“People owe me favors. I can raise some.”
Yerkamov nodded. “Of course, I can see a certain amount of trouble with the whole Prince of Darkness issue. Fly-god, Corrupter, Father of Lies. . . . Some of the nicknames you've picked up over the years.”
“I prefer plain old Nick,” said Lucifer.
“Sure, sure, and it plays better, too. And you've made a start on defusing that. With the right spin . . . Do you see where I'm going here?”
“I think I have the direction. Not so sure about the motivation.”
Yerkamov shrugged. “My business is seeing the writing on the wall. If I head Peckem's reelection committee, I'll have to learn Japanese and see him only on visiting days. There's things even
I
can't make look good. Besides, I like to back a horse I understand.”
He went over and sat on the edge of his desk. “Potential problem. What's your citizenship?”
“I have a United States passport.”
“Not good enough if we're going all the way. Gotta be a natural-born citizen.”
Nick thought it over.
“Hades is vast. I believe I could convince any court in the world that when I was cast down, I came to rest beneath New Jersey.”
“That would explain a lot. Where do you live?”
“I maintain a condo in Dallas for tax purposes.”
“Then here it is: governor of Texas in '94. Six years later . . .”
“The millennium . . .” Nick whispered, and the banked fires in his eyes blazed briefly. When he looked down he saw that Yerkamov had extended his hand. Nick took it. Yerkamov's hand was clammy, his grip flaccid. Nick hated that. He swallowed hard and pretended he didn't mind.
Hell, it was a small price to pay for the White House.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I admit I made a teeny change here. I originally had Yerkamov offer Nick the junior senatorship from Texas in '94. Looking back, this seems more appropriate. They say Satan can take many forms. You don't suppose . . .
Probably not. I think Nick would have made a better president.
INTRODUCTION TO
“The Bellman”
The second-most-asked question, as any writer will know, is “How do you go about getting an agent?” The answer is fairly simple, like the answer to the old question, “How do I get to Carnegie Hall?” Practice. Write stories, send them out, endure the rejection when it comes. When you have a few stories in print, there are agents out there who will take you on. (If you're not good enough to sell, no agent can help you.) Before that, few serious agents will look at your work; they don't have the time. There are “agents” who will read your stuff for a fee, and maybe send them out to magazines, but don't count on it. And don't count on their advice. If you need opinions and helpful criticism, workshops are a better place to get them.
Again, I was lucky. I hadn't even considered getting an agent. I sold some stories, started attracting some attention, and one day got a letter from Kirby McCauley asking if I was looking for representation. I wasn't, and was a little dubious of someone who seemed to be beating the bushes for clients. But I asked some of my new friends, and was told Kirby was very good, with a wonderful client list. He could hustle my works in foreign marketsâwhich have been a significant source of income over the yearsâand had an affiliation with an agency in Hollywood. I went to New York, met him and instantly liked him, and we shook hands. That has been the basis of a relationship that has lasted about twenty-eight years now.
I can't begin to say how valuable Kirby has been to me, as agent and friend. He takes care of all the negotiating and business stuff that gives me a blinding headache. He has been there countless times to help me over a bad patch, as a writer's income tends to be sporadic: big chunks, and then nothing for a long time. I have made a living at this business for thirty years now, but I won't pretend it hasn't been dicey at times.
But it's the only life for me.
Â
As Sergeant Pepper said, we're getting very near the end.
Here's a story from a time capsule. I wrote “The Bellman” back in the late seventies
after Harlan Ellison asked me to contribute to an anthology. I'm sure many of you were not even born when the first
Dangerous Visions
book was published, to universal acclaim. It was followed soon after by
Again Dangerous Visions,
and was to conclude, logically enough, with
The Last Dangerous Visions,
And then something happened . . .
I don't know exactly what it was, it was probably a series of things, but for some reason Harlan and the original publisher parted company. Ever since then, well over twenty years now, Harlan has been wandering in the publishing wilderness, and so far even his considerable powers of persuasion have been unable to get the book in print.
Did I say book? The last I heard
TLDV
was to be three thick volumes, with a cover price around one hundred dollars. I don't know if those are 1978 dollars.
Being Harlan, he was able to hang on to this story, and many others by other writers, long past the expiration of his rights to it. Half a dozen times in the past two decades, times when I really needed the money, I have reluctantly gone to him and said I
really
have to sell “The Bellman.”
It's been years, Harlan. Be fair.
Each time he convinced me to hang tough. No browbeating, no threats, never an angry word. It's just that when Harlan gets to talking about
TLDV
his passion is infectious; you end up
wanting
to let him keep the story for just one more year.
I still do want that, I still hope to see
TLDV
in hard covers one day soon . . . but by then “The Bellman” will no longer be unpublished fiction, because I finally decided I couldn't wait any longer. Do I feel guilty? Yes, a bit. But I'm not the only one, and even if all the stories in it are not new on that fine publication day, I'm sure the book will be the blockbuster of the twenty-first century.
Â
Â
The whole
Dangerous Visions
concept was a simple one. Harlan wanted stories you couldn't sell elsewhere, stories that were too controversial for the conventional magazines and book publishers. Dangerous stories.
Many of the stories in the first two volumes did seem daring at the time, but the most dangerous stuff in the books was probably the introductions and afterwords Harlan wrote for each story. Taken together, it seemed there was almost as much wordage by the outspoken editor as by the collected authors . . . which is as it should be, since no one I know can churn up your guts as effectively as Harlan Ellison.
I don't really know if this story is “dangerous.” It no longer looks as radical as it did when I wrote it, but so very, very much has happened since then. We're in a new millennium, and in many ways it is more wonderful and terrible than any of us poor SF prophets imagined it.
You decide.
