The John Varley Reader by John Varley Page B

world picture.”
    She was watching him to see how he reacted to this. She was not surprised to see him accept it readily.
    â€œI should have known that,” he said. “I should have thought of it. It was only six hours out here, and more than a year for me. Computers think faster. Why didn’t I see that?”
    â€œI helped you not see it,” she admitted. “Like the push I gave you not to question why you were studying so hard. Those two orders worked a lot better than some of the orders I gave you.”
    She yawned again, and it seemed to go on forever.
    â€œSee, it was pretty hard for me to interface with you for six hours straight. No one’s ever done it before; it can get to be quite a strain. So we’ve both got something to be proud of.”
    She smiled at him but it faded when he did not return it.
    â€œDon’t look so hurt, Fingal. What is your first name? I knew it, but erased it early in the game.”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œI don’t know. Surely you must see why I haven’t fallen in love with you, though you may be a perfectly lovable person. I haven’t had time. It’s been a very long six hours, but it was still only six hours. What can I do?”
    Fingal’s face was going through awkward changes as he absorbed that. Things were not so bleak after all.
    â€œYou could go to dinner with me.”
    â€œI’m already emotionally involved with someone else, I should warn you of that.”
    â€œYou could still go to dinner. You haven’t been exposed to my new determination. I’m going to really make a case.”
    She laughed warmly and got up. She took his hand.
    â€œYou know, it’s possible that you might succeed. Just don’t put wings on me again, all right? You’ll never get anywhere like that.”
    â€œI promise. I’m through with visions—for the rest of my life.”

INTRODUCTION TO “In the Hall of the Martian Kings”
    I sold half a dozen stories over the next year. Not enough to support myself and my family, but enough to make life a bit easier. But it was becoming clear that I was unlikely to make a living just selling short stories. I worked fast in those days, but never turned out more than two in any given month, and usually only one. If I sold them all, it wouldn’t be enough. I started to think in terms of another novel.
    Growing up, I had been aware that there was something called fandom, but it had never occurred to me that I might be a part of it. I know there are places more off the beaten track than Nederland, Texas, but growing up there it was hard to imagine them. We had a good football team, went to the state AAA finals a couple times. We had a great band, one of the best in the state, that had marched in John F. Kennedy’s inaugural parade, in which I played trumpet, French horn, and baritone horn at various times. But academically we were only middling. The only other things Nederland had to brag about, wedged there between Beaumont and Port Arthur, were mosquitoes the size of P-51s, five big refineries within smelling distance, and the semiannual hurricane.
    I was not a complete hick. I’d been to Dallas, and New Orleans, and knew that was the life for me. When I got my driver’s license (you could get it at age fourteen in Texas), I used every opportunity I could find to wheedle the keys to Dad’s big Mercury and tear down U.S. 90 to Houston, ninety miles away, seeing if that needle would still peg out at 120 mph. It always did, and so did the Pontiac, later (Sorry, Dad) . . . just to stare up at the big buildings. One was forty stories tall!
    But so far as I knew no science fiction convention had ever been held within a thousand miles of me. Those things happened in New York, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Denver.
    Shangri-La, Neverland, El Dorado.
    Then I became aware that something called Westercon was being held in Oakland, California. By then I