In the Barn Pierc Anthony Read Online Free

  IN THE BARN

Piers Anthony

(1968)

Introduction

Again, Unsafe Visions, 1971

More than any other author, Piers Anthony is responsible for there existence an Over again, Dangerous Visions and a forthcoming final volume in (what has at present become a) trilogy. I talked about that a scrap in the general introduction to this volume, but I think information technology bears repeating here, in Piers's own little department preceding "In the Barn," which is very much the kind of story that was beingness sought when DV was commencement conceived.

In the introduction to David Gerrold'due south story, which you've just read, if you're dealing with this literary entity sequentially, I noted that David had come to sf not through the traditional channels accustomed by the old-line afficionados, but via Telly, a totem and a route of his times. Rather than struggling up through the pulp magazines, writing crap at a penny-a-word for 10 years, or pounding out witless action paperbacks for a grand-and-a-one-half (for 4 months' work), Gerrold got his interruption into sf paid handsomely for a dissimilar kind of dreaming. But not till he had written those penny-a-word stories for the magazines - in some ways lesser piece of work than his Television receiver script - was he accepted past the cadre. The mass of sf readers and fans are a fickle people. They don't take to newcomers all that quickly, though the editors and their fellow-writers do. The fans seem loath to enhance to the heights too apace, those new writers constantly banging on the doors and breaking the windows of the house of sf glory.

Most frequently, the fans will take known about a writer for some fourth dimension, will have followed his life and his career, peculiarly if he started out in the ranks of fandom, writing for the amateur magazines, finally selling a story hither, a story there. And eventually, when a fan turned writer has paid sufficient ante in the eyes of the omniscient observers, they will grudgingly admit him to the ranks of the professionals, fifty-fifty though he may have been selling for ten years. It is a peculiar kind of peer-grouping acceptance, and information technology's as Robert Silverberg one time said: for that kind of writer, his public progress in the craft is like that of the Chambered Nautilus, the cephalopod that moves through the diverse rooms of its shell till it emerges and dies. In effect, it carries its past on its back. So, too, exercise sf writers who have to win the approbation of sf fans. The fans never forget. They find it difficult to bargain with the reality of a writer today, as he is. They see him nevertheless every bit eighteen years old and trying to effect the metamorphosis from amateur to pro. It tin can be a killing thing, forever shadowed in the optics of i's "audition" by the ineradicable record of what one has been. Some writers never outgrow the need to win the praise of that tiny coterie of song fans. And in that location are writers in our genre whose work has been stunted forever because fans did not want them to move frontwards, change, expand. If you doubt the truth of these remarks - and I await with a certain stoicism the inevitability of fan magazine response to these harsh criticisms of The Faithful - you need only ask Isaac Asimov how he feels when fans tell him the best affair he'due south ever written is "NightFall," published in 1941, years earlier the beginning of his hundred-plus books. You demand only enquire Philip Thousand. Dick or James Schmitz or Robert Heinlein or any of the many other writers who avert contact with fandom, why they have chosen to absent themselves from close contact with organized fans and their publications. You need merely inquire Kurt Vonnegut why he fought so hard to accept the words "science fiction" disassociated from his work. That is, if you can track them down.

Only rarely in our field does a writer emerge rapidly and totally, similar Athena from the forehead of Zeus, whole and complete, writing the way he or she wants to write, and giving very little of a damn for the opinions of the fans with their frequently already-formed conceptions of what is adequate in the genre.

It happened with Sheckley, and it happened with Ursula Le Guin, and it happened with Lafferty, and it happened with Norman Spinrad, and it happened with Tom Disch . . .

And it happened with Piers Anthony.

He came into being between the closing of Dangerous Visions to contributors, and the book's publication. In that one year - 1967 - Piers Anthony's Chthon (pronounced thőn) was published by Betty Ballantine (whose antennae For new writers are supersensitive and most always amazingly authentic) and was an immediate sensation. It was nominated For both the Hugo and the Nebula in that year, and though information technology missed copping the awards, the name Piers Anthony was all of a sudden a first-rank one. His work began appearing in a all the top magazines, and more of import, what he wrote was talked nigh. He became a focal point of controversy, and when his contentiously exciting replies to critics began appearing in the fanzines, it was credible here was a man who was willing to stand toe-to-toe with all the self-styled little literary dictators, and dial the shit out of them when their opinions were muddle-headed or impertinent or uninformed. And often when they weren't.

