Estronomicon Issue 1 by Steve Upham

Issue 1 : January 2006

Contents

ESTRONOMICON The Official SD eZine *** Published by Screaming Dreams

Page

Introduction by Steve Upham

Death Co d ex Extract by Sean Woodward

Art Of The Dragon Cover artist Frank Wu

Songs Of Leaving Full story by Peter Crowther

Novelist Beware Advice from Sarah Crabtree

The Artful Collector Regular column by Jane Frank

As The Crow F l i e s Interview with Sean Wright

Touching The Stars Space art by David A. Hardy

Under The I c e Creepy fiction by Tony Richards

Brain Teaser Can you find the hidden words?

Worthwhile Web Cool sites that are worth visiting

*** Edited by Steve Upham *** Cover Artwork 'When The Earth Was Red' ÂŠ Frank Wu 2005

All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without written permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you.

Introduction : 1

Introduction by Steve Upham

Welcome to the new eZine from Screaming Dreams. As this is the very first edition I thought it would be a good idea to explain a little of what you can expect from this monthly publication ... The aim of this project is to bring you a selection of work each month by several authors and artists, some of who you may already be familiar with while others will be introduced for the first time. It is a great privilege for me to feature the work of so many people who I have admired over the years and I'm sure you'll be equally thrilled by their creative talents too! There will be a variety of content in each issue ranging from traditional fantasy and classic horror to futuristic themes of space, technology and science-fiction. There will be full short stories and novel extracts, artwork, interviews, features giving help and advice on related subjects, plus useful links and more. The title Estronomicon is derived from the Welsh word "Estron", meaning "Strange" (I'm from Wales by the way). The rest of course is inspired by the infamous Necronomicon, so the zine name means something like "Book Of The Strange". I thought this may be an appropriate description for the type of content that will be included. You are allowed to make a printed hardcopy of this PDF file if you prefer to read offline, but please respect the Copyright of the material and do NOT distribute the content in any way. Thank you. If you would like to contribute your work to future issues then please do get in touch as I'd love to hear from more artists and authors out there! Be sure to read further information regarding submissions on the Screaming Dreams website. I hope that you enjoy reading this publication as much as I have enjoyed producing it and I look forward to receiving feedback from everyone, so let me know what you think so far. Also if you have any suggestions for what you'd like to see included in future issues then I am always happy to hear your ideas. Don't miss the fantastic line-up we have for you next month, with fiction by Sean Wright, Marie O'Regan and Dave Cook, artwork and interviews with Mark Allen and Roz Eve, plus more from Sarah Crabtree and Jane Frank!

2 : Death Codex

Death Codex Tales from the Dark Rim by Sean Woodward

Anjers looked through the fogging glass one more time to be sure - eight clicks away and he could still hear the low drone of the afterburners kicking in. Running to the study he threw the last remaining memchips into the bag and grabbed the dull Qube, its AI silent as he punched co-ordinates into the wall panel and stepped through the portal. He looked around - all that punctuated the stillness was the repeating sound of wooden blocks clapping, the monk sat on the snow, bare feet poised in the lotus position, a light flurry of flakes swirling around him. "So you came back?" asked the saffron figure, his meditation of sound unbroken. "Guess it looks that way" said Anjers, careful that none of the weaponry in his bag was visible. "You know Qubes are banned here!" "Yeah I know." And Anjers walked on past him, towards the monastery, it's scarlet timbers rising from the snow like a great wooden table, one Kuangi would have used back on Old Earth, back in New Shanghai. Shani hit pause on her Neuropod and looked around the room. Looked like Anjers had lost none of his famed skills for confusion. Stacks of memchips littered the floor, strangely dull without their AI. On the wall was that centuries old antique of a blade that she swore he would even talk to. The fine curve of the Katana odly at rest, it's hilt somehow bare without his two hands wrapped around its sharkskin. She looked out the corner of her eye, activating the Neuropod's notation facility. And then she smiled, she had enough of his DNA to make any offworld escape impossible - and who was going to give him safe passage with a Qube! For fifteen generations the finest AI's had been banned on every world this side of the Dark Rim, to have even possessed one was a death warrant on the Combined Worlds. "No sign of the traitor here" she blinked twice, ensuring the transmission was

Death Codex : 3

neonwrapped for the Head of Security only and walked through into the bedroom. Scattered on the floor were dozens of perfectly trapezoid bloodchips. On the bed as well! She turned quickly, ripping open storage panels to reveal row after row of dangling silver trinkets, Old Earth crosses, templargrams and shining necklaces of Haiti hexes. She cursed at the empty room. "Damnit, so that vampyre bitch was here too!" She ripped open the drawers, ancient parchment everywhere. She recognised one of the sheets. Years ago in New Shanghai, a young boy had been translating the words of the old calligrapher as he sat on the street, brushing the marks on the long, weighted scroll. The boy said his grandfather knew the seventeen hundred hidden words of the old language, the ones that rewrote the Death Codex. She'd dismissed his words that day, as she did now. But there, staring at her in the drawer, it's edges covered in soil was a sentence from that very scroll and as she touched it with her fingers the rows of trinkets began to shake and the bloodchips scattered all around her began to pulse scarlet.

*** Copyright ÂŠ Sean Woodward 2005

If you have enjoyed the first chapter of this story then watch out for more of Sean's work in future issues. Take a look at the following websites to discover more of Sean's many and varied creative talents . . . www.seanwoodward.com Music fans should also check out t h e latest audio album Abyss Walker

www.t3kton.com www.dragonheartpress.com

4 : Art Of The Dragon

Art Of The Dragon Frank Wu

I am very pleased and honoured to feature a Frank Wu cover on this month's issue. I have been a fan of Frank's work for quite some time and I was lucky enough to catch up with him in person at the Interaction convention in 2005, which prompted me to ask if I could use one of his images on the first eZine cover! *** Frank Wu's Hugo award-winning art has or will materialize in many magazines and fanzines, including The SFWA Bulletin, Strange Horizons, On Spec, Fantastic Stories, Talebones, Darkling Plain, Altair, E-scape, and Nth Degree, plus the fanzines Emerald City, Argentus, The Drink Tank, Corrupt Marquee, and Challenger.

Frank's done fan art for the San Diego in 2006 Westercon bid, for the Bay Area Science Fiction Association (BASFA), LA con IV (Worldcon 2006) and the Speculations RumorMill. He's also painted covers for books by Jerry Oltion, Mark Siegel, Jennifer Barlow, Daniel Pearlman, and Jamie Rosen. 2003 saw the release of a small press book of stories by Jay Lake, illustrated by Wu; the collection is entitled Greetings from Lake Wu. Frank won the Illustrators of the Future Grand Prize and the 2004 Hugo Award for Best Fan Artist.

Art Of The Dragon : 5

'Derelict' : Copyright ÂŠ Frank Wu 2005

He also has four scientific papers on DNA replication to his credit, along with humor published in The Journal of Irreproducible Results and The Annals of Improbable Research. His story about a Giant Space Chicken with delusions of grandeur was recently published in the anthology Daikaiju! Giant Monster Tales. When not creating stuff, Frank can be found hanging out with monks, hunting for mastodon bones in New Mexico and dinosaur bones and fish fossils in Wyoming, holding Laura Palmer's diary, riding in banana-shaped mopeds,

6 : Art Of The Dragon

touching art when the museum guards aren't looking, searching for a river of molten lava to drop keys into, or walking the earth, meeting people, getting into adventures, you know, like Caine in Kung Fu. *** Q : You have produced an impressive amount of work over the past few years. Is this a full-time job for you now? A : Thanks. I try really, really hard. Art's not a full-time job right now, unfortunately. That'd be patent law (specifically helping huge pharmaceutical companies sue other huge pharmaceutical companies for ridiculous amounts of money). But I did manage to take a year and a half off from my job recently, and spent that time only doing art and showing it off at conventions. And sleeping and eating, and barbecuing, because there's nothing better than burnt meat. Yum! But I digress. Q : What project or individual piece of artwork are you most proud of and why? A : That's an interesting question, because on one hand making paintings is like having children (I say from second hand knowledge), everyone is different, and it seems unfair to them to pick a favorite. Then again, making paintings is also like making cookies, in that they're a lot the same (or so people tell me - folks say they can tell which paintings are mine, which frustrates me to no end as I keep trying to trick them by using different styles). Paintings are also like cookies in that sometimes they come out misshapen. Or burnt. One piece I have in mind is "Derelict," which I did for the SFWA Bulletin. It's a huge alien starfish-shaped starship, but it's built up with globs of melted paint, with wood bits and blobs stuck in, so it's very 3-D. Now that I think about it, I don't think I burnt the painting, but I burnt my fingers doing that. Sometimes happiness is a warm hot glue gun, sometimes not. But that piece was fun to do, and I'll pick that as my current favorite. Ask me again tomorrow, and you'll get a different answer. Q : I heard a funny story regarding your Hugo award and airport security! Can you tell us a bit more about that? A : Ah, the lesson there is that a Hugo award looks to some eyes like a rocket-propelled grenade. Or, in the words of one airport security officer who was

Art Of The Dragon : 7

not amused by my attempt to bring it as a carry-on, "a bludgeon." Which makes me think that maybe a small rocket-shaped trophy could be one of the weapons in Clue: you know, rope, candlestick, revolver, Hugo. Q : Do you feel it is more important than ever to meet others in person and show your work at conventions, now that so many of us are more familiar with "virtual" contact these days via the internet? A : The computer world is weird. In some ways, I feel like news I hear isn't really true until I read about it on the web. An event isn't real until it's virtual. And I do have a lot of good friends whom I've never actually met. Like Matt Taggart, f'rinstance, who's an artist somewhere in Texas (I'm in California), and he emailed me out of the blue, what, four or five years ago, asking me about the Illustrators of the Future contest. And I told him more about it and he entered it and became one of the winners, and I pass along jobs to him when I don't have time, and he did a smashing cover for an anthology I edited, and I brought his art to the Glasgow Worldcon and put it up for him and I helped him out with his website and ... I've never met the dude. So he's real even though he's virtual. But, yeah, in general, meeting people at cons is good, because drinking beer with someone online would mean you're an alcoholic. Q : How have you adapted your work and techniques with regards to the ever-changing advances in technology? Do you embrace new media openly or still prefer more traditional methods?? A : Great question. I've been trying to do things to break away from painting, in the context of painting. In one piece, I added cut-up camera bits; in another, I added broken toy airplane bits; I already mentioned the melted glue thing. So I'm trying to break away, but I feel like there is a big change coming in the art world, like the asymptote or singularity in the computer world that Cory Doctorow and Charlie Stross keep talking about. There's somethin' big goin' to happen in the art world, but I don't know what it is yet. Another big movement that's going to change art forever, like Cubism, but the future remains unclear. If you get wind what it's going to be, you let me know, ok? I want in on the ground floor. *** If you want to see more of Frank's award-winning fantasy and science-fiction artwork then take a look at his website here : www.frankwu.com

8 : Songs Of Leaving

Songs Of Leaving by Peter Crowther And I saw the dead, great and small alike ... Revelation 21

The final ships go up reaching for the stars in the closing days of what is to be the last winter of the world. They ride interlocking plumes of power and steam like anxious fingers of smoky fire, colored sunset orange and cornfield yellow in the still afternoon. And each of them belches out a tumultuous roar, a hymn of steam and gasoline, a cadence of harmony and discordance, a syncopated symphony of regret and anticipation. A song of leaving. They have already left from Islamabad and Jerusalem, these ships -- or ships like them... like them in intent if not in appearance -- and from the arid wastes outside of Beijing and the heat-shimmering flats of Florida; from the snow-covered plains surrounding Moscow and the scorched tundra of Kenya. From a thousand thousand places, the ships have lifted into the sky in these tired days, with the distant horizon darkened not only by their sheer number but also by the approaching asteroid. The towering silver points of the final ships rise to hit the clouds and then puncture them, pulling them down and around their midriffs, bellies bulging with the almost-last people of Earth, their pinpoint faces turned to the grimy windows, acceleration pulling at muscle, sinew and flesh as they watch the cities and the meadows fall behind, and the endless gray ribbons of highway and the veiny drifts of water drop down and down until they are at first partially obscured by the clouds and then completely obliterated by swirling whiteness. On the ground, silent faces -- some alone, some huddled in groups -- also watch as the last ships dwindle in the azure blue, growing smaller until they are no longer ships but merely glittering shadows, and then distant needles and then, at last, merely the tiniest specks in an otherwise clear sky.

