Part 1 (1/2)
Carbide Tipped Pens.
Ben Bova, Eric Choi.
Ben Bova: To the memory of Isaac Asimov, whose heart was as great as his mind.
Eric Choi: To Paul Keough, David DeGraff, Paul Urayama, Mark Grant, David Soltysik, and Tue Sorensen- the original Carbide Tipped Pens.
PREFACE.
”When I talk about this book, I get a lot of questions about the t.i.tle,” Paul Stevens, our editor at Tor, once told me. ”What does the t.i.tle come from?”
Carbide Tipped Pens (CTP) was the name of a hard SF writing group to which David DeGraff and I belonged in the late 1990s. Founded by Paul Keough, the group demanded a strict regimen of in-depth biweekly critiques and regular story submissions to markets every three months. The group's grand ambition was to help revitalize the hard SF genre and perhaps even foster a new literary movement. By the early 2000s, however, the obligations of mundane life began to intrude and the members of CTP went their separate ways.
Almost a decade later, I found myself with the honor of sharing an author signing table with Ben at the 2011 Ad Astra convention in Toronto. We chatted about the resurgence of hard SF with the publication of anthologies such as Jonathan Strahan's Engineering Infinity in the United Kingdom, and that the time was right for a new collection of hard SF in North America. I even had a pretty good idea for the t.i.tle.
Hard SF is the literature of change, the genre that examines the implications-both beneficial and dangerous-of new sciences and technologies. The founding fathers of hard SF, Hugo Gernsback and John W. Campbell, Jr., decreed that science fiction had to make sense, following the laws of nature and exploring the impact of science and technology on society-past, present, or future-in a manner that is imaginative and profound. Campbell guided masters like Isaac Asimov, Lester del Rey, Robert A. Heinlein, Theodore Sturgeon, A. E. van Vogt, Clifford D. Simak, and Jack Williamson into the Golden Age of SF, where the entire universe was their playground.
For Carbide Tipped Pens the anthology, Ben and I were looking for stories that follow the cla.s.sic definition of hard SF, in which some element of science or technology is so central to the plot that there would be no story if that element were removed. The science and engineering portrayed in the stories would be consistent with current understanding or be a logical and reasonable extrapolation thereof.
Furthermore, we wanted to put together a collection that would refute some of the stereotypes often a.s.sociated with hard SF in terms of both the stories themselves and the people who write them. We sought diverse stories that emphasized not only science but also character, plot, originality, and believability in equal measure. Our contributors came to us from the United States, Canada, Australia, China, Germany, and France. Ben and I both have scientific backgrounds, as do many of the authors, but we also have contributors with backgrounds in literature, history, and cultural studies.
Our fondest wish is for Carbide Tipped Pens to not only entertain but also to educate and convey the sense of wonder of the Golden Age to a new generation of readers.
Many thanks are in order: to Paul Stevens for championing this anthology and being a constant source of advice and support, to Paul Keough and the members of CTP for generously allowing us to use the name, and to Alana Otis Wood and the Toronto Ad Astra 2011 convention committee for putting the two of us together at the same author signing table. Most of all, thank you, Ben, for your wisdom and friends.h.i.+p. This is what Carbide Tipped Pens came from.
-Eric Choi.
THE BLUE AFTERNOON THAT LASTED FOREVER.
Daniel H. Wilson.
Science fiction is so intriguing because it can examine the cosmic and the infinitesimal, the future and the past, the human and the immeasurable.
Daniel H. Wilson's story does all that, in less than four thousand words.
”It's late at night, my darling. And the stars are in the sky. That means it is time for me to give you a kiss. And an Eskimo kiss. And now I will lay you down and tuck you in, nice and tight, so you stay warm all night.”
This is our mantra. I think of it like the computer code I use to control deep s.p.a.ce simulations in the laboratory. You recite the incantation and the desired program executes.
I call this one ”bedtime.”
Marie holds her stuffed rabbit close, in a chokehold. In the dim light, a garden of blond hair grows over her pillow. She is three years old and smiling and she smells like baby soap. Her eyes are already closed.
”I love you, honey,” I say.
As a physicist, it bothers me that I find this acute feeling of love hard to quantify. I am a man who routinely deals in singularities and asymptotes. It seems like I should have the mathematical vocabulary to express these things.
Reaching for her covers, I try to tuck Marie in. I stop when I feel her warm hands close on mine. Her brown eyes are black in the shadows.
”No,” she says, ”I do it.”
I smile until it becomes a wince.
This version of the bedtime routine is buckling around the edges, disintegrating like a heat s.h.i.+eld on reentry. I have grown to love tucking the covers up to my daughter's chin. Feeling her cool damp hair and the rea.s.suring lump of her body, safe in her big-girl bed. Our routine in its current incarnation has lasted one year two months. Now it must change. Again.
I hate change.
”OK,” I murmur. ”You're a big girl. You can do it.”
Clumsily and with both hands, she yanks the covers toward her face. She looks determined. Proud to take over this task and exert her independence. Her behavior is consistent with normal child development according to the books I checked out from the library. Yet I cannot help but notice that this independence is a harbinger of constant unsettling, saddening change.
My baby is growing up.
In the last year, her body weight has increased sixteen percent. Her average sentence length has increased from seven to ten words. She has memorized the planets, the primary constellations, and the colors of the visible spectrum. Red orange yellow green blue indigo violet. These small achievements indicate that my daughter is advanced for her age, but she isn't out of the record books or into child genius territory. She's just a pretty smart kid, which doesn't surprise me. Intelligence is highly heritable.
”I saw a shooting star,” she says.
”Really? What's it made of?” I ask.
”Rocks,” she says.
”That's right. Make a wish, lucky girl,” I reply, walking to the door.
I pause as long as I can. In the semidarkness, a stuffed bear is looking at me from a shelf. It is a papa teddy bear hugging its baby. His arms are st.i.tched around the baby's shoulders. He will never have to let go.
”Sweet dreams,” I say.
”Good night, Daddy,” she says and I close the door.
The stars really are in Marie's bedroom.
Two years ago I purchased the most complex and accurate home planetarium system available. There were no American models. This one came from a j.a.panese company and it had to be s.h.i.+pped here to Austin, Texas, by special order. I also purchased an international power adapter plug, a j.a.panese-to-English translation book, and a guide to the major constellations.
I had a plan.
Soon after the planetarium arrived, I installed it in my bedroom. Translating the j.a.panese instruction booklet as best I could, I calibrated the dedicated shooting star laser, inserted the disc that held a pattern for the Northern Hemisphere, and updated the current time and season. When I was finished, I went into the living room and tapped my then-wife on the shoulder.
Our anniversary.