The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories

The Girl Who Loved Animals

And Other Stories

Bruce McAllister

With an Introduction by

Harry Harrison

And an Afterword by

Barry N. Malzberg

CEMETERY DANCE PUBLICATIONS

Baltimore MD

2012

The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories Copyright © 2007 by Bruce McCallister
 

A Man of Our Time Copyright © 2007 by Harry Harrison 

Afterword: The Arc of Circumstance Copyright © 2007 by Barry N. Malzberg

“Angels,” first published in
Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine,
May 1990. 

 “The Ark,” first published in
OMNI,
September 1985. 

 “Assassin,” first published in
OMNI,
February 1994. 

 “Benji’s Pencil,” first published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
March 1969. 

 “The Boy in Zaquitos,” first published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
January 2006. 

 “Dream Baby,” first published in
In the Field of Fire,
edited by Jack Dann and Jeanne Van Buran Dann, Tor, 1987. 

 “The Faces Outside,” first published in
if: Worlds of Science Fiction,
July 1963. 

 “The Girl Who Loved Animals,” first published in
OMNI,
May 1988. 

 “Hero, The Movie,” first published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
July 2005. 

 “Kin,” first published in
Asimov’s Science Fiction,
February 2006. 

 “Little Boy Blue,” first published in
OMNI,
June 1989. 

 “The Man Inside,” first published in
Galaxy Science Fiction,
May 1969. 

 “Moving On,” first published in
OMNI Best Science Fiction Three,
edited by Ellen Datlow, OMNI Books, 1993. 

 “Southpaw,” first published in
Asimov’s Science Fiction,
August 1993. 

 “Spell,” first published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
August 2005. 

 “Stu,” first published online on SCIFICTION, November 23, 2005. 

 “World of the Wars,” first published in
Mars, We Love You,
edited by Jane Hipolito and Willis E. McNelly, Doubleday, 1971.

Edited by Marty Halpern

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

First Digital Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-330-6

Cover Artwork Copyright ©
2012 by Jill Bauman

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

To my wife 

Amelie 

And to my children 

Annie, Ben and Liz 

For the love that makes all things possible 

Acknowledgements 

To my mentors in writing, interdisciplinary scholarship, university life, and life at large—without whom these stories would not have been written and without whom a life would have been lived much less well and wisely: Carl Glick, Harry Harrison, Howard Hurlbut, Willis McNelly, Barry Malzberg, Rebecca Rio-Jelliffe, and Jack Tobin. 

To my agent, Russell Galen, the most patient of men. 

To my magazine editors—for their generosity of spirit, high standards, and faith: Fred Pohl, Ed Ferman, Terry Carr, Gardner Dozois, Ellen Datlow, Gordon Van Gelder, Gavin Grant, Sheila Williams, Sean Wallace, and Bridget McKenna. 

And, finally, to my excellent editor at Golden Gryphon, Marty Halpern; and to the hardcover edition's cover artist, the gifted John Picacio. 

Introduction: A Man of Our Time 

The year was 1969, and I was living in San Diego in the sunny state of California. I was a hardworking freelancer staying alive by turning out at least a novel a year—and a number of short stories as well. Since at one time I had edited a number of science fiction magazines, I had these editorial talents to fall back on if needs be. 

And I needed them. When Joan and I had moved to Europe ten years earlier, our baby, Todd, was just a year old. Living then, while not exactly easy, was certainly easier with the dollar strong and our needs simple. Now with a mortgage, a new car, and daughter Moira happily expanding our family, I needed to turn the handle on the side of the typewriter harder and longer. (I ended up editing fifty anthologies, mostly with Brian Aldiss, but that is another story.) Now I was reading stories for possible use in the
Best SF: 1969
. The pile of magazines next to my armchair was high and every one had to be gone through carefully. 

The top one was an issue of
Galaxy;
I picked it up with a certain expectation. Fred Pohl was an excellent editor and could be counted upon to have a few interesting stories in every issue. 

I had just started reading a story by a writer I had never heard of when Joan called me for dinner. I flipped the page, saw that it was a short-short of under a thousand words. “On the way,” I called out and turned the page. Finished the story with a smile and put a marking slip into the magazine. We could use it. 

The story was “The Man Inside,” and the author was the then-unknown Bruce McAllister. 