I met Piers A. D. Jacob at Damon Knight's 1966 Milford (Penna.) Writers' Workshop, and while information technology took some time till subsequently for united states of america to become what each of u.s.a. would phone call "friends," we developed instant respect for one another. I know I did for him, and he assures me the contrary was true. Though I don't call up Piers e'er raising his voice at that workshop - a state of affairs in which obsidian idols would become hysterical - his presence was felt, and he had the strength oF personal conviction to attack with solid literary judgments some of the gods in attendance. When we all went out to dinner at one of the lesser dining spas in Milford, Piers ordered a special vegetarian meal (with some difficulty), and my respect for him increased at the style in which he handled the remarks and stares of his fellow writers. It was articulate that Piers was his own kind of man, that he had decided in what way he could best support the kind of life he felt he needed to enrich himself, and in the most laudatory senses of the word he was a "strange" human. In some means he is the most interesting of all the interesting people who write sf. The fascination of the human being, incidentally, carries over strongly into his piece of work, and - if I tin be pardoned equating the writer with what he writes - where his soul resides in life has much to do with the depth of his stories.

In any example, Piers was too belatedly for DV, but he wrote a very long, very perceptive review of the book for 1 of the fanzines, and in it he mentioned that if there was to be a sequel, he would rain burn and brimstone on me if he was overlooked. At that point, contemplating no companion volumes, I regretted having airtight the book simply before the appearance of Anthony, considering I was securely impressed past "Chthon."

And later on, when Larry Ashmead shunted my little cerise wagon onto the spur leading to A,DV and it became obvious I should not repeat anybody who'd been in the start book, I started drawing upwards a list of writers I wanted in this book. The first name on the list was Piers Anthony. He seemed to embody all the qualities necessary for an advent in a volume intended to conduct forward the ideas of DV: he had come to prominence during the period of "the new wave" (God forgive my use of that phrase), he wrote in a style and with a verve peculiarly his own, he had a sound grounding in the disciplines of the best sf of the past, he was outspoken, his themes were fresh and different, and he was brave.

And so I solicited a story from him.

He sent me a manuscript titled "The Barn" and I liked it very much. I made a few suggestions for revision and wondered if he'd mind adding "In" to the championship.

Hither, in part, was his response, included with this introduction to the man himself, as a (hopefully) interesting insight into how an editor and a writer tin work together.

October 14, 1968

Dearest Harlan,

When I saw the ms of "The Barn" back, I knew my work had bounced . . . withal again, and of grade that item piece had no real promise of publication elsewhere. You had nicely preserved the ms past backing it with cardboard, though, and used your own envelope. I had enclosed postage just not envelope because I had figured y'all would want the story. Ah, well, and I t

ook the story out - and discovered that the cardboard was instead a six-page paper-thin-colored alphabetic character accepting the story. You bastard, y'all shook me upwards again.

Business first: tin can practise. You inquire for revision not deleting the meaty portions, but intensifying them by increasing the protagonist's personal involvement. You are talking my linguistic communication. Fact is, the version of the story I showed you I knew was sketchy, considering I concentrated on the brutality, the daze value. As it stood, I did not consider it high-course literature - even so information technology seemed to me it could be improved quite a bit by filling in more on the hero (?), Hitch. His ain background, a frustrated love affair, some kind of emotional parallel to what he saw in the barn - just I didn't do it a) because it would have diffuse the story, that might already be unacceptable considering of what it described, and b) because information technology would have required boosted work and craftsmanship, and I've put my total skill into my work only to have it bounced past all markets also many times already. I does hesitate to open his vein also far if he suspects his blood is draining not into a patient clinging to life just a rank sewer.

