10 Analogs of the Future

Copyright Acknowledgements

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Ungood Earth copyright © 1985 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CV:6 (June 1985).

Flash to Darkness copyright © 1985 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CV:9 (Sept. 1985).

Be Ashamed to Die copyright © 1986 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CVI:7 (July 1986).

Fly Me to the Moon copyright © 1986 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CVI:13 (Mid-December 1986).

High Power copyright ©1987 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu.

Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CVII:9 (September 1987).

No Damn Atoms copyright © 1987 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu.

Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CVII:10 (October 1987).

A Hog on Ice copyright © 1987 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu.

Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CVII:12 (December 1987).

Diogenes’s Lantern copyright © 1989 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CIX:1 (January 1989).

Distant Tigers copyright © 1991 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu.

Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. CXI:8&9 (July 1991 Special Double Issue).

For Many Shall Come in My Name, copyright © 1994 Rob Chilson and William F. Wu. Analog, ed. Stanley Schmidt. Vol. CXIV No.12 (October 1994).

Dedication

In a decision both goofy and egotistical, we hereby dedicate our mutual halves of this collection to each other.

Acknowledgements

William F. Wu: Rob and I wrote these stories over a period of many years. Our most important debt is to Stanley Schmidt, the editor of Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine who accepted all of these stories for publication. (But if you don’t like our stories, blame us. Even better, just blame Rob.)

I am grateful to many people who offered a range of friendship, affection, support, and help. In no particular order, those include Laura J. LeHew; Diana G. Gallagher, who for a part of this time was Diana G. Wu; and Chelsea Streb. Then and now, I owe gratitude for the friendship and help from my friend and colleague Michael D. Toman. I’m also indebted to Alan Brennert, a friend and remarkably accomplished writer. Also crucial to this part of my life are Lynette M. Burrows and Jeri and Rusty Solberg. Times change but my thanks and appreciation remain.

Rob Chilson: Notice how Bill puts his part first? This is not inappropriate, though not alphabetical. The stories were published as by Chilson and Wu, partly because I already was well-known at Analog magazine, and partly because Chilson and Wu flows better than Wu and Chilson. So, like Bill, I agree our most important debt is to Stanley Schmidt; but my personal debt to Bill is as large. If he had not agreed to look at, and even meddle with, our first collaboration, this book would not be, and our long strange trip would have been as much fun, but not as productive.

Additionally, I owe much more than this book to the various members of the nameless writers’ group Bill and I founded, particularly to three remarkable women who have been its mainstays: Alysen Tellure, Lynette Burrows, and Jan Gephardt. They, and other members of the group, did much to unsnarl my turgid prose.

Introduction

Bill Wu: Yes, we like the play on words in the title to this collection. Though digital technology has overtaken the older analog tech, the metaphorical meaning of the word works for our purposes. And, happily, all of these stories first appeared in the magazine Analog Science Fiction and Fact. That title long ago replaced the magazine’s name Astounding Stories from an even earlier time. So we offer these tales as possibilities that may be analogous to our future, not as predictions.

I first met Rob Chilson on three occasions, which is to say, all three times seemed to be the first time. That’s another way of saying, neither of us cared about meeting the other the first two times; we had important concerns, instead.

We didn’t care that much the third time, either.

The first time, nearly lost in the mists of my own fuzzy memory, was in 1979, at the North American Science Fiction Convention in Louisville, Kentucky, a year when the world convention was in the United Kingdom. I was in my twenties and had sold a novelette to George Scithers, editor of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, as it was named at the time, after my first two professional sales to British anthologies. I wanted to meet him and he was one of the guests of honor. Writer Michael D. Toman and a couple of other friends drove from East Lansing, Michigan, to get me in Ann Arbor, then we went south to Louisville.

I later came to know and like George Scithers, but this first occasion was awkward. After meeting him briefly Friday evening, I went to an open party advertised as being in one of the hotel rooms. It was the most stifling excuse for an s.f. con party I’ve ever seen.

I walked in through an open doorway; John M. Ford, who became a regular contributor to George, happened to be standing at the doorway and I’d met him the night before, too. Almost everyone else was sitting on the floor, with a few people on the sparse furniture. George introduced me, saying, He writes for me, which was nice to hear but a little odd, since I had sold him exactly one story. I found a place to stand and realized that no one else was speaking or moving. Everyone was watching George.

After a moment, George talked a little about the magazine. He was a retired Army colonel and his mannerisms seemed formal. Occasionally people would ask a question as though this was a class. One person actually raised his hand. George told all of us to feel free to speak right up.

No one did.