Songs Of Leaving : 9

And then they are gone. Ahead of the ships lie the domed cities of the Moon and Mars. Beyond those, a series of space-borne stations littering the heavens, some finished and some still under preparation. A colossal paper chase of metal and plastic, stepping stones of rivet and cable, leading humanity's survivors across the airless void and on towards untold adventures and undreamed-of destinies. The ships will touch down and their passengers and crews will consolidate and plan their next steps, always looking with one eye to the darkness before them and the other to the ghost of the doomed planet they have left behind. Only some of them will survive the journey. But that's something they do not think about. Back on the Earth the silence rushes in to remove the memory of the ships' engines, runs along the worn-down pathways of a million forests and the dusty streets of a million towns, replacing their throaty roar with the sound of the wind through the trees and the creak of swinging store signs. *** The asteroid was first noticed by amateur astronomer Julio Shennanen, through the $199.95 telescope bought as a 30th birthday present by his brother Manuel from the Keep Watching The Skies store on Bleecker Street and erected in Julio's back yard in the Brooklyn suburb of Park Slope. Julio, who was a native of New Orleans, had moved north when his wife Carmen had gotten herself a job as a child-minder to a wealthy couple in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Initially referred to as 'Shennanen's Folly' by a skeptical sky-gazing fraternity, the object reported as a shadow over Alpha Centauri turned out to be a whole lot more substantial and a whole lot nearer when it could be viewed by something costing a little more than a week's grocery bill. It turned out to be a whole lot more menacing, too. At the request of its discoverer the object was re-named 'Fat Tuesday', ostensibly because that was the day on which it was first spotted (and because, at roughly the size of the entire Eastern seaboard, it was big). But the underlying reason was an acknowledgment of Julio's hometown -- inasmuch as 'Fat Tuesday' was a literal translation of 'Mardi Gras', the name now regarded as the entire celebration but originally intended as referring only to the final day... a day of feasting. It was also -- and perhaps more significantly -- a recognition on Shennanen's part, even in those early days of the object's arrival in our planetary skies, that the Carnival's

10 : Songs Of Leaving

days were numbered... the Carnival being Earth and all who lived upon it. A kind of 'lucky' cosmic coming-together of events for would-be wordsmiths with nothing better to do with their long New York evenings than star-gaze. But there was nothing 'lucky' about the appearance of Fat Tuesday, particularly where Julio Shennanen was concerned. By that time, the writing was on the wall for the world, and there were some in the world who held Shennanen responsible -- sad and bitter folks who had spent a lifetime blaming others for anything that happened to them. And so it was that, on the evening of the anniversary of his discovery, the computer programming sky watcher was shot and killed outside his home, with Carmen looking on from the bedroom window. When Julio's screaming wife ran out to help him, she got a bullet in her back for her trouble. In a letter of pasted newspaper copy sent to the New York Times, the assassin said that he (or she -- nobody ever found out) was committed to ridding the world of this blight on humanity (Shennanen) and, in so doing, remove the threat of Fat Tuesday. (Though quite how those two items could be connected was beyond all but those who sent fifty-dollar bills to PO Box addresses posted up on TV screens at the end of an afternoon session of down-home 'back to basics' sermonizing on cable.) The assassin was never caught -- at least, not by the authorities -- and the threat to others in the scientific community remained. Despite the fact that the media and pretty much everyone she spoke to or heard from condemned the action with vigor, a now wheelchair-bound Carmen Shennanen left the excesses of New York State and returned to the Big Easy where she disappeared into an anonymity worthy of the FBI informant protection program and one that even Julio's brother Manuel could not pierce. *** Meanwhile, Fat Tuesday blunders on. According to one pundit, the asteroid is on course to 'kiss' the Earth in the early afternoon of February 8 2007, just seventeen months after its first sighting. "The particularly bad news is that this is going to be no platonic peck on the cheek," NASA's resident expert in 'heavenly affairs' Professor Jerry Mizzalier goes on to tell Oprah Winfrey in a show interview whose transmission is debated for a full week before eventual release to a waiting and increasingly despondent world. "It'll be the full enchilada," Mizzalier continues, "a big smackeroo on the lips and

Songs Of Leaving : 11

the tongue right down the throat." "And then?" Oprah asks in an uncharacteristically trembling voice. Mizzalier's shrugged response says it all: the kiss is just the foreplay. After that, mankind gets fucked. Big Time. *** When you put your mind to it, you can do a lot in nine months. Throughout 2006 and into the January of Earth's final year, all potential solutions were considered while, at the same time, work continued feverishly on the construction of spaceships that would, if all else failed, carry the seed of humanity -- and as many of its fellow planetary inhabitants as could be realistically mustered in so short a time -- to the stars. The alternatives were running out fast. Nuclear missiles failed to have any effect. "It's kind of like trying to blow up an elephant with a .45," Jerry Mizzalier explained colorfully to Dan Rather. "You may get lucky and dislodge a nickel-sized chunk of meat but that's about all." That was Mizzalier's last TV appearance. Two days later, he told the Washington Post he was going down to the Keys to make his peace with God -- "And maybe do a little fishing on the side." Four attempts at landing a hand-picked crew of demolition experts a la the Armageddon and Deep Impact movies of the late 1990s got no nearer to Fat Tuesday than a few hundred miles. It seemed that either real-life Bruce Willises and Robert Duvalls were somewhat thinner on the ground than their celluloid counterparts... or movie-makers and screenwriters had simply got it wrong (hard as that was for many to accept). Perhaps not quite so colorful as Jerry Mizzalier but no less succinct was the nonagenarian British astronomer Patrick Moore's verdict on BBC television's Newsnight. "One should liken it to a game of snooker," the monocled scientist explained to Jeremy Paxman, with a characteristic pin-wheeling flourish of his arms, "with Earth sitting defenseless in the middle of the table, right in the path of the white ball." On the other side of the Atlantic a couple of days later, Colorado physicist W. Martin Parmenter picked up the analogy on a special edition of The Jerry Springer

12 : Songs Of Leaving

Show when, along with other luminaries of the scientific establishment, he was invited to hypothesize the outcome of the 'Big Kiss'. "I don't know diddly about snooker," Parmenter said laconically, "but if we switch to the game I play, then we're the eight ball on a table in a pool hall in Denver... and we're about to get hit full on with enough force to drop us -- or what's left of us -- in the corner pocket on a table in a cellar barroom in Mexico City." The disappearance of Springer from the airwaves following the show was openly considered by many to be the single silver lining in the approaching dark cloud that was Fat Tuesday... that and the appearance of an advertising board carried by a barefoot man down the full length of Broadway, his handiwork proclaiming, in hand-scrawled letters that were a mix of caps and lower case, 'It's official -- Fat Tuesday is a load of balls'. By the time of Earth's last fall, with the browning leaves bidding a fond and final farewell, all continuing attempts to avert the inevitable catastrophe were cosmetic at best. The real energy was now being channeled worldwide into the construction of spaceships, huge gleaming monoliths that grew quickly on hastily-prepared launch-pads around the globe. That not all of these vehicles would survive the trip was accepted, as was the inescapable fact that, statistically speaking -- particularly considering the haste and the resulting corner-cutting of their translation from blueprint to steel and wire and circuit board -- many of the ships would not even make it off the ground. But it was a risk that an escape-mad humanity receiving its quota of 'lottery' tickets ('Life's a lottery,' ran the impassioned ad campaign, 'so make sure of your tickets today') was more than prepared to take. *** When the last ship to successfully depart the green hills of Earth lifts to relative safety above the planet's atmosphere on February 4 2007 -- a Tuesday, appropriately enough -- the tally of successes against failures (for anyone remaining on Earth who might be interested) is an impressive 3.718 to one. And then they are gone. Small ships, sleek pointy-nosed sliver-shaped missiles bearing ten- or twelve-strong crews snuggled amongst carefully-secured boxes of artifacts and flags and religious ornamentation, and huge-bellied blunderbusses carrying cryogenically frozen embryos of the Earth's animal and insect populations and

Songs Of Leaving : 13

thin trays of seeds containing all manner of florae and fauna... all have disappeared over the months and weeks and days, up into the sky and far away. Now all that is left are the unlucky ones, the ones whose lottery tickets haven't paid off. There are billions of them in mountains and valleys and towns and cities, all the distant off-the-beaten-track communities from China to Scotland, from the wine-growing regions of France to the sidewalk cafes of Vienna, all of them paradoxically breathing a sigh of relief as the last gleaming means of escape passes behind the clouds -- in much the same way as the terminally-ill patient relaxes when all the fit-and-well visitors depart the hospital and leave the slowly dying to get on with the job in peace and quiet. 'Misery loves company', is the way it's often described. But the truth of the matter is that, in these final hours, there is little sign of misery. Movies and literature which, in the last half of the previous century, foretold of anarchy and chaos in the face of humanity's end, couldn't have got it more wrong. With the last spaceship now a memory of chances missed and debts now to be paid, a strange calm falls across the cities and towns and villages of Earth. What little looting there has been has been dealt with swiftly and without mercy. A do-it-yourself system of law and order has grown throughout the winter months, bringing with it an acceptable face of vigilantism in which people are openly but unemotionally intolerant of any among their number who fail to live up to the dignity now expected of the last remnants of the species. Because, after all, what use is a new video recorder? Or precious jewelry? And anyway, most storekeepers simply leave their stores open and go home. So stuff is there for the taking but most people leave it be: gleaming Chevys and Cadillacs sitting in unmanned showrooms; the very latest fashions from Gucci and Versace adorning silent mannequins in the windows of stores whose doors lie carelessly and casually ajar; and rare first issues -- in mint condition, no less -- of silver- and golden-age DC comicbooks, their costumed impossibly-super heroes staring off the covers regretting that there's nothing even Krypton's first son can do to avert the disaster spiraling closer with every passing minute. Everywhere is quiet.

14 : Songs Of Leaving

People stay home, make love gently and talk feverishly, trying to pack all the thoughts and hopes and love they thought they had left into the few hours that remain. Sons and daughters return home like it's Thanksgiving or Christmas. In between their conversations, minds idly drift to thoughts of what it will be like when the end finally comes: wondering what it will be like, sitting in a 15-story apartment building and seeing a wave of water thundering towards the window blotting out the blood-red sky... wondering what it will feel like to have your mid-west home blown up from around you while you crouch with your family behind the sofa or, if you have one, in the cellar listening to the sound of Earth breaking up. Consequently, most folks don't leave potential talk- or love-making-time empty. The last ship has gone. Fat Tuesday's kiss is now accurately scheduled for 2.17 PM on Saturday. On Wednesday, the Earth gives up its dead. *** "Hey." The boy turns around and looks at the man standing out on the street by the white picket-fence gate. "Hey yourself," he says, shielding his eyes against the sun's glare. It's almost mid-day and the California heat is stifling but, even so, the street is busy with people. The boy's name is William Freeman -- his friends call him Billy; his parents, Will -- he is twelve years old and suddenly acutely aware that, as far as he had been concerned, the street had been pretty much deserted the last time he looked. And that was only a few minutes earlier. "You must be Will," the man says, beaming a big smile and resting a liver-spotted hand on the gatepost as he looks William up and down. William nods. The man must be a friend of his mom and dad, someone who's maybe been out of town for a while and has come back to more familiar surroundings for when the asteroid hits. Right now, though, William is more concerned with a tall thin man standing across the street with his back to them. This new man's hands are resting on his hips and he's shaking his head staring up

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at Mr. and Mrs. Manders' place, seeming to take a lot of interest in the new glass conservatory Mr. Manders tacked on a couple of summers back. "Don't you want to know who I am?" the old man at William's gate asks in a voice bearing more than a hint of amusement. When William turns back to the man he can see the distant shape of Fat Tuesday over to the east, hanging on the horizon like a party lantern. "Who are you?" he asks, wondering if it was his imagination or does the man suddenly seem a mite familiar. The screen door squeaks open behind him, whines shut and clatters twice. William turns and sees his mother walking across the lawn, picking her steps real careful, like she was walking on thin ice. Her left hand is up to her mouth, her right holding a hank of hair at the side of her head. She's staring -- with a mixture of frown and wide-eyed amazement -- not at William but over his shoulder. William looks back at the old man. "Hello, Pooch," the man says. "Daddy?" *** George Chinnery was the first to make contact. It had to be somebody and, as luck would have it, it was George. George slipped away to new adventures in the spring of 1998, leaving behind him a breathless cardiac arrest team, a callous flat green line on a bedside monitor and a weeping daughter. William had been almost four years old but still young enough to forget quickly. Forget and accept... or maybe the two were the same thing. But while George was the first, over in the quiet suburb of Hawthorne, an area in the sprawling Californian conurbation that was famous for producing one of the last century's most enduring musical acts, the others quickly followed. *** Hillary and Sam Arnold sit on the bed in their son's room.