In addition to the slogging work, editing has an unexpected pleasure; you make new friends. Science fiction writers are a gregarious lot. They enjoy meeting each other, at conventions or elsewhere, and a certain amount of drink is liable to be taken. One of the satisfactions of editing is the chance to start correspondence with other SF writers. It is almost a tautology that good writers make good friends. (I can think of only one, perhaps two, exceptions to that rule out of all the hundreds of writers that I have known.) In pre-email days, correspondence by post was very much in order. First you wrote and made an offer for the anthology rights. If this is accepted, the editor then responds with contract forms; then signatures and contracts are exchanged and, occasionally, a request for a rewrite. This all necessitates a certain amount of correspondence which, many times, continues well after the story rights have been bought and paid for. Very often this leads to actual meetings in the flesh and, as I have said, a drink or two. 

It was most fortuitous that Bruce lived a few miles away from me. At some point during our correspondence he was invited to drop by the house—and he accepted. 

I remember that it was on a weekend and the sun was shining. I answered the door chimes and not only was Bruce there—but so was his father and mother. Unexpected but certainly not unwelcome since he was far younger than I had imagined from our correspondence—just a college kid, and his own car was in the repair shop. I ushered them in. His mother a pleasant woman of about my age. His father gray-haired with a most military bearing. 

As well he might have—since he was a captain in the US Navy. 

That was the first time that Bruce and I met and certainly was not the last. He was writing more fine SF and happily selling it as well while he attended college. 

It was soon after this that I turned to him for aid. What I really needed to help me in my editorial chores was a “first reader.” Each year I had to plow through all the science fiction magazines and anthologies to find the stories for the “year’s best.” To do this I had to read between two hundred and three hundred stories. It was a daunting task since I also had to write a novel—and a few short stories—in the same period. The stack of magazines by my chair seemed to grow not shrink; I was growing desperate. What I needed was that first reader. Someone to cull out the unacceptable, the not-quite-good enough. And most important of all—the possibles. 

I asked Bruce to do the job and he was, understandably, taken aback. I explained that at worst he might fail. But if it worked out he would supply the help I so badly needed. 

The story has a most happy ending. He plowed through the mountain of stories and recommended the possibles. I read these and found myself buying one out of the three that he sent on to me. After that, he became managing editor of the “year’s best” and remained so for many years until a stupid publisher, for even stupider reasons, killed the series. We both profited from the relationship in more ways than one. We’ve remained close friends down through the years. I was greatly honored when he was kind enough to ask me to write this introduction to his first collection. 

Since that day so many years ago, he has grown into a writer of many strengths. Look at “Dream Baby,” published here. It is a novelette of great depth and warmth and tells us very much about the human condition. It is pure SF, but is as well written and moving as any work of mainstream fiction. This story was the framework on which he built a novel that well deserved its later success. 

I read this volume with great pleasure—a pleasure you will surely share. Some of the stories are old friends; others a happy surprise. In all of them you will find a humanity that is all too often missing from SF. At other times there is the chill of disorientation and alienness that only good SF—and good writing—can convey. Read the collection’s title story for a frightening, yet moving look at a possible future. 

But as good wine needs no bush, so these stories don’t need my approval. 

Thank you, Bruce. 

Harry Harrison 

Sussex, England 

Dream Baby 

Dream Baby, got me dreamin’ sweet dreams 

The whole day through. 

Dream Baby, got me dreamin’ sweet dreams 

The night time too. 

—Cindy Walker 

I don’t know whether I was for or against the war when I went. I joined and became a nurse to help. Isn’t that why everyone becomes a nurse? We’re told it’s a good thing, like being a teacher or a mother. What they don’t tell us is that sometimes you can’t help. 

Our principal gets on the PA one day and tells us how all these boys across the country are going over there for us and getting killed or maimed. Then he tells us that Tony Fischetti and this other kid are dead, killed in action, Purple Hearts and everything. A lot of the girls start crying. I’m crying. I call the Army and tell them my grades are pretty good, I want to go to nursing school and then ’Nam. They say fine, they’ll pay for it but I’m obligated if they do. I say it’s what I want. I don’t know if any other girls from school did it. I really didn’t care. I just thought somebody ought to. 

I go down and sign up and my dad gets mad. He says I just want to be a whore or a lesbian, because that’s what people will think if I go. I say, “Is that what you and Mom think?” He almost hits me. Parents are like that. What other people think is more important than what they think, but you can’t tell them that. 

I never saw a nurse in ’Nam who was a whore and I only saw one or two who might have been butch. But that’s how people thought, back here in the States. 

I grew up in Long Beach, California, a sailor town. Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I forget I wore my hair in a flip and liked miniskirts and black pumps. Sometimes all I can remember is the hospitals.