The atmosphere was infectious; I found myself with nothing to say and too intimidated to say it. While I wanted to leave, I felt I had to stay a while to be polite. After all, I planned to submit more stories to him in the future. When I decided I’d been polite enough, I thought about leaving and realized that any time anyone moved, the motion seemed to create a ripple effect as everyone looked to see what was happening. No one left.

So what does this have to do with Rob Chilson?

Someone braver than I was eventually left and I, with a polite nod to George, was sucked out in the slipstream.

I strode up the hall, deeply relieved, until I reached a spot where some guy I knew was talking to a guy I didn’t know. Back then, I was often teased for being skinny and the guy I didn’t know was around my height and about as skinny. The guy I knew—I have no memory of who that was—introduced the stranger to me as Rob Chilson. We shook hands and he asked me if this was the way to the Scithers party.

I coulda warned him. Any decent person would have. I, on the other hand, said, Yeah, and fled up the hallway. If the party atmosphere devoured him, so what? I gave Rob Chilson no further thought for a couple of years.

*****

Rob Chilson here. Bill’s account of our non-historic first meeting pretty much accords with mine. In 1979 I’d had three books published and a dozen or two stories in various magazines, starting in 1968. (It was painful to be so young.) But I’d only been to three or four conventions, though one was WorldCon ‘76 in Kansas City. I missed the best part of that con because, not having been invited, I did not go to any parties. (It was still painful to be so young!) Also, I attended as a fan, not knowing how to apply as a writer. But I attended Archon One in St. Louis as a writer, met Wilson Bob Tucker and other lights, and learned that I was invited to any and all parties. I’d also attended the last BYOBcon in Kansas City, in May ‘79, where I met Karl Edward Wagner and his delightful wife, Barbara. I was to meet them again at the NASFiC in Louisville. I think I had also been to my first Chambanacon in Champaign-Urbana, Ill.

I had arranged to carpool from St. Louis with some friends I’d met at Archon, and so I wasn’t as alone as I’d been at WorldCon. I had a few friends, one of whom accompanied me to Scithers’s party. Like Bill, I have absolutely no memory of who that could have been.

My memory of Scithers’s Open House is much like Bill’s: We were mostly young, inexperienced writers who feared to traduce the Unwritten Law. The more fearful in that the Law, being Unwritten, was also unknown to us. One false word and your career is over, we subconsciously felt. Also, our experience of authority was mostly limited to school, so we acted like a class, and being nerds, we weren’t the unruly ones. This in turn affected George, who fell into the role of teacher before a well-behaved class.

I have no idea how I got up the nerve to leave.

Our next, equally inconsequential meeting, was in Denver, WorldCon ‘81. By then I’d been to a number of regional cons, I had a number of friends, and Denvention ‘81 was my third national con. It was far more enjoyable than my first, and when I staggered into Stapleton International Airport, I’d had 19 hours of sleep in the past 5 days.

That may explain why I have almost no memory of meeting Bill Wu the second time. Or maybe he’s just not a memorable guy. I have a fuzzy image of an anonymous hotel hallway, of being introduced to a total stranger by, I think, whoever was with me. Be a kick if it was the same as the first introducer, but not likely. And the ships pass in the nighted hallway.

*****

Bill: That benighted hallway has always been fuzzy in my memory, but I remember the moment itself. I was going somewhere potentially interesting and, again, someone I knew in the hallway (I’m sure it was not the same guy as before, but he’s equally forgotten) introduced me to some other guy. It was Rob, of course, and I said, I think we’ve met before. He said, Yes, I think we have. Then I continued in my quest for that potentially interesting place and he ignored me in equal measure. Who cares? would express our mutual levels of interest.

In August of 1982, I moved back to the Kansas City area, where I was born and raised, but the move took up expenses that might otherwise have taken me to worldcon. I missed it that year but went to the airport to pick up someone who had gone. That guy, whom I could identify but don’t wish to embarrass by association with Rob and me, introduced me to Rob Chilson for the third time. Hey, this time the memory actually took. We shook hands in the airport for the third time, recalled that we had met previously, and then went our separate ways again. After all, who cares?

I saw Rob a number of times at the local science fiction club and the annual s.f. convention, ConQuest. We talked occasionally but not really very much. Between fall of ‘82 and spring of ‘84, I was occupied with writing a lot of fiction that never sold, rightfully so. I was also in a relationship, but never mind that now; I’m sure the woman in question wouldn’t care about being included here. Fortunately, I also was working on the book that would become my first published novel, while my fifth professional short fiction sale was published and even nominated for awards. I also sold a short story to Omni magazine, which brought about this event:

At a pre-convention party for the ‘84 Conquest, Rob and I were talking with some friends and I mentioned the sale to Omni. Rob said, I never submitted there, because I thought it would too hard to sell there, but if he can do it, anybody can. Much laughter followed, including mine.