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Around them are strewn the collected ephemera that is all that remains of little Joseph Arnold: comicbooks, a Millennium Falcon toy spaceship -- that looks nothing like the huge ships that have so recently left Hillary and Sam and the rest of the Earth far behind them -- and a few favorite pieces of clothing that Hillary just hasn't had the heart to throw out when the tumor took their little boy away. There are no tears. The tears dried up years ago. Now there is only a grim and quiet resignation that sometimes fades right into the background... only to return when they least expect it, usually in the mornings when, on waking, the imminence of Fat Tuesday -- or even its very existence -- seems for just a fraction of a second to be the remnants of a very bad dream. Only it isn't a dream at all. "You want me to get some pills or something?" Sam Arnold asks his wife in a voice that is just above a whisper. He runs his hand down her back. She shakes her head and folds the sleeves of little Joseph's sweater, laying the garment gently on her son's pillow. "Jack Mason says old man Phillips -- you know? down on Times Square? -- he's giving them away to any that wants them. Wouldn't take me-" "I couldn't bring myself to do that," Hillary tells her husband, turning to look at his face, seeing the darkness beneath his eyes. She recognizes that darkness: it isn't fear, it's the helplessness he feels at being unable to do anything for those he cares about. Since the death of Joseph and their decision not to try replace him, that 'those' is just her. He runs his hand up to her neck and gently kneads the skin between her hairline and the collar of her housedress. "It wouldn't hurt," he says. "Jack says old man Phillips said-" "How do they know?" Hillary says in a tired voice. "And, anyway, it's not the hurt I'm bothered about." "Then what is it?" She shrugs and looks up at the window, imagining the cold skeletal trees of Central Park just a couple of blocks away. "No idea." She moves closer to him on the bed and wraps her arms around him, smelling his musk of fading cologne and skin mingled with cigarette smoke. "I had the dream again last night," she

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whispers. "Little Joe?" Hillary nods. "He said he was coming for us." Sam pushes her back gently, holding her at arms' length. "Is that why you don't want me to get the pills?" Hillary's eyes search her husband's face for some indication of an answer to his question. "I don't know," she says at last. "Maybe." "Oh, honey," he says, "I wish it could-" The knock on the apartment door sounds like a rifle crack in the stillness of the New York afternoon. And yet, for all that, it is a small knock... a delicate knock. And outside the window there seems to be some kind of commotion and lots of shouting... like a parade, maybe. *** The news traveled fast, spreading like wildfire fueled by the wind of the approaching asteroid. Dead people were coming back to life... kind of. It sounded comicbook-crazy but it was true. Telephones the world over buzzed and hummed with the news: sons and fathers, daughters and mothers, uncles and aunts and sisters and brothers... they were all coming back, sauntering down paths and knocking on doors, drifting into backyards and onto porches, peering through once-familiar kitchen windows and smiling never-forgotten smiles. At first, the people who heard the news thought it might be some by-product of the asteroid... like something dreamed up by George Romero and Stephen King, a plague of flesh-eating cadavers shambling the highways and byways of the doomed world in a final devastating flourish of death and destruction. But then their own doorbells and buzzers sounded or their own windows rattled with a distantly familiar tapping or mailboxes clattered open to allow long-ago special calls in long-ago special voices that had lived on only in dreams and wishful memories. Sure, it just had to be something to do with Fat Tuesday, but the animated corpses seemed to possess not only no malice, evil intentions or appetite

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for human skin and cartilage but also no idea of how they had gotten there. They came in droves, huge processions of men, women and children, some young and some old, some no more than babes in arms carried by another of their number, and all of them marveling at the things they passed by, each of them making their way to a familiar place and to familiar faces. They came into towns and cities, along arterial blacktops empty of cars and trucks, and along the narrow roads that are the blue veins connecting communities. And a few came by other means... *** The Mississippi River is almost 2,500 miles long, drifting and winding from a stream you could step across in northern Minnesota and washing miles wide through the country's heartland and down into the Gulf of Mexico. If you counted the Missouri -- which feeds into the Mississippi from the Rockies just north of St. Louis -- and the Ohio, which gets in on the act around Cairo, IL, and the Red, the Arkansas, the Tensas and the Yazoo...you'd be talking about getting on for 4,000 miles of river system. Only the Nile and the Amazon are longer. The Mississippi and its tributaries drain almost one and a quarter million miles, including all or part of 31 states and some 13,000 square miles of Canada. Through Prairie du Chien in Wisconsin it drifts, where French fur traders exchanged goods and services with the Winnebego; down through Cave-In-Rock, Illinois and into Vicksburg, with its vast Civil War battlefield where, on a still night you might just hear the cries of Southerners still withstanding General's Grant's 47-day siege; and on down to Hannibal, boyhood home of Sam Clemens, who took the nom de plume of the riverboat captains' calls for measuring the water's depth -- 'Mark Twain!' So many places along that drift of water, so many swirls and eddies, you could imagine many things getting out into that watery flow to sail along. So maybe you could imagine this: a huge, gaudily-painted floating palace pulled from the secret depths of the river somewhere where nobody has ever been, a pair of enormous paddle wheels rucking up the frothy water, its saloons decked out in gilt and scarlet and velvet, bright white paneling and the sound of banjo-picking... sailing slowly, drifting between the West Bank and Algiers, drifting under the

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Huey P. Long bridge upriver near Harahan, and then settling, just a stone's throw from the Moonwalk promenade of the French Quarter where, on an evening in the dog days of the world, a saxophone's lilting refrain merged into the sound of accordions and the smell of tobacco and the whoops and cries of people making the most of their unearned death sentence.

'Songs of Leaving' : Copyright ÂŠ Edward Miller 2003

And as the riverboat nears the side, it sounds its horn, a mournful but somehow strangely exultant wail that breaks through the sounds of sometimes reluctant and sometimes forced revelry, causing it to stop, not all at once but itself like a wave, a wave of silence washing through the port of New Orleans where Mardi Gras is in full swing, a true 'farewell to the flesh'. And there they are, hanging from the sides of the riverboat in all manner of clothing, old and young alike, hanging onto railings and wainscoting, leaning against funnel and gate, waving for all their worth to folks in the crowds that soon gather around the moorings. At the front of the throng of hand-holding beer-drinking revelers sits a woman in a wheelchair, frowning in a mixture of disbelief and an excitement she thought she would never feel again. For now, in this magical short final era of the history of Earthbound humanity, a new ability holds sway... an ability known only to children, the mythical race that knows the power of the darkness and the light alike, that knows the real power of acceptance without reason. 'The dead are here!'

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The cry moves through the crowds like the wind itself, touching every one of them as they recognize faces on the riverboat, return smiles and waves, anxiously waiting for the boat to dock so that they may all be reunited. Then, 'There's another one!' someone calls. And there, up the river, is another boat just like the first one, paddlewheels thrashing the surf of the old Mississippi, churning it up like watery thunder. And behind that one, itself bedecked with a hundred or a thousand waving bodies, comes another, letting out its steamboat whistle cry... only this one doesn't sound mournful at all: this one sounds like the biggest cheer that ever was... until the boat behind it, just coming around the bend now, pulls fully into view and lets rip. Now that's the biggest cheer that ever was... at least for a minute or two, a deep-throated calliope wheeze that sets folks to holding their ears and laughing and crying all at the same time. They hear the clarion call out in the plantations surrounding New Orleans, plantations with names such as Rosedown and Destrehan, where the garconnieres are already filling with old familiar faces... work-clothed men in overalls wading through the cotton plants or the rice, indigo, hemp, tobacco, sorghum, corn, peanuts, potatoes and sugar, beaming grins big enough to crack the whole face wide open, or appearing from around majestic live oaks bedecked in Spanish moss and from behind centuries-old camellias and azaleas, the watery sunshine dappling them like fireflies. As the ships reach the dock one by one the people jump and drop and sometimes just walk right off. Their clothes are sometimes yesterday's fashions and sometimes straight out of the turn of the century, a mix of zoot suits and linen jackets, lettered sweaters and gingham dresses, and all kinds of uniform -- army, navy, air force... and many of them stylistically different, too. But all of them touch down on the riverside walkway beaming big smiles, their eyes scanning the crowds trying to pick out the faces they've come to see. And every time one of the waiters greets one of the visitors -- be the newcomer old or young -- their first word is often their name followed by a query. "Poppa?" "Sandy, is it really you?" "Son? Welcome home... we're real proud of you."

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And then come the questions... lots of questions. But the answer is always the same: "I don't know... I just don't know." In the massing thrusting pushing throng of people, some searching and some who have already found each other, a wheelchair threads its way to the water's edge where the big paddleboat sits, its deckboards creaking and its funnel hissing softly. The woman in the chair searches the faces and the bodies, ignoring the good-natured jostling as she watches the arms outstretch, thinking each time that the arms are for her but then realizing that the clothes are wrong or the color of the skin is wrong or"Carmen. Over here!" She feels emotion well up in her stomach, feels a tingle down her legs that she hasn't felt for what seems like a lifetime, and she feels the tell-tale tickle of a tear on her cheek. "Julio?" Her eyes scan the knees and legs that surround her as she struggles to lift herself from the chair that has become her home, and amidst the mustaches and the sideburns, the long-tail coats and the swirling crinoline, she sees him. And he sees her. *** It's Saturday morning. Just another Saturday morning, to look at the folks strolling the streets of New Orleans. But if you sneaked and looked into the French Quarter -- not that you'd need to sneak: you can hear the hullabaloo clear across town -- you'd think that maybe the Saturday night partying has started just a little sooner than usual. Either that, or the Friday night session is going on past its usual cut-off time. But then it isn't just another Saturday morning. In fact, it isn't just any morning at all: it's the last day of the world, and the songs of leaving it all behind fill the air like the scent of summer jasmine, thick and wistful. The light is soft, like a late fall afternoon, with Fat Tuesday now sitting squarely between the sun and the ground, plummeting on to keep its scheduled

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appointment at 2.17 EST. Just a little over four hours from now. All of the farewells have been said -- most of them many times during the past three days. But there's been a lot of greetings, too. Now the dead walk and sit alongside the living, chewing the fat, tapping a foot to the music that seems to wash around everything like the early-morning mist that sometimes spills over from the river. Over on Bourbon Street, Fats Domino and Mac Rebbenack are duetting on a couple of Steinway Grandes rolled out into the street from Jeff Dickerson's instrument store, while Alvin 'Shine' Robinson powering up and down the fretboard on the Earl King favorite, 'Let The Good Times Roll', while Robert Parker's sax wails and whines. The crowd cheers at every bum note that spills out -- they've been cheering since well before dawn -- as long as the constantly changing band has been playing (and drinking... so you can forgive the musicians a lot). Truth to tell, you can forgive anyone pretty much anything this morning. In the audience, watching Fats and the good Doctor hammer the ivories, are Professor Longhair and Lloyd Price, Huey 'Piano' Smith and Joe Tex, Ernie K. Doe and Lee Dorsey. They'll all get a turn on the instruments and many of them already have. And if and when folks fancy a little oration between the music, former governor Huey Long is all set to bend their ears for one last time... though right now, just like everyone else, he seems content to whoop and laugh and slap his leg, spurred on by Democratic congressman John Breaux, the pair of them having given up trying to talk over the music. The truth is, it's impossible to figure out who's dead and who's alive. Some of these folks you recognize straight off, and you wonder to yourself... wonder as you grab another bottle of beer from a passing waiter... you wonder just which is which. Not that it matters. Sitting at one of the tables outside Cafe du Monde, at the corner of Decatur and St Ann, working their way through a plate of beignets and their third cup of cafe au lait while listening to Allen Toussaint play a little boogie-woogie on an old stand-up wooden piano, are Anne Rice, William Faulkner, Ellen Gilchrist and British publisher John Jarrold (who, in all his years in the business, has never missed a convention in the Big Easy). Meanwhile, leaning against the front wall chatting to the driver of a horse-drawn cab, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsburg seem to be sharing a joke with Truman Capote and John Kennedy Toole... with Kerouac