OK - it seems to me now that we see eye-to-center on this story, that lengthening and strengthening of personal involvement will not be endeavour wasted on you lot, and I shall go to information technology. Yous suggest that Hitch might fuck (that give-and-take won't exist used in the story: not because I'm prudish, but considering information technology would strike at a different cognitive level than I'm aiming for in this story) her, and feel an attachment. And then what I take in mind is to run through the ill scene - hand-milking, anal temperature, heated erection (What is the term for perpetual and painful erection? I needed it for this story, couldn't remember it, and couldn't find it listed. I thought it was peripeneurises or some such, but establish no such word in my dictionary. Damn frustrating, to know the discussion exists but non be able to pinpoint it.) pretty much as before, then take the contact with Iota, the teen-aged breeder, be besides much . . .

Main reason I stick to novels at present is that I have notwithstanding to fail to sell an sf novel, yet still can not sell more than nearly 1 story in 5, though information technology is the same skill applied to each form. Seems as though the magazines are determined to bounce anything with any reasonable spark of originality or imagination - but let's not get back into that gripe. You proved the truth of any complaints I might make when you published DV. (You know, I haven't seen any other editor merits he would have published "Riders of the Purple Wage" either. They still claim it is a wide-open market, just they don't mention that . . .)

You say y'all created A,DV simply for me? I find that difficult to believe. How about this: you are afraid that if you don't include me, I will review it once more . . . anyway, whatever the weight of diverse factors, I'thou glad y'all had the offset and will have a second. The field does need this type of shaking upwards. Even more, the field needs the replacement of near 4 magazine editors . . . merely that's another affair. You realize, I trust, that yous won't be able to come upward with another "Purple Wage," and that all the people who condemned it volition then condemn you for non duplicating the feat? Yes, you know.

Lastly, the babe. She's a yr old now, been walking since 9˝ months, has shoulder-length pilus, is impossibly cute. My prejudice, of form - except that everyone who sees her agrees. Name is Penelope - "Penny' - kind of you lot to inquire. I tin can't practise much writing on the days I am taking intendance of her (my married woman works 3 days a week, thus I work the remaining iv), but should exist able to handle the "Barn" revision this coming weekend. You should be hearing from me once again, then, in about a week.

Sincerely,

Piers

And then, just five days later, I received the following . . .

Oct 19, 1968

Dearest Harlan,

Here, four,000 words longer, is "In the Barn." I incorporated your notions and mine, and have what I believe is a superior version. I have not proofread information technology, then there will be typos etc., merely wanted to get information technology out to you as soon as possible. Hurricane Gladys passed past here in the last day, and we were without ability for 17 hours, so portions of the manuscript were typed past kerosene lamplight.

This revision helped have my mind off a dissimilar problem. Iv days ago I had a call from the last publisher I submitted my novel "Macroscope" to, Avon. He was ready to offer an accelerate of $v,ooo without significant revision . . . but it turned out he hadn't read the concluding ninety pages. Since those very pages made another publisher modify its heed, I advised him to end the ms, so brand his offering again if he however felt the same. He said ok, he'd remember in a twenty-four hours or two . . . and that was the last I heard. Ouch! Did I scare him off?

Piers

Every bit it turned out, Piers had not scared off Avon's editor, George Ernsberger, and "Macroscope" was published in 1969 to mixed, but controversial, reviews.

In the last few years Piers has run afoul of the Recession-produced wearies fifty-fifty longer-established, bigger-name writers have come to know. (We can thank Messrs. Nixon, Agnew, Mitchell, Rogers et thugs for that condition of life: perhaps the most innovative method withal devised for "balancing the economic system." They may balance it so well that within a short time we'll all be dorsum on the barter arrangement, which might non exist a bad idea at that. Anyway . . .) Still he has continued to write, and his work continues to be marked by vigor, innovation and a commendable fearlessness.

I think "In the Barn" will surprise, delight and mayhap fifty-fifty shock a few of you lot; but any its final judgment past critics and posterity, it holds for this editor the essence of what this book attempts to do in advancing sf and the fiction of the imagination.

