Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

An all-star tribute to Gene Wolfe, featuring the work of Neil Gaiman, David Brin, Nancy Kress, and others Perhaps no living author of imaginative fiction has earned the awards, accolades, respect, and literary reputation of Gene Wolfe. His prose has been called subtle and brilliant, inspiring not just lovers of fantasy and science fiction, but readers of every stripe, transcending genre and defying preconceptions. In this volume, a select group of Wolfe's fellow authors pay tribute to the award-winning creator of The Book of the New Sun, The Fifth Head of Cerberus , Soldier of the Mist , The Wizard Knight and many others, with entirely new stories written specifically to honor the writer hailed by The Washington Post as "one of America's finest." Shadows of the New Sun features contributions by Neil Gaiman, David Brin, David Drake, Nancy Kress, and many others, plus two new short stories by Gene Wolfe himself. "Top-notch writers have brought all their skills to bear on making this homage worthy of Wolfe’s prodigious talents, and it shows."― Publishers Weekly J.E. Mooney is the co-editor of Shadows of the New Sun. Bill Fawcett has been a professor, teacher, corporate executive, and college dean. His entire life has been spent in the creative fields and managing other creative individuals. He is one of the founders of Mayfair Games, a board and role-play gaming company. As an author, Fawcett has written or coauthored over a dozen books and dozens of articles and short stories. As a book packager, a person who prepares series of books from concept to production for major publishers, his company, Bill Fawcett & Associates, has packaged more than 250 titles for virtually every major publisher. He founded, and later sold, what is now the largest hobby shop in Northern Illinois. Frostfree GENE WOLFE Roy Tabak had a new refrigerator. There could be no doubt of that. It gleamed. It was wider than his old one; it was taller, too. It made everything else in his kitchen look small and a trifle dirty. Brand new, he decided, and styled in a subtly pleasing way nothing in the store was. No doubt he had special-ordered. No doubt it had been delivered, and he had opened the door for the delivery and exchanged a few tired jokes with the men who brought it. When they had gone, he had no doubt wiped it down and waxed it with appliance wax. Roy Tabak sold refrigerators, and he could remember none of that. He opened the main compartment. There was food in it, and it looked good. There was beer in it, too, twenty bottles as least. It was not his brand, and the food was not his. What was that green stuff? Movers, clearly, had been moving furniture and so forth into a new apartment. There had not been room enough in the van for this large refrigerator, so they had made a separate trip for it. They had put it in his apartment by mistake. No doubt they had been amateurs, friends helping some friend move. They had failed to notice that the refrigerator had been full of food and beer. It was all very simple and convincing, and it would be more simple and convincing after a beer. Still more after six or eight. Aloud, Roy Tabak said, “Hell and damn!” “If you are unable to find that which you seek,” his new refrigerator said politely, “I may be able to direct you, sir.” Roy Tabak went into the living room and sat down. How many beers had he had? None at all. He had just gotten home from work. Besides, beer didn’t do that. He took off his suit coat and hung it almost neatly in the hall closet, loosened his tie, then removed it altogether and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar was not tight, but he unbuttoned it anyway. Tight collars could make you hear voices, right? After much searching, enlivened by some pacing up and down, during which he was careful not to look through his cramped little dining room into his kitchen, the phone book provided the number of the Free Psychiatric Hotline—“Trained Psycholagists on Duty 24/7.” The misspelling of “psychologists” did nothing to increase his confidence, but he dialed the number anyway. “Free Psychiatric Hotline. How can we help you?” “It’s not normal to hear voices, is it?” “That depends. You’re hearing mine right now, aren’t you?” “I don’t mean like that,” Roy said. “You know what I mean.” “Voices that accuse you of things?” “No.” “Voices that urge you to commit murder?” “Huh-uh. This voice offered to help me find something in my—I mean in the refrigerator in my kitchen.” “Ummm.” “It was very polite. Like a woman’s voice, but like the noise a refrigerator makes when it runs. You know.” “I wish I did. Is there a woman there with you?” Roy Tabak winced. “No. No, there’s not.” “Maybe a neighbor?” Mrs. Jackson was not at all bad looking; there had been times when he had envied Mr. Jackson. Mrs. Adcock was a bit too old. “No,” he said. “I’m alone.” “Perhaps someone just dropped in. Someone selling something.” Dahlia—over in Lingerie—was hotter than hell. Roy said, “I sell