Songs Of Leaving : 23

holding up a copy of Toole's Pulitzer Prize-winning A Confederacy of Dunces and shaking his head. Toole just shrugs and allows a slow trickle of water into his glass of absinthe, watching with satisfaction as the liquid turns a bright yellow. On the riverfront round back of Cafe du Monde, hookers provide final -- and occasionally first -- sensuous experiences to men and boys on the steps and amidst the foliage, the sound of their anxious enjoyment permeating the already filled air. A shoe-shine boy stops Julio Shennanen -- "A high five for the shine and just your thanks for the time," he says, holding his right hand in the air, fingers stretched out like twigs. "Gotta have clean shoes to meet your maker." "I'm fine, but thanks," Julio says. "How 'bout you, missie?" the man asks, a grin from ear to ear exposing bridgework gaps you could suck pickles through. "Polish up them wheels so fine you could make the sun put on his glasses." Carmen laughs and claps her hands. "No, really," she tells him, reaching out to touch his arm. "We're both fine. Thanks." The man shrugs and tells them to have a good day, and then he shakes his head and chuckles as he walks off. Alongside him, in the bushes next to a telescope overlooking the river, a tall, red-headed woman is sitting astride a young barefoot man. Carmen and Julio can see only the woman's back and the man's feet poking out from beneath her long skirts, and, just for a couple of seconds, they watch the woman moving slowly up and down and they listen to her voice, soothing and encouraging. Carmen looks up at Julio and feels new strength from his smile. "Wheel me over to the steps," she says, nodding to the gap in the railings overlooking the river. "Then you can get me out of this damned chair so's I can sit on land again." Julio does as she asks. The two of them sitting on the steps, Carmen looks up at the black hole that is Fat Tuesday. "You know," she says, closing one eye and squinting, "if you look at it

24 : Songs Of Leaving

just right, you can almost believe you could reach out your hand and feel it." She reaches up with her left arm to demonstrate, feeling around with her hand. Without turning around to look at him, Carmen asks her husband, "How close do you think it is?" "Close," comes the reply. For a few seconds, Carmen doesn't say anything. Then, "You know," she says, "I think I'd like to go swimming." There are already folks in the water, swimming slowly out in the middle of the river but she thinks that maybe Julio will say she shouldn't do that. Instead, he stands up and takes off his shirt and pants, dropping them into a neat pile beside her. Then he takes off his shorts. Firecrackers light up the now dark sky and a chorus of cheers and trumpets sound above the already cacophonous din. "You want me to help you?" he asks. Carmen's mouth is wide open in a mixture of shock and excitement... the kind of excitement that comes only when you think you're doing something naughty. "Maybe with my pants and hose," she says, giggling as she unbuttons her blouse. "And then you can take me down to the water." "Take you down to the water?" Julio says. "Heck, you can just fall in." And he gives her a push before diving in after her. Carmen hits the Mississippi in momentary panic, sinking immediately beneath the surface, staring up through the swirling water at the dark shape that looms overhead. Then she sees another shape, the thin brown outline of her husband, cut into the water alongside her and she feels his arms wrap themselves around her and lift her gently to the surface. She emerges spluttering and shakes her head. "You damned fool," she says, "I could have drowned." For a second, neither of them does or says anything, they just float there, Julio paddling with his feet and keeping them straight with his left arm treading the

Songs Of Leaving : 25

water. Then they both burst into hysterics. "I wonder... I wonder what time it is," Carmen says as she allows her husband to turn her over onto her back and swim, pulling her with him. There's a wind in the air now, a strong wind. More fireworks light up the sky, turning the darkness into a daylight of sorts. The glow of the fireworks momentarily illuminates the surface of Fat Tuesday and she sees, suddenly, that it looks just like the ground out back of their house in Brooklyn. No more mysterious than that. Somewhere over in the town, they can hear Dr John playing 'Such A Night'. "Who cares," Julio says, "we've got eternity... and we've got the river." Carmen nods and squeezes Julio's hand. "Amen to that," she says.

"The great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi, rolling its mile-wide tide along, shining in the sun." Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi *** Copyright ÂŠ Peter Crowther 2005

Songs of Leaving first appeared in Mardi Gras Madness, March 2005 For more great stories by Peter and other authors check out the PS Publishing website at : www.pspublishing.co.uk Also see the amazing art of Edward Miller at : www.edwardmiller.co.uk

26 : Novelist Beware

Novelist Beware Chapter One by Sarah Crabtree

There are many reasons why people want to write a novel. You must know why you want to write one. Otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering to read this! The best piece of advice I can give you is: Stop here! Do anything else. Support your local football team. Buy a dog. A big dog that needs a long walk twice a day. Go to boot sales. Become the fan of another author. Anything really. Still here? I thought you might be. Writing a book is therapy in a way. Somebody else described it as dressing up in your Seventies gear: platforms, fuzzy wig, spangled flares, and winking at yourself in the mirror, ignoring the fact that you look like a twit. But whatever reason you have for wanting to write that book, it better be a good one because a lot of people are going to be suffering for your art. Take the postman, for instance. He’s got enough to do without lugging your rejected manuscripts back to your letterbox. As for the poor old publishers, do they really want another wad of paper to add to the teetering pile of slush in the corner of the office? They would much rather be spending their precious time listening to you whining on at them at the other end of the phone. Oh and make sure you get their mobile number as well, so you can fill that little inbox with texts. Here are a few hints as to how you can hassle them: Send a first class letter on Monday. Text them on Tuesday morning to ask if they got it. On Tuesday afternoon, text them again to say you’re going to phone them first thing Wednesday morning.

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I reckon by Thursday they’ll have left the country, don’t you? After all, why wait till Friday when you just might land on their doorstep demanding why they haven’t read your manuscript. Of course we shouldn’t feel sorry for them. They’ve only themselves to blame. They simply can’t help themselves, can they? If they sniff a bestseller then they’re all after it like a pack of dogs chasing a bitch on heat. There, I told you to get that dog instead. You’re probably wondering what all this blah-blah-blah has got to do with you writing your book and getting it onto the shop shelves. Well, buddy, it’s got everything to do with it. Unless you’re a one in a million who gets picked and published with your first novel and shot to stardom like a bat out of the proverbial, you’d better get used to a lot of blah-blah-blah. Writing groups: blah-blah-blah Writing conventions: blah-blah-blah Attending the above will be lots of writers in their various stages of sanity. Some of them are too mad to see they can’t write for toffee. Others are accompanying the mad “writer” in a sense of misplaced loyalty, either because the “writer” has no sense of direction, or the “writer” uses “get-togethers” to pull the nearest attractive other “writer”. Oh yes, many an unhappy marriage has released its death throes at the end of a book launch, or on the platform home, weighed down with books written by The Great Published. If you want a happy life, don’t be a writer. If you want a normal life, don’t be a writer. If you want any kind of life, don’t be a writer. I haven’t put you off yet, have I? Didn’t think so. OK, take the dog behind the potting shed and shoot it because you are not going to have time to walk it, you are not going to have time to feed it, and better keep a bullet for yourself, pal, because you might need it before I’ve finished with you. Oh, and before we move on to Chapter Two, add: “You are not going to be able to afford to feed it” to the above list. Check list: Visit your local bookstore and find a book that looks like the kind of book you

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want to publish. Locate the publisher. Get hold of the latest catalogue to see upcoming titles. *** Copyright ÂŠ Sarah Crabtree 2005

Novelist Beware is a 12 chapter feature on the perils of writing novels. Watch for Chapter Two in next month's issue! To see Sarah's work in action check out her book "Terror From Beyond Middle England", which is available from : www.encpress.com

The Artful Collector : 29

The Artful Collector Column 1 by Jane Frank

Hello! And welcome to my corner of the Estronomicon universe, where we’re sure to have fun talking about what it means to be a collector ... and how you can be a savvy, clever “artful” one. The focus is going to be on sf art, but not exclusively … because to be “artful” WHAT you choose to collect is not as important as WHY, HOW, WHERE, WHEN and HOW MUCH. We’re going to learn something from each other in this process (fair warning: I’m going to expect feedback!) ... because that’s what collectors do ... they love to gossip and talk about collecting! I’m sure many of you think there’s something really special about collecting sf/f art. I sure do. Which is why I volunteered to put myself in this spot. Then again, the guy who put together the Swingline Owner's Club Web Page [www.vgg.com/swingline] probably feels exactly the same way about being an “avid staplist.” Which tells you something right off the bat about collecting … and collectors. We are three-quarters obsessive, two-fifths eccentric, and one-third witless. (As William Walden observed in "The Lowdown,” Antiques and Collecting Magazine, December 2002) Which means we’re going to have a sense of humor here, as we wax sentimental over Frank Frazetta babes that have sold for as much as it would take to buy a Lamborghini. What is it about this phenomenon called “collecting”? I mean, what is driving people to spend $4,400 on a Nana the Monkey Beanie Baby? What is it that motivates collectors to complete a collection, and drives the price of difficult to obtain, rare, or scarce items to levels beyond the comprehension of so-called normal people (e.g., non-collectors)? And then there’s art. Ahhh, art. Romantic ... exciting ... inspirational ... beautiful ... never to be forgotten imagery ... of muscle-bound barbarians wielding swords taller than I am. By an artist like Boris Vallejo. Selling for less than Tom Friedman’s glorious “ink on paper” [12” x 18” on white paper], which sold for $26,400, including commission, in 2005 at a Christie’s auction (see www.washingtonpost.com for further details).