THE BELLMAN
THE WOMAN STUMBLED down the long corridor, too tired to run. She was tall, her feet were bare, and her clothes were torn. She was far advanced in pregnancy.
Through a haze of pain, she saw a familiar blue light. Air lock. There was no place left to go. She opened the door and stepped inside, shut it behind her.
She faced the outer door, the one that led to vacuum. Quickly, she undogged the four levers that secured it. Overhead, a warning tone began to sound quietly, rhythmically. The outer door was now held shut by the air pressure inside the lock, and the inner door could not be opened until the outer latches were secured.
She heard noises from the corridor, but knew she was safe. Any attempt to force the outer door would set off enough alarms to bring the police and air department.
It was not until her ears popped that she realized her mistake. She started to scream, but it quickly died away with the last rush of air from her lungs. She continued to beat soundlessly on the metal walls for a time, until blood flowed from her mouth and nose. The blood bubbled.
As her eyes began to freeze, the outer door swung upward and she looked out on the lunar landscape. It was white and lovely in the sunlight, like the frost that soon coated her body.
Â
Lieutenant Anna-Louise Bach seated herself in the diagnostic chair, leaned back, and put her feet in the stirrups. Dr. Erickson began inserting things into her. She looked away, studying the people in the waiting room through the glass wall to her left. She couldn't feel anythingâwhich in itself was a disturbing sensationâbut she didn't like the thought of all that hardware so close to her child.
He turned on the scanner and she faced the screen on her other side. Even after so long, she was not used to the sight of the inner walls of her uterus, the placenta, and the fetus. Everything seemed to throb, engorged with blood. It made her feel heavy, as though her hands and feet were too massive to lift; a different sensation entirely from the familiar heaviness of her breasts and belly.
And the child. Incredible that it could be hers. It didn't look like her at all. Just a standard squinch-faced, pink and puckered little ball. One tiny fist opened and shut. A leg kicked, and she felt the movement.
“Do you have a name for her yet?” the doctor asked.
“Joanna.” She was sure he had asked that last week. He must be making conversation, she decided. It was unlikely he even recalled Bach's name.
“Nice,” he said, distractedly, punching a note into his clipboard terminal. “Uh, I think we can work you in on Monday three weeks from now. That's two days before optimum, but the next free slot is six days after. Would that be convenient? You should be here at 0300 hours.”
Bach sighed.
“I told you last time, I'm not coming in for the delivery. I'll take care of that myself.”
“Now, uh . . . ,” he glanced at his terminal, “Anna, you know we don't recommend that. I know it's getting popular, butâ”
“It's Ms. Bach to you, and I heard that speech last time. And I've read the statistics. I know it's no more dangerous to have the kid by myself than it is in this damn fishbowl. So would you give me the goddam midwife and let me out of here? My lunch break is almost over.”
He started to say something, but Bach widened her eyes slightly and her nostrils flared. Few people gave her any trouble when she looked at them like that, especially when she was wearing her sidearm.
Erikson reached around her and fumbled in the hair at the nape of her neck. He found the terminal and removed the tiny midwife she had worn for the last six months. It was gold, and about the size of a pea. Its function was neural and hormonal regulation. Wearing it, she had been able to avoid morning sickness, hot flashes, and the possibility of miscarriage from the exertions of her job. Erikson put it in a small plastic box, and took out another that looked just like it.
“This is the delivery midwife,” he said, plugging it in. “It'll start labor at the right time, which in your case is the ninth of next month.” He smiled, once again trying for a bedside manner. “That will make your daughter an Aquarius.”
“I don't believe in astrology.”
“I see. Well, keep the midwife in at all times. When your time comes, it will reroute your nerve impulses away from the pain centers in the brain. You'll experience the contractions in their full intensity, you see, but you won't perceive it as pain. Which, I'm told, makes all the difference. Of course, I wouldn't know.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn't. Is there anything else I need to know, or can I go now?”
“I wish you'd reconsider,” he said, peevishly. “You really should come into the natatorium. I must confess, I can't understand why so many women are choosing to go it alone these days.”
Bach glanced around at the bright lights over the horde of women in the waiting room, the dozens sitting in examination alcoves, the glint of metal and the people in white coats rushing around with frowns on their faces. With each visit to this place the idea of her own bed, a pile of blankets, and a single candle looked better.
“Beats me,” she said.
Â
There was a jam on the Leystrasse feeder line, just before the carousel. Bach had to stand for fifteen minutes wedged in a tight mass of bodies, trying to protect her belly, listening to the shouts and screams ahead where the real crush was, feeling the sweat trickling down her sides. Someone near her was wearing shoes, and managed to step on her foot twice.
She arrived at the precinct station twenty minutes late, hurried through the rows of desks in the command center, and shut the door of her tiny office behind her. She had to turn sideways to get behind her desk, but she didn't mind that. Anything was worth it for that blessed door.
She had no sooner settled in her chair than she noticed a handwritten note on her desk, directing her to briefing room 330 at 1400 hours. She had five minutes.
Â
Â
One look around the briefing room gave her a queasy feeling of disorientation. Hadn't she just come from here? There were between two and three hundred officers seated in folding chairs. All were female, and visibly pregnant.
She spotted a familiar face, sidled awkwardly down a row, and sat beside Sergeant Inga Krupp. They touched palms.
“How's it with you?” Bach asked. She jerked her thumb toward Krupp's belly. “And how long?”
“Just fightin' gravity, trying not to let the entropy get me down. Two more weeks. How about you?”
“More like three. Girl or boy?”
“Girl.”
“Me, too.” Bach squirmed on the hard chair. Sitting was no longer her favorite position. Not that standing was all that great. “What is this? Some kind of medical thing?”