As for the man behind the story, I include here his autobiographical musings, in many means as fascinating as the stories they helped produce. Friends, I give you lot Piers A.D. Jacob.

"I was built-in in Oxford, England on August 6, 1934, thus (I recall) beating out John Brunner for the honor of existence the first contemporary sf writer to be born in that particular locale by nearly vi weeks. Both my parents graduated from Oxford University, which is why I happened to be there at the time. They both went on to obtain Ph.D's in America, while I went on to go an, er, science fiction writer. Happens in the all-time of families. I lived in England to about the age of 4, when I joined my parents in Kingdom of spain. They were doing relief work under the auspices of the AFSC (American Friends Service Committee), feeding milk and food to the hungry children during the Castilian ceremonious war. I believe my father, Alfred Jacob (brother, that fouls upwardly my pseudonym, doesn't it) was caput of the Castilian AFSC relief project. When Franco took over, things became dubious; my family's sympathies were with the Loyalists, who lost that war. One mean solar day my father disappeared. Later several days he managed to smuggle out a note, and thus was documented what the new government had denied: he had been thrown in jail. One of those holes with a trench for sanitary facilities and no separate bathrooms for the female person prisoners: the sort you read about in novels but don't really believe exist. They do be. He got out, just the agreement was that he would depart the country. That spared the Fascists having to acknowledge they had fabricated a mistake. I don't know what happened to the stores of nutrient for the starving children later on that, only I doubt they went where intended. We boarded the Excalibur (this is from memory, and then I don't guarantee ship or spelling, simply I call up that'south information technology) and steamed for America in August, 1940. Information technology happened to be the same send and the same voyage that the Duke of Windsor made, going to the Commonwealth of the bahamas. Remember, he was King Edward 8 of England, who reigned for less than a year until he abdicated in order to marry an American divorcee. I had my sixth birthday on that voyage, celebrated past a cake made of sawdust (they were brusque of party supplies: WW Two, you know) and a harmonica present. I played the latter endlessly, and I wonder to this day whether the in one case King of England had to grit his teeth at the interminable racket.

"Schoolhouse in America was no fun. I attended five schools while struggling through first grade, flunking it twice. Those kickoff grade schools were in five states, besides: Pennsylvania, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine and New York. If I were to guess states by that sampling, I would charge per unit Pennsylvania at the elevation, New Hampshire in the eye, and the rest at the bottom. In New York they were trying to teach me to pronou

nce my words correctly - not realizing that it was my English accent they were attempting to eradicate.

"Higher was a kind of paradise. All the food I could consume (and I ate more than whatsoever person my size I know, without gaining weight) and most complete freedom. It was a no-grade system, then there was no class force per unit area except the student'due south ain desire to larn, and my want was not specially stiff at first. Much of that freedom was wasted, as I did not achieve puberty until historic period 18 and did not shave until 21, merely I did acquire the essentials, as demonstrated by the fact that I got married upon graduation. For my thesis I wrote a science fiction novel, at 95,000 words the longest thesis in the history of the college until that time, 1956. It never sold, merely years afterwards I reworked one segment of it for a contest and won $5,000. I was drafted into the regular army in March, 1957, took bones at Ft. Dix and Survey grooming at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma.

"The ground forces was not paradise. I, as a pacifistically inclined vegetarian, barely fabricated it through basic (about a third of my bicycle didn't - illness, generally). They chosen me 'No Meat.' When the time came for me to make PFC they pulled a bombardment rank-freeze. I went to the battalion C.O. and next day exactly one PFC stripe came downwardly: mine.

"In 1959 nosotros moved to Florida, where nosotros stayed. We had medical problems, so that we were married xi years before we had a baby survive birth. Our first, Penny, came in 1967, and our second, Chery, in 1970; both vivid, beautiful picayune girls well worth waiting for. Penny walked at 9˝ months and spoke 500 words past eighteen months; not sure I can exercise equally much myself, some days! Nosotros're basically settled and happy, and now I've even conformed to the writer's image by growing a bristles.

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