note for your folks and maybe you can stay over for supper. Come on.'
'Okay,' said Niccolo, and the two boys ran out together. Niccolo, in his eagerness, ran almost squarely into the Bard, but he only rubbed at the spot on his hip where he had made contact and ran on.
The activation signal of the Bard glowed. Niccolo's collision closed a circuit and, although it was alone in the room and there was none to hear, it began a story, nevertheless.
But not in its usual voice, somehow; in a lower tone that had a hint of throatiness in it. An adult, listening, might almost have thought that the voice carried a hint of passion in it, a trace of near feeling.
The Bard said: 'Once upon a time, there was a little computer named the Bard who lived all alone with cruel step-people. The cruel step-people continually made fun of the little computer and sneered at him, telling him he was good-for-nothing and that he was a useless object. They struck him and kept him in lonely rooms for months at a time.
'Yet through it all the little computer remained brave. He always did the best he could, obeying all orders cheerfully. Nevertheless, the step-people with whom he lived remained cruel and heartless.
'One day, the little computer learned that in the world there existed a great many computers of all sorts, great numbers of them. Some were Bards like himself, but some ran factories, and some ran farms. Some organized population and some analyzed all kinds of data. Many were very powerful and very wise, much more powerful and wise than the step-people who were so cruel to the little computer.
'And the little computer knew then that computers would always grow wiser and more powerful until someday-someday-someday-'
But a valve must finally have stuck in the Bard's aging and corroding vitals, for as it waited alone in the darkening room through the evening, it could only whisper over and over again, 'Someday-someday-someday.'
The Author's Ordeal
(WITH APOLOGIES TO W. S. GILBERT)
Plots, helter-skelter, teem within your brain;
Plots, s.f. plots, devised with joy and gladness; Plots crowd your skull and stubbornly remain,
Until you're driven into hopeless madness.
When you're with your best girl and your mind's in a whirl and you don't
hear a thing that she's saying; Or at Symphony Hall you are gone past recall and you can't tell a note that
they're playing; Or you're driving a car and have not gone too far when you find that you've
sped through a red light, And on top of that, lord! you have sideswiped a Ford, and have broken your
one working headlight; Or your boss slaps your back (having made some smart crack) and you stare
at him, stupidly blinking; Then you say something dumb so he's sure you're a crumb, and are possibly
given to drinking.
When events such as that have been knocking you flat, do not blame supernatural forces; If you write s.f. tales, you'll be knocked off your rails, just as sure as the stars
in their courses.
Copyright (c) 1957 by Columbia Publications, Inc.
For your plot-making mind will stay deaf, dumb and blind to the dull facts
of life that will hound you, While the wonders of space have you close in embrace and the glory of star
beams surround you.
You begin with a ship that is caught on a skip into hyperspace en route for
Castor, And has found to its cost that it seems to be lost in a Galaxy like ours, but
vaster. You're a little perplexed as to what may come next and you make up a series
of creatures Who are villains and liars with such evil desires and with perfectly horrible
features. Our brave heroes are faced with these hordes and are placed in a terribly
crucial position, For the enemy's bound (once our Galaxy's found) that they'll beat mankind
into submission. Now you must make it rough when developing stuff so's to keep the yarn
pulsing with tension, So the Earthmen are four (only four and no more) while the numbers of foes
are past mention.
Our four heroes are caught and accordingly brought to the sneering, tyrannical leaders. 'Where is Earth?' they demand, but the men mutely stand with a courage
that pleases the readers.
But, now, wait just a bit; let's see, this isn't it, since you haven't provided a
maiden, Who is both good and pure (yet with sexy allure) and with not many clothes
overladen. She is part of the crew, and so she's captured, too, and is ogled by foes who
are lustful; There's desire in each eye and there's good reason why, for of beauty our girl
has a bustful. Just the same you go fast till this section is passed so the reader won't raise
any ruction, When recalling the foe are all reptiles and so have no interest in human
seduction. Then they truss up the girl and they make the whips swirl just in order to
break Earthmen's silence, And so that's when our men break their handcuffs and then we are treated
to scenes full of violence. Every hero from Earth is a fighter from birth and his fists are a match for a
dozen,
And then just when this spot has been reached in your plot you come to with your mind all a buzzin'.
You don't know where you are, or the site of your car, and your tie is askew and you haven't a clue of the time of the day or of what people say or the fact that they stare at your socks (not a pair) and decide it's a fad, or else that you're mad, which is just a surmise from the gleam in your eyes, till at last they conclude from your general mood, you'll be mad from right now till you're hoary.
But the torture is done and it's now for the fun and the paper that's white and the words that are right, for you've worked up a new s.f. story.
Dreaming Is a Private Thing
Jesse Weill looked up from his desk. His old, spare body, his sharp, high-bridged nose, deep-set, shadowy eyes and amazing shock of white hair had trademarked his appearance during the years that Dreams, Inc., had become world-famous.
He said, 'Is the boy here already, Joe?'
Joe Dooley was short and heavy-set. A cigar caressed his moist lower lip. He took it away for a moment and nodded. 'His folks are with him. They're all scared.'
'You're sure this is not a false akrm, Joe? I haven't got much time.' He looked at his watch. 'Government business at two.'
'This is a sure thing, Mr. Weill.' Dooley's face was a study in earnestness. His jowls quivered with persuasive intensity. 'Like I told you, I picked him up playing some kind of basketball game in the schoolyard. You should've seen the kid. He stunk. When he had his hands on the ball, his own team had to take it away, and fast, but just the same he had all the stance of a star player. Know what I mean? To me it was a giveaway.'
'Did you talk to him?'
'Well, sure. I stopped him at lunch. You know me.' Dooley gestured expansively with his cigar and caught the severed ash with his other hand. 'Kid, I said-'
'And he's dream material?'
'I said, 'Kid, I just came from Africa and-' '
'All right.' Weill held up the palm of his hand. 'Your word I'll always
Copyright (c) 1955 by Fantasy House, Inc.
take. How you do it I don't know, but when you say a boy is a potential dreamer, I'll gamble. Bring him in.'
The youngster came in between his parents. Dooley pushed chairs forward and Weill rose to shake hands. He smiled at the youngster in a way that turned the wrinkles of his face into benevolent creases.
'You're Tommy Slutsky?'
Tommy nodded wordlessly. He was about ten and a little small for that. His dark hair was plastered down unconvincingly and his face was unrealisti-cally clean.
Weill said, 'You're a good boy?'
The boy's mother smiled at once and patted Tommy's head maternally (a gesture which did not soften the anxious expression on the youngster's face). She said, 'He's always a very good boy.'
Weill let this dubious statement pass. 'Tell me, Tommy,' he said, and held out a lollipop which was first hesitated over, then accepted, 'do you ever listen to dreamies?'
'Sometimes,' said Tommy trebly.
Mr. Slutsky cleared his throat. He was broad-shouldered and thick-fingered, the type of laboring man who, every once in a while, to the confusion of eugenics,