That’s when I knew, five years after we were first introduced, that we could be friends. And the summer of 1984 turned out to be interesting, for sure.

*****

Rob again: My journey to our third and final first meeting began in the summer of ‘82. I had not intended to go to the Chicago worldcon that year, being impoverished, but I sold a story to a gamer ‘zine and had enough funds to buy a membership and about one-eighth of writer Robin Wayne Bailey’s room—he urged me to go, as I recall, a good decision. We had a crowded and fun convention, and the Baileys and I took the same plane home. In the airport waiting room we were approached by a teenaged boy who asked if we’d been to worldcon. We regarded him warily, for teenaged male s.f. fans can be socially inept, to put it gently. But this one was quite ept.

And as we deplaned at Kansas City, the lad was met by his mother, who had been driven to the airport by William F. Wu.

I looked at him with dawning recognition: Do I know that guy? After many minutes of conversation, we decided that we had…met.

(I never sold a word to Omni.) We met occasionally at meetings of the local club, where, having nothing else in common, we talked writing. (Writers have been known to do this.) I particularly remember one conversation because Bill had this hacking racking cough that left him so breathless all he could do was gasp, Yeah, in answer. Most intelligent and interesting conversation I ever had with him. We also met at a little writers’ conclave founded by Robin Wayne Bailey, where we ate hamburgers (ah, Gunter’s of fond memory!) and also talked writing. The upshot was a decision to collaborate. Whose idea was it? Well, if you like the stories here, it was my idea. If not, it was Bill’s.

THE UNGOOD EARTH

When Howard Hampton came up on the porch and knocked, Jimmy Li was sitting bleakly in the kitchen of the old Bigelow house. The younger man looked around dully, started to get up, then recognized his neighbor.

Oh, it’s you; come on in, How.

Jimmy was the only one who had called him How in forty years.

Hope I’m not disturbin’ you, he said. The boys dropped in and I decided to make m’self scarce. The screen door banged behind him.

Not at all. Get you anything? Jimmy had slumped back into his chair.

No thanks, said Howard, seating himself at the table. The pink-checked cloth was covered with papers: bank statements and some kind of advertisement, looked like a real estate ad.

What’s eatin’ you? he asked the younger man.

Jimmy Li was in his early fifties, though he looked younger with his short, still-black hair. He was chunky and muscular in his overalls. A city boy, he’d been to a regular college, not ag. Had had some fool notion of retiring and living on a farm; he’d told Howard it had something to do with distant Chinese ancestors. Howard had taken more interest in the younger man’s struggle than he had in his own. His help had paid off; the boy’d become a competent farmer.

Those distant Chinese must’ve passed on something; Howard’s grandsons lacked a quarter of Jimmy’s feel for the land.

Don’t know if you saw this, said Jimmy, pushing the ad toward him.

Howard glanced at the glossy brochure. Come to think of it, my son John showed me somethin’ like this. Foolishness. I chucked it.

I’m afraid I don’t have the option, said Jimmy. His dark face, darker from the sun these past two years, was glum.

Howard glanced uncertainly at the ad. National Chemical, Inc., had developed a new dry-land reed with these tailored genes they had, which braced itself not with cellulose, but with some damn kind of plastic fiber. They wanted to lease land and hire farmers to farm it, raising these things—their way.

Poor sort of farmer that lets anybody tell him how to farm his own land.

Broke? Howard asked.

Yeah. Well, not at the moment. If my probeans come in like I hope they will, I’ll make expenses and a small profit, on paper. That’s a real help when it comes to borrowing. But you and I know it’s a downhill slide. Each year I wind up with less in my account.

Howard understood all too well. Even when you deducted all expenses for things like new vehicles and equipment, you still found you had gone in the red. It was a fact of life; farmers sold wholesale and bought retail, and who could compete with the food factories?

So you’re sellin’ out?

Haven’t made up my mind. I can still wait till next year, but not longer than that; by then NCI will have leased all the land it will want. And there won’t be any other market; once NCI leases most of the land here, their competition will look elsewhere. So if I don’t sell before then, I’ll be stuck.

Since Howard hadn’t considered taking up their offer, he hadn’t thought about it before. But now that Jimmy mentioned it, he could see that this offer was only good for this year or next. It hadn’t been easy for Jimmy. It’d been a lone fight, except for Howard. His wife Lily had refused to accompany him to the country.

Well. Reckon I’ll miss you. Howard spoke slowly, watching him, but got no rise out of the other man. Jimmy just looked at him, haggard.

And I’ll miss you—unless I take this leasing offer.

Howard couldn’t conceal his distaste for the idea. Not my kind o’ farmin’.

Mine, either. Jimmy grimaced. How long do you think you can hold out, as an old-time farmer?