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Then again, art is collected, but it’s not a “collectible.” Is it important to know the difference? Yes. That’s why there’s an art to collecting, no matter what your obsession ... Some of you have met me at SF conventions, where you’ve had the chance to see original SF/F art “up close and personal.” Others of you – and I’d say the majority of ALL collectors in this collecting field – have spent years decorating their walls in relative isolation. The closest you get to seeing original art – or indeed any SF related collectible outside of toy stores and gift shops – is through catalogs, books and websites. You do your research via google, meet artists, collectors and dealers online, and bid on and buy art and collectibles that way, too. What’s missing from this picture is the one thing every collector needs, but so rarely gets these days: INFORMED OPINION AND ADVICE. Don’t choke up, but in the good old days of collecting, or (to be more precise) when comics cost 15 to 35 cents and Thomas Kinkaid had not yet become a living icon for Mundanes ;-) the most valuable advice came from listening to experienced collectors and dealers. This was true for every field of collecting – and time has done nothing to change this tradition. It’s what protected newbies like us from the minefields, and it’s how I learned to be a dealer. Were we thrilled to be invited to lunch with Forry, and be taken on a tour through the Ackermansion 20 years ago? You bet! Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, artists needed to live near Chicago or (primarily) New York City, so as to be close to the publishers they supplied with art. Book dealers and art collectors (often one and the same, supporting their

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‘habit’ with sales) expected you to visit, and were also located in or near big cities ... so that it wouldn’t be unusual for book collectors in the New York area to find ways to spend entire Saturdays in New Jersey, visiting book dealer Gerry de la Ree ... who maintained a healthy collection of art “on the side.” And was always in the mood to talk about it and show it off. But now that the field has expanded, it’s more impersonal: collectors don’t need to trek to Dallas or New York for live auctions, they can bid online. They don’t need to spend hours checking out bookstore stacks, there’s www.addall.com. And, thanks to the internet, and the popularity of sf/f books, movies and games, art collectors span the globe. But won’t be inviting you to visit. If you have the time, and the inclination, Worldcons - world science fiction conventions - can still provide some educational as well as entertainment opportunities [I’m always open to a glass of wine ;-)]….but otherwise, you’re “on your own.” And bereft, IMHO, of a sense of camaraderie as well as historical perspective ... of the kind that people needing reading glasses can provide. I’m talking about reminiscences like those of Mike Resnick, talking about Discon I, 1963 ( “Worldcon Memories" : jophan.org/mimosa/m25/resnick.htm ). And then there was the auction. Stan Vinson, a Burroughs collector, paid the highest price of the weekend for a Frazetta cover -- $70, for a painting that would probably bring $40,000 or more today -- but even broke kids like me were able to participate. I bought a black-and-white Virgil Finlay drawing for $2.00 and an autographed Ted Sturgeon manuscript for $3.50. Where is that $2. Finlay drawing today? Could be on eBay, with bids at $2,000. But should you pay that? From what I’ve seen, in shortest supply, is advice today on “how” and “where” to buy and sell. Or tips to negotiating prices. And clues to how “value” is established and maintained. And what it means to be a “collector” today, when just about every entertainment or literary property is ending up as a licensed marketable commodity in the form of a “limited edition collectible.” The answer isn’t “have a thick wallet,” although it’s hard to have a discussion about collecting ART without mentioning cost. You do need some disposable income to collect anything other than matchbooks and swizzle sticks (i.e., things entering the primary market at no cost). I picked up the following quote somewhere along the line, and it’s apt: “Art and money can't resist each other, and it's probably better not to try. You could have money without art, but what's the point? And you could have art without money, but it's not as much fun.”

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But spending money isn’t the key to satisfaction. KNOWING WHAT YOU LIKE comes first. You must learn what you enjoy, and be willing to act on your taste. Surprisingly, this is one of the biggest hurdles for collectors and non-collectors, and it’s not overcome by throwing money at something. In following columns, I’d like to talk more about that ... what we mean by developing “tastes” in art, and why it’s hard for some of us to be collectors. Is it hard to decide what to collect, and to start calling ourselves that … even when we have 10,000 comics in our closet? Are you interested in these subjects, too? Or is the Big Question for you, as it is for other collectors, not whether you have the money, but HOW you are going to apportion the amount you’ve decided to spend on whatever it is that you’ve chosen not to live without ;-)

Let’s say you’ve decided to build a modest collection of art. And you are willing and able to spend $1,000. per year on your hobby. Should you buy ONE painting for $1,000. Or two paintings for $500. Each, or 10 paintings for $100. Each? Is this your quandary when you’re at a sf convention?

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Put another way: Which is the better choice, if you can afford to buy at the $10,000- $15,000 level? Should you sink your year’s budget into “Queen of Demons” a painting by contemporary artist Donato Giancola or bid on and possibly win Frank R. Paul’s Amazing Stories back cover from 1940 “As Mars Sees Us,” which recently sold for $16,730.00 (including buyer’s premium). Note: these are “trick” questions, so don’t answer too quickly! If you’re planning on needing that $1000, or $15,000. for your retirement, should that factor into your decision?

The objects that have special meaning to you, that inspire you or make you feel good, that bring you immeasurable satisfaction and pleasure from ownership and display ... are uniquely your choice. But the “Art of Collecting” is quite another matter! I like to buy, and I like to sell, stuff that people collect. I am also a collector myself – perhaps to a greater extent than some of you know (keep reading!). And my experience tells me this: whether the acquisition requires nothing more than a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and U.S. $20 bills or an American Express credit card

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… and no matter the object of our desire, whether fountain pens or furniture ... there’s a smart, savvy, intelligent, knowledgeable and FUN way to go about collecting, and then there’s every other way. And you don’t need to go there. The focus, as I say, is going to be on collecting ART, and fantasy/science fiction art in particular. But that’s only because my credentials entitle me to obsess about art, rather than – say – collecting barbed wire or bisque dolls. My husband and I have been collecting this kind of art, and books, for more than 35 years. We loved this literary genre so much we started going to sf conventions within ten years of being married. We loved it so much we became artist groupies. We loved it to such an extent that little by little it took over our walls, and our lives. We talk people into exhibitions of it, and we loan pieces to museums and public exhibits whenever possible. Together, my husband and I wrote two books about our collection (The Frank Collection: A Showcase, 1999 and Great Fantasy Art Themes from the Frank Collection, 2003, both from Paper Tiger/UK). In the 90s I started writing articles about artists and collecting art for magazines, gave talks about it at conventions and even wrote two art books myself: on John Berkey and Richard Powers. And last, but not least, there’s Worlds of Wonder, the business I began in 1991 to spread the word about the art and the artists who specialize in sf/f art, by selling it. They say you can’t call yourself a serious collector unless you’ve made a few mistakes. So I’m not going to try and stop you from being a serious collector! Haha. Nor do I see it as my calling to tell you what’s worth collecting, and what’s not. What’s worth collecting is solely up to you; what value society places on your tastes is a different matter entirely. My goal here is simple: entertaining, practical advice, so as to steer you towards shrewdness and wisdom and delight – and away from more lethal mistakes, and remorse. There will be no overt attempts to critique sf art, or define it. I’m sure to mention books or movies or games here and there (mainly because of the art’s relationship to literature and pop culture) and I won’t be averse to using examples based on any sf related collectibles you suggest. Because I’m a collector. And I need to know: ARE YOU A COLLECTOR, TOO? I’ve got some juicy topics in mind, with enticing titles like "Should I buy it?" -"Art Prices: How They Grow" -- "Dealing With Dealers" -- "Advice for Beginners" -"Preservation, Restoration and Display" -- "Yes, But Is It Art?" -- "ArtSpeak" -"Buying in Public (How to Look and Sound Dumb)" -- "When you MUST Sell" -- and lots more. I may be doing an interview or two with collectors like yourselves … so let me know who you are! And if there’s some issue you’d like me to address, if

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you have a burning question or two, be sure to let me know! Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll work it in! Write to me at: wowart@wow-art.com *** Copyright ÂŠ Jane Frank 2006

Be sure to visit the Jane's website at : www.wow-art.com to view a spectacular selection of original artwork for sale by some of the most famous award-winning artists in the genre. A 15th Anniversary Collector's Edition Catalog is also available to order, for those of you who prefer browsing a printed hardcopy.

36 : As The Crow Flies

As The Crow Flies Sean Wright

Sean Wright's rise as a successful author has been remarkable, perhaps more so because this success has been achieved via a small indie press, Crowswing Books. He has been recognised as one of fifteen of the world's most collectable modern children's authors by Book and Magazine Collector alongside JK Rowling, Philip Pullman and GP Taylor. During Xmas 2004, his novel The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor was recommended by The Observer national newspaper in its finance and investments pages as a top collectable, along with Pullman's Scarecrow and his Servant, The Beatle's Yellow Submarine, Paver's Wolf Brother, and Charmian Hussey's Valley of Secrets. Needless to say collectors have flocked to buy his books. But Wright has also built up a growing legion of fans who seek out his books to read, not just to collect as future investments. In 2005, he was named as one of Hatchard's Authors of the Year, and featured at Foyle's bookshop as a current favourite in the children's department. His second surreal fantasy crossover title Dark Tales of Time and Space - sold out in hardback edition, emulating his debut crossover success with the critically acclaimed The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor. In 2005 The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor was short-listed for a British Fantasy Award for BEST NOVELLA. His third surreal fantasy book - Wicked Or What? - was published in October 20 05 .

His writing has been compared by fans and critics with three legendary figures in the fantasy/horror/sci-fi genre: Michael Moorcock, Mervyn Peake, and Philip K Dick, as well as liking his new weird, surreal, and bizarre post-modern work to China Mieville, Jeff Vandermeer, and M. John Harrison. But the Twisted Root of

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Jaarfindor is the book, so far, that has created the biggest impact. The reviews speak for themselves. "The Twisted Root Of Jaarfindor doesn't so much do something different as systematically demolish most of the conventions of the fantasy genre and storytelling in general... This is the only work of Sean Wright's that I've read to date, but it has placed him on my list of essential writers." David Hebblethwaite, The Zone SF Review "Take a dash of Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, a sprinkling of China Miéville's Perdido Street Station, and a bit of Neil Gaiman's Coraline, and you will have an idea of what Sean Wright is doing in his highly imaginative novel, The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor. Wright takes a storyline familiar to many readers, that of the youth maturing and questing, and dresses it in the clothes of perhaps the bitchiest heroine this side of Narnia or any swiftly tilting planet... As the novel continues, so does Wright's tearing down of the cliché's of the typical princess character... This is a bold, raw uncompromising fantasy novel blending blends elements from all branches of the speculative fiction genre, and left me wanting to discover more of Wright's imagined world." Rob Bedford, SFF World "The pace of storytelling in Twisted Root of Jaarfindor and the vivid and dark vision are striking." Infinity Plus. *** Q : Was it always your ambition to become a writer or is it just one of many creative activities you have pursued over the years? A : First of all, Steve, thanks for inviting me to be part of the first ever issue of Estronomicon. I hope the ezine becomes a real success. I've been writing for over thirty years, and so more than an ambition, it's in my blood. But you are right, it is one of many creative pursuits. Artist, poet, singer-songwriter with a major publishing house in London back in the 1980's, recording artist in the mid to late 1970's, played on the John Peel Show, who ranted about my new wave music at the time. Incidentally, I've discovered that the record – Strange Situation by International Heroes, with me credited as writer and producer of the record - is now quoted in the New Wave of British Heavy Metal Encyclopaedia for 1982 as a rare gem! And so, my creative life is my life. I love it. Q : Were there any early influences that helped direct your interest in this genre? A : Certainly. My earliest influences were John Brunner, Stephen King, and Ray

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Bradbury. I think they showed me what was possible in horror, fantasy and sci-fi thirty-odd years ago, as an avid teenage reader. I still return to them for my reading pleasures and inspiration. Brunner's structures were a revelation. The structure of his best novels was unique, using a collage of newspaper stories, TV adverts, philosophical musings, bits of dialogue, as well as the fragmented plotlines. I love Stand on Zanzibar, The Shockwave Rider, and Web of Everywhere. As a writer, the most significant influences, as well as the three I've already mentioned, are M. John Harrison, Philip K Dick, Mike Moorcock, Mervyn Peake, and more latterly Jeffrey Ford, China Mieville, and Jeff VanderMeer. Harrison for his memorable characters, PKD for his vision, Moorcock for his anti-heroes, Peake for his vast gothic settings, Ford for his tight prose and visual imagery, Mieville for his weirdness and invention, and VanderMeer for his eloquent prose and horrific surreal-ness. Q : How long have you been writing on a "professional" or full-time basis? A : My first professional sale was way back in 1985 - I was 26 years old. It wasn't fiction, but an essay on the Anti-Slavery campaigner, Thomas Clarkson, one of the key figures behind the abolition of the slave trade. It was about two thousand words long, a double page spread in East Anglia Monthly, which had a readership of over 50,000, and it gave me a real buzz back then. Q : Your books are classed within the "Young Adult" and "Teenage-Adult Crossover" categories. Do you prefer writing for a younger audience? A : I enjoy writing for all ages of readers, but my focus for 2006/2007 is to connect with my adult audience. Within the genre of children's fiction I've achieved a lot. I was named as one of Hatchard's Authors of the Year, and am featured at Foyle's in London bookshop as a current favourite in the children's department. My second surreal fantasy crossover title - Dark Tales of Time and Space - sold out and has been nominated for a Lancashire Children's Book of the Year Award for 2006, along with the fourth book in the Jesse Jameson series for kids, Vampire Vault. In 2005 The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor was short-listed for a British Fantasy Award for best novella, and that book has picked up some impressive reviews from respected critics and reviewers within the fantasy/sci-fi genre. The readers' buzz has and continues to be very positive, and fans of Jaarfindor may be interested to know that my most recent book - Wicked Or What? - is set in Jaarfindor. Incidentally, I'll be launching a website dedicated to all things Jaarfindorian in the summer of 2006, as the body of my work hooks up with that particular imagined world. You'll be able to log on at www.jaarfindor.co.uk and take part in

