or Stephanie—laughed, the sound carrying over the piano. I wondered what questions Aunt Mary would ask Abby once the music stopped, and how Abby would answer. Dab drew on the cigar, the ember flaring, then considered me.

  "So why don't you tell me about how you met the love of your life?” he said.

  "There's not really much to tell,” I said. “When I got back from Macon, I took a job at Paul Keneson's place. Abby worked there too, and one thing just led to another."

  I shrugged. One of the older kid cousins shrieked, clutching her recent breasts with one arm and splashing a younger boy with the other. The droplets caught the gold of the sunset. Dab, settled in his chair, smacked his lips once, and nodded. I had the sense that I'd disappointed him.

  "You know, there was this fella I knew back when I was working at the machine shop,” Dab said. “We called him the Swede. Little fella, maybe five foot five. Five foot six on a good day. Blackest man I have ever known. You know how most folks we call ‘em black, they're anything from dark brown to one of what Gram used to call high yaller? Well, not the Swede. He was black like a dog's nose. So black, he was damn near blue.

  "He used to tell it that his people escaped as soon as the slave ships dropped anchor, headed up north until it got so cold they just froze in place. Could trace his family back seven generations without a single white person. He was the first one in his family to leave Minnesota. Nice fella. Good machinist, too. Anyway.

  "He'd been down here about six years when I knew him. Had a girl he was seeing name of Corine. She was pretty. Had this line of dark little moles, just like pinpricks, all along her jaw. Made me think of the sort of bangles they put on women's veils out in Baghdad. She'd come by the shop sometimes, and we'd have to make him stop working until she went away for fear he'd get distracted and lose a finger.

  "He'd been seeing her for maybe six months when Martin Luther King got killed. That was before you were born, so I don't expect you'd understand it. And, honest to God, I'd never say this outside the family, but the Blacks have got a whole different country they live in. Even someone like the Swede who worked with us and drank beer with us and all? Now I was sorry to hear about it when King died, and I'm not ashamed to say it. But it wasn't that much to me. For the Blacks, though...."

  Dab shook his head.

  "It was different for them. What with everything else that was going on back then, King's getting shot was like Kennedy in Dallas and the planes in New York all wrapped up in one. The Swede was living in one of them shotgun houses over by the bend in the river. Little place with five rooms all back to back in a line, and it always smelled like old cabbage. I never did know why. When it happened, he was in the front room drinking a beer and listening to the radio news. Corine was in the back, sleeping a little. He heard about it and just finished off his beer, went back, and told her. She didn't believe him at first, and then she did.

  "Thing was, the Swede didn't talk much about it. He just nodded and sucked his teeth and had another beer. It was like he'd heard about a team losing a baseball game. He came into work next shift, you wouldn't have known a goddam thing had happened. I figured that he was just taking it like me. Sad to hear it, but you know how it is. Life goes on.

  "It was Corine who saw different. She was spending nights with him. They weren't married or nothing, but there was an understanding between them. So anyway, she was seeing him in his altogether on a regular basis, and none of us sure as hell were, so she was the one that found the bumps.

  "Now later on, I saw it a little myself, and I've seen my fair share of rashes and bites and whatnot. This was different. Looked like the Swede had marbles under his skin. Big, angry-looking lumps. And thing was, they moved. Each one of them shifted and kicked like a baby. Started right at the top of his plumber's crack like he was gonna grow a tail, and every week or two there'd be a little new one staring up. Climbed up his spine, one at a time, and out around his sides and down his legs. He said they didn't hurt or itch or nothing. They were just there.

  "Corine didn't think much of that, I can tell you. She'd had a sister who died of cancer when she was young, and she looked at those bumps and knew that wasn't right. She'd hound him and pick at him and yell until the Swede went to see some doctor.

  "Thing was, this was the end of the sixties, start of the seventies. We were all making pretty good money, but it wasn't great, and he was a Black. Maybe that doesn't mean now what it used to, but they didn't have a lot of trust for what you'd call the medical establishment. They hadn't found out about what those doctors were doing down in Tuskegee, but they weren't dumb. The Blacks knew that white doctors didn't care all that much about a Black fella's bumps. So the Swede went to a few, and they told him to rub grease on it before bed or to stop drinking liquor or whatever other easy advice they found to hand. Nothing ever came of it. The bumps just kept spreading out. As far as the Swede was concerned, it was just part of who he was.

  "It didn't all come to a crisis, as you'd say, until just after Thanksgiving ... well, we'd just got Nixon out of the White House, so that'd make it seventy-four. Corine and the Swede were at his place one night, and they were curled up together in bed. It was cold that year, so they were laying right on top of one another, and the way it was, Corine had her ear right up against one of the Swede's bumps and it called her a cunt. Soft little voice, but full of hate, and she always swore it spoke as clear as you or me.

  "You can imagine that was the end of that. Corine got her things in a suitcase and went to live with her sister. Nothing the Swede said drew any water with her. He had to do something, but he'd been to all the doctors any of us knew about. Poor ess-oh-bee didn't know where to turn.

  "Now it happened the Swede knew a guy right around then who'd been a trucker down in New Mexico the year before. Steve Williams, his name was. He wasn't a bad fella, but he'd had some trouble with getting drunk and stoned and fighting and such. Spent a few months in prison and it made it hard to find steady work. So Williams was pretty happy to get a job hauling fruit from Albuquerque up to the Four Corners area.

  "Now you've heard about Route 66, but what you might no
t know is there used to be a Route 666 coming off it in Gallup and heading up all the way to Colorado. Long, thin road with a whole lot of dead people. The Devil's Highway they called it, and a lot of people wouldn't drive the route because of it having a bad reputation. Williams wasn't what you'd call a religious fella. He figured 666 to be the number before 667, and Devil be damned. And maybe there was something to that, because what happened to him didn't have much to do with the Devil or Jesus either one.

  "He'd been going up from Albuquerque on a night run. Now that wasn't something he usually did. The highway there was two lane, and no barrier in between, so a trucker got sleepy or drunk, there was nothing to keep him from slipping over into oncoming traffic. And more than that, it was a damn lonesome piece of road. Between Gallup and Farmington there was about a hundred miles of reservation. No lights, not many gas stations, and what there was didn't stay open late. This was right before the CB radios got popular, so there wasn't even people to talk to. But the cargo had come in to Albuquerque late, and it had to be delivered by morning, so Williams gassed up and headed out.

  "It was the first part of summer, and a black night, no moon to speak of. Williams was tired, and truth to tell, he was feeling a little sorry for himself. His lady friend had taken off a couple weeks before, and he didn't have much prospect of getting her back. There's nothing like an empty road and cold and darkness to make a man feel the loss of a woman. Well, he was about an hour out of Gallup, and he saw a girl by the side of the road.

  "With his headlights the only thing out there, it was like she'd just popped up out of nowhere. She was an Indian girl, as you might expect out there on the reservation. Maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen. Well, he figured she was hitching, and if she wasn't, she might still rather not walk all the way to Shiprock. He could use the company, and if it was a girl with a sympathetic ear, well then all the better. He pulled the rig over to the shoulder and stopped.