What do you mean? Howard asked carefully. He had given much thought to that lately.

Jimmy sighed. I spent twenty-five years in business, mostly in the food industry, learning all about marginal businesses among other things, and trend analysis. I’ve tracked this trend back as far as 1960.

Howard blinked at him, shaken.

Yeah. It was a better, simpler life then. But modern problems were already visible, though the cloud, as they say, was no bigger than a man’s hand. In that year, the American public spent a mere 19 percent of its income on food. In 1970, it spent a mere 17 percent. At that rate it would have hit zero in 2045 or thereabouts. Think that’s bad? It’s worse than that.

Jimmy got up and crossed to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer. It’s worse than that. Because it dropped to 15 percent, not in 1980 as you might expect, but in 1978—and the trend followed that curve from there. It could actually hit zero by 2010!

Howard stared at him, the open bottle forgotten in his hand. That’s impossible! Who’d grow food if they couldn’t sell it? Who’d process it, pack it, transport it?

What’s the world’s largest market for food?

Th’ gov’ment. But—

Quite. How long has it been since you’ve sold wheat—corn—beans—millet—on the open market? Ten years?

Howard was silent, but he made it more. It startled him, thinking back, to realize how long it had been since he could make a profit with commodity foods on the open market. Whole protein beans, now, he still could sell—but already there was agitation in the industry for the Department of Agriculture to raise its floors there, too; the market price was falling steeply. That was why John’d shown him that thing from NCI—and no doubt why Jimmy was looking it over.

So you think the government will buy up all the food and give it away?

Already a third of the food we grow is sold to and given away by the government. Practically everybody qualifies for it. Some of it’s eaten by poor people overseas, but unfortunately every big city on earth these days has modern sewage treatment facilities.

The modern way to treat sewage was to sterilize it, then feed it to algae, then do things with the algae: it made good but nowadays too expensive fertilizer; it could be used as the starting point for a thousand chemicals that used to be made from oil; or it could be made into food, or fed to yeast and the yeast made into food.

Butter and cheese and milk, fake flour, cornstarch, flaked potatoes, pea soup, fake meat from textured vegetable protein, fruit juices, vegetable soup stocks, pasta—why, the list was endless and getting longer every day.

The world just doesn’t need farmers anymore, Jimmy said sadly.

And so now they’re turning farms into plastic mines, Howard snorted.

Jimmy sighed. My father was an engineer, and his father was a doctor. Beyond that, I forget. But far enough back, in southern China, my folks were peasants—which is to say, farmers. I guess my family never lost some of that thinking, because my folks used to say, only land has permanent value. And that everybody has to eat, so the people who grow the food support the entire society. Somehow or other, that sunk in. I’ve always wanted to be a farmer. Only now it’s too late. It’s the food factories that really feed the public. Farms nowadays are basically producers of luxury goods. The real money is in the parks and dude ranches. Even dude farms!

Those where Howard’s own sentiments. But—Folks’d never eat all that fake stuff if they could get real food, he growled.

Jimmy shrugged unhappily and set his bottle down. My grandkids prefer the fake stuff, especially meat. I don’t mind eating chicken myself—even killing my own, now you showed me how—but not rabbits. Or cows.

Howard frowned, drank beer. It was a common attitude. All his life long he’d known peole who were too fine-haired to eat, say, rabbit or squirrel, at least not any they’d known personally. Stubbornly he said, Yeah—but the fake stuff just don’t taste right.

Tasting right is a function of what you’re used to—what you ate when you were growing up. My grandkids are growing up on the fake stuff; it tastes right to them.

That was a new thought; Howard was shocked by it. Why, there must be a whole generation growing up that maybe wouldn’t want real food if it could get it!

My God, he said softly, despairing. How can the farmer make a livin’?

Jimmy dropped his gaze to the floor and shook his head.

*****

Howard had crossed Jimmy Li’s fields and was half across his own before he raised his head. This was a field of protein beans, his major crop for the past six years; on the back side he had a field of the new genetically altered corn to sell to the government to cover expenses. This would be the last year for that; they were cutting the floor back down in staple foods, because the food factories could feed the population so much more cheaply that farmers no longer had any support from the taxpayers.

Now probeans were going the same way—first the price falls under competition from the food factories, then the gover’ment steps in and subsidizes the farmer till the taxpayers howls, then the farmer’s got to scramble.

Turn the whole world into a goddam amusement park next…

The beans looked good, the shoulder-high plants sturdy, the ripening beans at the tips where the harvester could get at them turning ripe straw-yellow. Across the field Howard found the old footpath among the trees along the creek. Walking silently from an old hunter’s habit, he came up behind a line of those aspen that in