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an official forum to discuss Jaarfindor, its characters, its settings, its construction. I'm very excited about it. I'm also taking a short break from writing for a younger audience for a while. I need fresh challenges as a writer, as a passionately creative person. To me, it seems a logical and natural progression to focus on adult readers, and the ideas, structures and plot elements of Jaarfindor Remade, the book I'm currently working, lend themselves to adults, and a more sophisticated readership. Q : Do you feel it is important to attend book signings and conventions? A : Very much so. It's all part of the work authors should be prepared to do, to actively seek out opportunities for book signings and face to face promotion. After all, it raises your profile, helps book sales, and you get to meet the folk buying your books. Conferences are great ways to network and meet writers, publishers, artists and fans of the fantasy, sci-fi and horror genres. The major publishers' promotional and marketing budgets in today's fantasy/sci-fi and horror genres are not large, unless you have secured a huge readership. So, logic says that you need to get out there and meet readers, convince them to take a look, to read your books. Q : How different do you find it working in the role of an editor? A : Being blatantly obvious here, the fundamental difference is reading as opposed to writing. An editor is essentially a reader, engaging with other writers' work as a potential reader might. It's like putting together a compilation album of your own personal favourites in terms of anthologies and collections. Longer works need to grab the reader for longer time periods, of course. I look essentially for the 'voice' or the author. I ask: does that voice interest me? Does it feel new and different, or is it another re-write of something that has gone before, and as such, does that make the read a predictable and uninteresting one? I look for work that I can't predict in terms of plot and outcome. Q : Tell us a little about your involvement with Crowswing Books? A : Crowswing Books is my passion. It started out as a vehicle for my own fiction back in 2003. It has been remarkably successful for such a venture, with my work topping bestseller lists, picking up both critical acclaim and prominent shop displays, and has led me to being listed as one of the fifteen most collectible children's authors. I think I've said that before somewhere (laughs out loud), but I feel it's worth repeating. Obviously, the books themselves play an essential part in

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that success, but there's more to it than publishing good books. I think the commercial success (relatively speaking from a small press perspective) has astounded many folk in the publishing world. I can tell you, it's certainly flabbergasted me, with over 18,000 books sold in 20 months. "How has Crowswing achieved such recognition in such a short time?" is a question I am often asked. I'm not aware of any hush-hush factor to success at all, except perhaps 90% hard graft and 10% lucky breaks, which resulted in the hard work in the first place. I truly believe that a book is for life. As a publisher and author you need to promote them, constantly, wherever opportunities present themselves. This might be an interview, a review, a forum, setting up websites, local press, regional press, ezines, magazines, national press, appearing at signings or launches, attending conferences, writing articles and essays, shop displays, reviewing other writer's work. You have to get you name out there, and you need to be creative about it. I take nothing for granted. You know, selling the books is the hardest part, promoting, getting folk to part with their hard earned cash. You need a plan, and most importantly you need to be passionate and follow through. It's a very competitive market. I sit down with my wife, Trish, my fellow Crowswing director, and we brain-storm, using concept maps, spider diagrams, just randomly exploring possible avenues for sales. You have to be fearless. You have to think positively. On the other hand, you have to expect knocks and set-backs, but along with those upsets successes will come. Be determined â&#x20AC;&#x201C; have a vision and follow it through. Most folk give up to easily, too early, knocked back by one or two rejects. If you are a writer or an artist for life, ignore the rejections, and bin them. Send out your work again. Don't give in. Think of it like this: if you believe what you have to offer is worthwhile, someone else out there (a publisher, an editor, an agent) may also value your work. You just have to connect with the right person, accept that it will take time, keep making contacts, putting yourself forward, orâ&#x20AC;Śgo it alone! But the most important folk in this human chain are your readers, the folk who buy the books. (For more on what Sean did to turn mountains of rejection slips into a positive, as well as his philosophy of how Crowswing has become such a success, and what writers can do to help themselves, check out a recent interview at www.infinityplus.co.uk). Q : So what's next on your agenda? Any advance info that you can share with us on forthcoming projects?

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A : Crowswing are publishing six titles in 2006. I'm very excited about each project. World Fantasy Award and International Horror Guild winner, David A. Sutton's collection Clinically Dead and Other Tales of the Supernatural comes out in April, with a previously unpublished novella and an introduction from Stephen Jones and an afterword by Joel Lane. Allen Ashley's collection Urban Fantastic will be published in June â&#x20AC;&#x201C; just before the World Cup campaign kicks off, and includes an introduction by World Fantasy Award winner â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Pete Crowther. My debut adult novel, Jaarfindor Remade is scheduled for August, Gary Fry's collection The Impelled and Other Head Trips is out in September, which includes a previously unpublished novella and an introduction from Ramsey Campbell. The exciting new anthology When Graveyards Yawn will be out in time for Fancon, and finally in November there's American Eric Shapiro's novella Days of Allison to complete a very stimulating 2006 publishing schedule. Q : Any plans to pursue your artwork more in the coming years? A : Art is a great leveller. It grounds me, relaxes, and launches me into a very peaceful place. I spent a lot of time painting watercolours last year, out in the open air, placing myself before the changing light of my seascape and landscape subjects. It's a real challenge to capture the subject within an hour. There are plans for an omnibus edition of the quartet of Jesse Jameson books, and I have ideas about more interior illustrations for that project. So that's something I'm looking forward to. Q : Where do you see yourself in say the next 10 years? Do you think you will still be writing or are you interested in moving into other areas of work? A : It's hard to say what's around the corner, isn't it? Always expect the unexpected, that's what I say. I look forward to Crowswing's growth enormously. As long as I keep enjoying what I'm doing, remain healthy and relatively sane and enthusiastic, I think I'll still be writing, painting, drawing, editing, and publishing for many years to come. I hope to continue to explore boundaries and cross borders with my own fiction, and to support those writers and artists who do likewise. *** Watch for next month's issue as Sean has kindly provided one of his short stories "The Numberist", taken from the New Wave Of Speculative Fiction anthology. You should also take a look at his website links below ... www.seanwrightblog.blogspot.com www.crowswingbooks.co.uk

www.seanwright.co.uk www.jaarfindor.co.uk

42 : Touching The Stars

Touching The Stars David A. Hardy

When I first became interested in 'space art', or 'astronomical art' as some prefer to call it, someone who made a significant and lasting impression on me was David A. Hardy. His extensive body of work spans several decades and he continues to be one of the most active in the business today. I have been fortunate enough to meet David on a various occasions and it has always been very inspiring to see his original artwork up close. I must also recommend you attend one of his excellent slideshows if you get the chance! It's difficult to know where to begin with an article on such a prolific artist and it's impossible to do justice within just a few pages. But here's a little background information to get you started, plus a short interview I did recently ... *** I'm David A Hardy (Dave to my friends), and produced my first space art in 1950 at the age of 14. Much later I discovered this was the same year as Alexei Leonov, the Russian cosmonaut/artist and Kasuaki Iwasaki, the leading Japanese astronomical artist.

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I illustrated my first book ~ Suns, Myths and Men, for Patrick Moore (now Sir Patrick...) ~ in 1954 at the age of 18. I had five days to produce eight black and white illustrations before joining the RAF for National Service, and tight deadlines seem to have been the story of my life ever since! I worked at Cadbury's near my home in Bournville, Birmingham, UK~ literally painting chocolate boxes ~ while I learned my trade as an illustrator, then became freelance in 1965 after being asked to work on the film 2001 ~ though for various reasons I never did. (See Hardyware) When I started, the only space artists I knew of were Chesley Bonestell in the USA and Ralph Smith in the UK (whom I met), and of course I was influenced by both of them. In September 1996 I became President of the International Association of Astronomical Artists (IAAA), which has over 120 members world-wide. Please do take a look at our website : www.iaaa.org

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I have illustrated and produced covers for dozens (maybe hundreds) of books, both fact and fiction, including many by Patrick Moore, some by Arthur C. Clarke and Carl Sagan, all of whom own (or owned) my originals, along with Werner von Braun, Isaac Asimov and even Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones and Brian May, among many others! In 1974 I started writing my own non-fiction books for both children and adults. I've also written a published novel, Aurora: A Child of Two Worlds (Cosmos). I've worked on SF mags (Fantasy & Science Fiction, Analog, etc.), factual mags (New Scientist, Focus, Astronomy, Sky & Telescope, etc.), movies (The Neverending Story, for example), TV (Blake's Seven, The Sky at Night, Cosmos, Horizon, etc.), computer games (Kristal, etc.), record covers (from Hawkwind to Holst's The Planets Suite), video ~ in other words, I don't like to get in a rut...

Books which bear my name as author (or co-author) as well as illustrator include the following: Challenge of the Stars with Patrick Moore (1972/1978 as New Challenge of the Stars), which I've been delighted to find seems to have inspired quite a few of today's younger space artists, just as Chesley Bonestell's Conquest of Space inspired me: Galactic Tours (1981) with the late Bob Shaw ~ a sort of interstellar travel brochure, which led to my becoming Thomas Cook's consultant on space tourism some ten years later: and Visions of Space (1989/90), in which I collected nearly all the space artists of note at the time ~ 72 in all, many of whom I now count as my friends. In 2001 Hardyware was published by Paper Tiger; and 2004 saw the publication in the UK and USA of a new art book with Sir Patrick Moore, entitled Futures: 50 Years in Space, which celebrates our unique half-century as author/artist team and

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compares our ideas about the universe and space travel in the 50's and 70's with today's reality ~ and future possibilities. See also my first novel, Aurora. *** Q : Do you think the public in general has lost interest in space exploration since the golden era of the space race? Or do you feel that recent developments in technology are helping to attract a new audience among the younger generation? A : I think the interest is still there. This shows up whenever something 'happens', like the Huygens landing on Titan. But there will never be the interest in automated probes that there is in humans, and if Bush's or ESA's plans come to fruition (if!) we can hope see a big resurgence of interest. It will then be down to NASA/ESA not to blow it as they rather did with Apollo, by making it appear too boring! Q : Are you an avid astronomer yourself or do you prefer to rely on images and information provided by the professionals in this field? A : I never made my own telescope, that kind of thing, but I did have a couple of friends with very good ones (one of whom introduced me to Patrick Moore in 1954) which I could use for observing. But of course, as more and more results, with vastly greater detail, began to come in from space probes, so it became less and useful, from my point of view, to look through a telescope myself. Mind you, there's still nothing to compare with the magic of seeing Saturn's rings or the Moon's craters full of shadow, with one's own eyes. Q : How important is it for your artwork to be "accurate" with regards to real astronomical data? And does this cause any problems when new discoveries are made which contradict previous beliefs? A : In the case of space art, very important! Essential in fact. And even in SF art I never paint anything that is scientifically impossible or inaccurate. Q : Have you ever been to see a shuttle or rocket launch? A : I went to Cape Kennedy (as it then was -- Canaveral again now of course) in 1971 to see the launch of Apollo 15. It was my first trip to the USA, and I was with Tony Clarke, who produced the Moody Blue, so it was quite memorable!

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Q : Do you still dream of travelling to the stars and would you go up into space if you were given the opportunity? A : Travelling to the stars is still a long way off, but I would certainly jump at an opportunity to go into space -- given a reasonable chance of coming back to talk about and paint my experience :-) Just to be weightless and see the Earth from space would be a fantastic experience. But since I can't afford the ÂŁ100,000+ that Richard Branson is asking for his new project, let alone the ÂŁmillions that others, like Tito, have shelled out, it seems unlikely that I ever will. . . Q : You have successfully made the switch from using traditional media to digital tools in recent years. Did you find the transition easy and do you enjoy working with new media? A : I've always embraced new and different media in my art. Apart from trying out gouache, acrylics, oils, pastels, inks and just about every type of traditional media, at different times I have used xeroxes, set up a darkroom in what used to be a cloakroom under the stairs (and is again now) and did all my own developing and printing, in B&W and then in colour, and as soon as I found a computer I could afford, somewhere around 1985/6 (it was an Atari 520 ST, with 512k of RAM) I started seeing what I could do on it. Which wasn't much then, of course, but it didn't stop me from producing two interiors digitally for Analog in 1987. The story was about a computer genius, so the fact that the illos were highly pixilated was appropriate. I gradually moved up to bigger and better Ataris until I got my first Power Mac 7100. I now work with a Power Mac G5 2.7 GHz with 2GB of RAM, if anyone is interested! And over the last few years I've finally been able to do everything I've always wanted to: make my own photo-quality prints up to A3+ , make movies and put them onto DVD (see my website: http://www.astroart.org), and so on. Q : What does it feel like to be rated one of the top space artists in the world?! A : I never quite believe it when people call me that, but I guess it's a product of being single-minded (I didn't say simple-minded!) and something of a perfectionist. I never send off a piece of artwork until I'm as happy with it as I can be (which of course is not saying that it's perfect; in this business you have to be a realist too, and time is always an important factor in publishing.)

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Q : You have achieved so much over the years so is there anything left to aim for? Do you have anything in mind for future projects? A : Although virtually all of my illustration work is done digitally nowadays, using Photoshop CS2, I haven't even scratch the surface of 3D. I did learn to use Terragen as a landscape generator (starting with my own greyscale images in Photoshop, then taking them into Terragen, 'tweaking' them, and so on) just in time for Futures, and Poser for figures sometimes, I do need to spend some time learning how to produce, say, a spacecraft which can be rotated to different angles. That has to be useful. But apart from that, I want to spend more time producing big painting in oils on canvas, which is always a pleasant and refreshing change after spending time in front of a 22-inch monitor. One thing that computers still can't do is impasto! (laying on paint thickly with a palette knife.) Q : Any ambitions to get into TV, film or animation work? A : I used to. The one thing I always fancied doing was matte work in films, and I think my style would have lent itself to that. But the closest I got was production art, for movies like The Neverending Story. And now that this stuff is done digitally, usually using 3D techniques, rather than painting on glass, it seems doubtful if I shall ever have that chance. . . Q : What have been the highlights of your career so far? A : Gosh! I suppose the successful completion of every major project has been a highlight in a way. The first time you see your work in print, maybe on a cover, is a highlight. The first books that I wrote myself as well as illustrating were a highlight (that started in 1974), culminating in Visions of Space (Dragon's World, 1989/90), which I wrote, edited, designed -- the lot, except that it contains the work of 72 space artists. But the ones that come to mind right now are events from within the last five years or so: the publication of the first book about my work, Hardyware: The Art of David A Hardy (Paper Tiger, 2001), then Futures: 50 Years In Space with my old friend (Sir) Patrick Moore, which was nominated for a Hugo and won the Sir Arthur Clarke Award in 2005. And my first novel, of course. [see below] (Oh: for the record, Futures will be coming out as a paperback later this year, with the title changed to '50 Years in Space'. ) Q : Tell us a little about your involvement with the IAAA?

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A : This, like Visions of Space, started in 1988, when I went to my first workshop, in Iceland, with the International Association of Astronomical Artists (IAAA). For the first time I met other artists who were doing what I'd been doing since 1954, who were on the same wavelength and could talk about the same things. It was almost like coming out of the closet! Up to that point all the artists had been from North America (I won't say 'the USA', because I also met Kara Szathmary, a Canadian, who became President). I also met a dozen Soviet artists, including Alexei Leonov, the first man to 'walk in space' in 1965. So I suggested setting up a UK branch, and became the Vice President for Europe (which I still am, though I was President for four years). Q : Chesley Bonestell obviously had a major influence on many space artists, but who else inspired you in the early years? And which other artists continue to be of interest to you now? A : In the early days I also admired Ralph ('R.A.') Smith of the British Interplanetary Society, which I had joined in 1952 at the age of 16, who illustrated the books of Arthur C. Clarke. The first real space artist was the Frenchman, Lucien Rudaux, but although he was working in the late 1930s I didn't come across his work until later. Ludek Pesek, who was Czechoslovakian, came along later still, around 1970, but influenced a lot of space artists because he worked in a looser, more painterly style, as if he was sitting at his easel in then open air -except that there was usually no air, or poisonous gases, in his landscapes! They are all in Visions of Space, of course. Q : Your first novel, 'Aurora' ... How different was it working on this project and would you like to write more fiction? A : I see the creative process of writing fiction and painting as being quite similar in many ways. I have ideas and images in my head, and I set them down -- either as paint or pixels on canvas/monitor, or as words on paper/monitor. Aurora: A Child of Two Worlds actually started life as two quite separate short stories, one set during World War II, the other in the 70's rock scene. Then one day I realised that they could be linked to make the beginning of a novel, which is set mainly on Mars. From that point I just couldn't get the words down quickly enough, because I wanted to find out what happened myself! It was a very exciting process, and one that I doubt I shall ever repeat, but I was pleased with the result, and it's had some very good reviews. I just wish that more people would read it! I do have another novel started, but I don't feel the same pressure to complete it

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as I did with Aurora, and other projects keep getting in the way. . . *** To find out more about David's work then take a browse around his fantastic website at : www.astroart.org , where you can view some of the greatest space art and science-fiction images ever produced!

'The Cathedral of Universal Biodiversity' : Copyright ÂŠ David A. Hardy 2005 Cover for F&SF February 2006

50 : Under The Ice

Under The Ice by Tony Richards

As twilight bled the last of the colour from his surroundings and the final lingering vendors on the market square packed up, Jorma Lonrot switched off the ignition of his trusty old red Saab. The heater stopped at the same moment. The car would remain warm for a while longer though, with all the windows shut. Lonrot settled back against the head-rest, getting ready for a lengthy wait. He was parked just down from the junction and the traffic lights, mere metres from where the Saarinen girl had been attacked. And had come well prepared. He had put on thermal underwear and socks and, over his day clothes, wore a coat and hat of dark, bushy fake fur -- his wife disapproved thoroughly of the real stuff. He’d also brought with him a thermos of hot tea, and a little metal flask of schnaps though, better to keep the latter in his pocket until this was over, he thought to himself. This was already quite a strange enough case in itself. No sense in letting alcohol confuse the whole thing further. On the seat next to him was a big, rubber-clad hand-held torch; he had put fresh batteries in this morning, knowing what the temperature could do to older ones. And his service pistol, a Glock, was snuggled in the holster underneath his jacket. Normally, it never left the top drawer of his desk -- this was not exactly Chicago, for heaven’s sake. But tonight? He might be dealing with a violent madman, and so had taken the appropriate precautions. The last trader’s van puttered away five minutes later. Silence descended on the square. Well, at least it wasn’t snowing, he could see out through his windscreen easily enough, for a while at least. Lonrot yawned, bored already. He loved this part of the city, and yet it seemed a terribly lonely place when it was empty, in the dark. Nothing at all moved. In another month or so, the ships would be bobbing about, gulls waddling along their masts. There’d even be people out strolling here. But now? It was like looking at a frieze. A frozen frieze in freezing Finland, he thought with a gently amused grin.

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His wife came from Dublin, and they spoke English at home, which was why he had such an extensive vocabulary. The first time he had caught himself actually thinking in the language, though, it had bothered him quite badly. But he did it so frequently, these days, that it had become entirely natural. And their daughter, now studying in London, was becoming the same way -- she told him as much every time she phoned. Maybe all of that was why he felt he had some especial connection with this particular case? Englishmen. Except he'd thought it was the midday sun that they went out into. He had been doing some research since pulling Bobby Arliss’ file. And to his vast surprise, the brother -- the identical twin, David; there was something! -- was still here. Had only returned to England for a short while, barely a few months. And was now actually living with his dead brother’s old girlfriend, Ms. Krista Toppelius. That immediately had set alarm bells off in Lonrot’s head; they were still ringing loudly in fact. Perhaps he ought to have investigated the drowning more thoroughly in the first place? he wondered. Though it had seemed entirely clear-cut at the time. Other than those two facts, though, what did he really have? He had no idea in the slightest what was actually going on here. And was down here by the harbour tonight simply for a lack of other action he could think to take. Lalli Saarinen had said that the madman was soaking wet. So had the Thunbergs -- or at least, the frozen equivalent of such. Could whoever was doing this actually be jumping in and out of this bitterly cold water? For what reason? It seemed perfectly insane, not to mention pretty deadly. Lonrot puzzled over it all for the hundredth time, again quite uselessly. 'Stumped' -- there was a good English word for you. Then his thoughts drifted to his wife again. “Finnish snow or Irish rain, freezing cold or soaking wet, it’s all the same to me,” she always said when asked how she coped with the local winters. And that was why they got on so well really, wasn’t it? Their outlook on life. They were both wholly philosophical.

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To Lonrot’s mind, it was the only way to be, especially in his profession. What precisely was he expecting tonight? Everything and nothing. He would keep a wholly open mind. An hour dragged past. A few pedestrians went by quickly on the pavement, but their heads were lowered and they didn’t even seem to notice him. Lonrot yawned for the dozenth time, wiped at the mist that had formed inside his windscreen - he was wearing fleece-lined gloves. Then, realising the temperature in the Saab was finally dropping, poured himself some tea, which he savoured. Why on earth did the English put milk in this? It seemed as absurd to him as putting chopped onion in Coca-Cola. The moon was out and practically full tonight, a bright platinum disc. It lent the ice and snow around him ... what? An inner lambent quality that ought to have been gorgeous. But he found it somewhat baleful this particular evening; it made the entire landscape look so deeply inhospitable. Or perhaps it was simply that his mood was worsening as the hour grew later. The Suomenlinna ferry turned up at the far side of the harbour -- the scene of two year old brutalities, perhaps? A few people disembarked and scurried away, a few more appeared seemingly from nowhere and replaced them. It was gone again in twenty minutes time, and the entire area lay deserted again. By the time a second hour had passed, his stomach had started to grumble. He had grabbed a burrito on the way here -- Tex-Mex was very popular here in Helsinki, which he had always considered rather odd -- but it didn’t seem to have filled him up nearly enough. If he had been at home right now, he would have just been finishing his evening meal. Alice would be pouring them their customary after-dinner drink, two small glasses of Jameson’s Irish Whisky. He wiped yet another small hole in the windscreen, and then started to consider a change of policy towards his little flask of schnaps. One sip couldn’t hurt, surely? One deep sip? In the corner of his eye, something was now moving out on the snow-covered surface of the frozen harbour. Lonrot leant forwards, briskly widening the hole in the condensation. It was gulls. Dozens of them, moving further out into the bay. Some of them

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were even flapping for short distances before alighting on the ice again, despite the fact that it was night. Could something be after them? Some feral cat, or even a stoat? If that were the case, then there’d be a commotion, surely? Yet the harbour remained perfectly silent. He looked at the quay’s edge. There was now a tall, slim figure standing there, where there had been nobody just a few seconds ago. Had it actually clambered from the bay? Lonrot squinted, and was reasonably sure that there was water leaking down from the man’s clothing. Which was unimaginable! No face could be made out as yet. The figure had its head lowered, its long hair straggling down. But the next moment, it had begun to move. It pressed forwards -- at that strange lope that Ms. Saarinen had described -- till it reached the centre of the square. Came to another halt there. And began ... what exactly was this fellow doing? Peering all around. Then pulling his head back and ... was he sniffing? Like a beast scenting the air? Lonrot waited till the figure had its back to him. Then very gently pulled the latch of his door open and, his free hand closing round the torch, got out. The man still hadn’t noticed he was there. Lonrot took a dozen very careful steps towards him before stopping again and calling out. “Bobby? Bobby Arliss?” When the figure swung around, he switched the torch on, directing its beam squarely at the high-up, bearded face. My god, yes! This was him! Exactly the face in the photo he had taken from the Toppelius girl. But so incredibly pale it was. Paler than any living being he had ever seen. And what exactly was the matter with his eyes? Lonrot put out one hand in a gesture of placation, and then took a few more

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uneasy steps forwards. “Bobby, yes? From London? Or is it Kent?” He kept his voice as gentle, friendly, as he possibly could under the circumstances. Which meant he sounded quite uncomfortable even to himself. “You are quite a surprise, I have to say. Everybody thought that you were dead.” All the figure did, in response, was to gape at him with its mouth open. There seemed an almost boneless quality to the stooped way Bobby was holding himself. And on that hue-drained face of his, a look that made Lonrot feel increasingly unhappy. An expression that was ... ‘aggressively puzzled’ was the best way that he could describe it. The kind of look you would expect to see on the face of a cave-man, not a modern one. And he couldn’t recall anything from the files about this Bobby Arliss being slow or retarded in any way. A new scenario began occurring to him. What if, when Bobby had fallen overboard, he somehow hadn’t drowned? Merely been rendered unconscious? And if some vagrant current had brought him ashore ...? He would have spent some while at least drifting face down in the water. And so ... oxygen starvation? The brain-damage that would bring? It would explain why he’d been wandering about so aimlessly the past two years, although it still seemed thoroughly bizarre, to Lonrot’s way of thinking. He had better proceed with extreme care from this point on, he decided. Since he had no way of knowing precisely what manner of person he was by now dealing with. He put a tight smile on his face and forced it to remain there. “I should imagine that your family will be terribly pleased. Your brother David? You remember him? He’s right here in this city. He’ll be delighted to see you.” That got a noise from the figure, a small watery grunt. “And your girlfriend, she will be overjoyed too. You’ve been looking for her, haven’t you, Bobby? You’ve been looking for Krista?” Bobby Arliss’ reaction to that was, well, a startling one. He stooped even lower,

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and his face screwed up alarmingly, all violence and hatred. When he made a sound this time, it was far louder, fiercer, than the first. Some water actually slopped out from his mouth and down his chin, it was so forceful. Lonrot played the beam on it. And became completely motionless at that point, all his breath taken away. This couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be! But the water ... it was filled with tiny bubbles! Had a frothy quality! Which meant that it had not come simply from Bobbyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth. Or even from his throat. Lonrot had seen this countless times before, at the autopsies of drowning victims. Water? It was only frothy when it came out of the lungs. And if that was the case here, then Bobby should not be standing up, or even conscious, let alone moving around. Which in turn meant ...? He slowly took it in, the rational part of his mind trying to fight against it. And when it finally gave up, the shock hit Lonrot so entirely brutally that all of his instincts were suddenly demanding just one thing of him. Turn around, now! Turn around and run! Only his fierce, professional resolve kept him rooted to the spot. But he was shaking now, and genuinely stunned. He had no choice, though, but to accept the hard facts of this situation. The figure he was looking at ... was not properly alive. Nor even, by the usual definitions, human. He became horribly aware of how intently those strange, milky eyes were battened to his face.

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He was sweating now, he realised, which was deeply unpleasant in sub-zero temperatures like these. His shirt became clammy and clung to his skin like strips of cold, wet leather. Lonrot fought to make his breathing steady out. And fought to think straight too. Exactly what should he do? Ensure his own safety in the first place, he decided. Moving his arm very slowly, Lonrot reached into his coat and brought his pistol out. Bobby flinched and looked slightly distressed at that. So the detective let his arm drop till the weapon pointed at the ground, though he made sure he thumbed the safety catch off in the self-same motion. “Don’t worry, Bobby,” he said, making sure to still keep his voice soft and amiable. “I'm not going to harm you, not in any way. This is solely for my own protection.” That cataracted gaze went to his own, as though to see if he was lying. Lonrot took another step - the hardest one he’d ever taken in his life. And, trying to sound re-assuring, added, “I’m not sure what’s happening here. I’m not even sure you know. But several people have been scared by you, though thankfully none badly hurt. Matters have to be, somehow ... taken into hand, yes? They cannot continue like this, not indefinitely. You agree?” Bobby scowled again and raised both hands towards him, making Lonrot lift the gun a little higher. Was he going to attack? But, the next moment, the hunched figure was backing off from him, using that loping gait again, which looked even stranger in reverse. Lonrot reached his torch-hand out. “No, Bobby. Stop a moment.” But the ... the man? Could he still be called that? The figure just didn’t take any notice of him. He would get away in a few more seconds. To smash which doors down next?

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To attack whom? And was moving too quickly across the snow for Lonrot to catch up with him. So, “Bobby?” Lonrot straightened his arm now, aiming. “I have no wish to shoot you, but I cannot let you leave. Do you understand that?” All that Bobby did was turn around and begin scurrying back towards the water. Damn it! Lonrot peered carefully down the sight, and then put a slug into the man’s calf muscle. It hit -- he was quite certain of that; he saw the leg jerk. But, though Bobby glanced at him across his shoulder, the shot didn’t slow him down at all. He continued loping towards the quay’s edge, as though nothing at all had happened. Reaching it, he did not pause but simply jumped. There was a splash, and then the noise of loose ice crunching about as the ripples stirred the fragments. Several of the gulls which had moved out across the harbour lifted a few metres, flapping, letting out small shrieks. Damn it, it was over. For tonight at least. Lonrot stared around, feeling more than a little dazed. Several of the windows at the farside of the junction now had silhouetted figures in them, brought there by the sound of the shot. The inhabitants of this district were getting quite a show this week, now weren’t they? Then, his breathing still uneven, he walked towards the spot where the figure had disappeared, following the same route it had taken. Here was pretty much the place where he had wounded him. And yet there was no blood. No trail of any kind leading to the waterfront save the uneven footprints.

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Well, that made a kind of sense, didn’t it? If you could call anything about this matter sensible. How could you hurt somebody who was already dead? By the time he’d reached the edge and looked down, Lonrot had started to wonder if he hadn't imagined the whole thing. This simply couldn’t be real, could it? This just couldn’t happen? There was a big hole in the ice, for sure. But almost anything could make a hole. The gun was still warm in his grasp, though. The strange footprints were still there. Not anything like normal ones, except for their shape. A dreadful shuddering overcame him next, his legs lost all their strength. He sat down abruptly, right there on the quayside. Breathing so very harshly, now, he was afraid that he would choke. What in God’s name was he going to say to people about this? How in God’s name was he going to write this up? He wasn’t, he decided slowly as he got his thoughts in order. What earthly good would that achieve, except to get him branded as unstable? He wasn’t going to do anything, officially. Which was not the same as saying he would not do anything at all. *** Copyright © Tony Richards 2005

If you enjoyed reading this extract from Under The Ice then you can find the full story (and others) in the Ghost Dance anthology from Sarob Press. Also take a look at Tony's homepage here : www.richardsreality.com

Brain Teaser : 59

Can you find the 25 author and 25 artist names below?

For solutions check the eZine page at : www.screamingdreams.com

60 : Worthwhile Web

Worthwhile Web Each month this section of the eZine will introduce a few of my favourite websites and online stores where you can find items relating to fantasy, sci-fi and horror ... If you would like to advertise your own store here then feel free to get in touch. Please remember that I will only include site links that are of relevant content! ***

Swapsale www.swapsale.com

If you are looking for terrific fantasy art -- we're talking original oils -- you'd be wise to check out Swapsale.com. That's where you'll find the work of Tom Simonton, creator of the Amazon Woman comic book, to name but one. As unbelievable as it may sound, Tom is selling his original oils for as little as $100 at that site -- a true bargain.

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Still not convinced Swapsale.com is a place for you? Well, there's more, including original comic pages, Sunday comic strips from the 1950s and a one of a kind 35mm print from a scene in 2001, blown up to 20 1/2" X 20" and mounted on mason board. And that's just talkin' about art. Swapsale.com has an incredible number of old sci-fi TV shows and movies on VHS and DVD, a wide selection of old sci-fi toys going as far back as the 1930s -think Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon -- and a tasty collection of other memorabilia including hard to find movie props. They even had a flying monkey from The Wizard of Oz although that's gone now, sold for a pricey $10,000. But don't freak out; like the Tom Simonton art, most things are priced to move. Swapsale.com has been in business since 1999, serving customers around the world. Run by Bruce David, the site has gotten a reputation for honesty and courtesy. Even better, Bruce is plugged into the retro movie and TV scene so you'll find autographed pix from people like Frankie Thomas and Jan Merlin (Tom Corbett Space Cadet), Herman Brix (Tarzan), Jonathan Harris (Lost in Space) and Kevin McCarthy (Invasion of the Body Snatchers) up there. So wattaya waitin' for? Swapsale.com is your time machine to the 1950s and beyond! ***

Bad Moon Books My name is Roy Robbins, I am the owner of BAD MOON BOOKS in Garden Grove and Anaheim, CA. Our web site is at : www.badmoonbooks.com.

I started out collecting books in 1970, and selling them in 1986. We started with a stapled and mailed catalog, and moved on to two brick and mortar shops (Book King and Bad Moon Books). We now sell by appointment only at our Garden Grove location, on eBay, and on our web page. One of our strong points is our lightning fast response to inquiries and our ultra fast shipping. We know, as one time collectors ourselves, after purchasing how

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important it is to get that book in hand!! We also will look for hard to find books for you. We sell some of the best, and most competitively priced HORROR, SF, MYSTERY, FANTASY and MODERN FIRSTS on the internet!! We specialize in STEPHEN KING, DEAN KOONTZ, ANNE RICE, RAY GARTON, MICHAEL CONNELLY, LAWRENCE BLOCK, STEPHEN BAXTER, HARRY POTTER, EDWARD LEE just to name a few, and hard to find UK, US, SIGNED/LIMITED, PROOFS, ARC'S, and MUCH MORE!! We also try to stock most small press publishers such as DELIRIUM, BLOODLETTING, NECRO, EARTHLING, NECCESSARY EVIL, and MANY MORE! We have been on eBay selling thousands of books for over 8 years, been bookselling for 19+ years! We pride ourselves on our strict grading, friendly service, and GREAT PRICES!! We are EBAY POWER SELLERS!! Check out our AWESOME FEEDBACK, over 5000 POSITIVE and growing daily!! Our eBay seller name is badmoonbooks. If you have any questions please e-mail me at : roy@badmoonbooks.com ***

Artists U K Introduction

Artists UK specialises in the publishing and sale of Limited Editions and other prints, posters, books etc mainly in the fields of fantasy and science fiction. It started life on 2nd May 1994 in London with a modest retail outlet and an embryonic mail-order service in the following year. Now there is a twice-yearly catalogue sent to everyone on the database with a current mailing status that is now around the 3,000 mark. In 1997 Artists UK published the first Discworld Limited Edition Fine Art Prints. There are now five Limited Edition Fine Art prints of Josh Kirby's Discworld paintings. These are 'Soul Music', 'Discworld Companion' (the best painting of the Librarian!), 'Men at Arms', 'Interesting Times' and 'Witches Trilogy' (used for the

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collection of the three witches books). Josh says these are excellent quality prints. He did the proofing to ensure a perfect colour match. They are printed on a really thick 350gsm acid-free board (it won't go yellow like old paper does) with light-fast inks (they don't fade). There are only 500 copies of each one signed and numbered by Josh himself. There are also some proof copies for the avid collector - both pre-production and post-production ones. The five limited editions, published in two sets, cover all the main Discworld characters. Of course, these prints are the full back and front covers before the words get smothered all over them! There are also lots of other standard prints of Discworld and masses of other stuff - Tolkien, Dragons, Celtic, Horror, Pin-ups, etc. Artists UK has also published Limited editions of other major UK artists' work such as Alan Lee (his beautiful painting of Tolkien's 'Rivendell') and Brian Froud (his unique take on 'Caterpillar's mushroom' from Alice in Wonderland). In 1999 Artists UK went entirely over to mail order and now offers possibly the largest selection of fantastic art prints available through one supplier. Plans for the future include expanding our agent work, increasing our publishing schedule and improving our Worldwide Web presence. Although the name implies being a purely United Kingdom company Artists UK is already more of an international name with retail and trade customers all round the globe.

Artists UK Art Dealers, Agents, Publishers and Mail-order 106 Melbreck Ashurst Skelmersdale Lancashire WN8 6SZ United Kingdom www.artistsuk.co.uk E-Mail: info@artistsuk.co.uk