“Who’s been around long enough?” Greg asked.
“The Catholic Church?” Janine offered.
Pete snorted. “If so, they haven’t been doing a very good job of it. They controlled half the world, and they lost control.”
(Janine and Pete are back together. They were holding hands under the table. I don’t know if she’s forgiven him for supporting Wim or whether she’s come around to Hugh’s view of things. I couldn’t ask, even when we were just chatting at the end, because Wim was there.)
“Unless it’s actually a secret inner cabal whose goals are not the church’s ostensible goals,” I said.
“Templars?” Keith suggested.
“Secret alien technologist Templars!” Wim put in.
We were a long way off the Foundation books. But that was all right, that was how it bounces. It’s so nice to be with people who have read the things I’ve read and whose minds go to those sort of places. The idea of secret alien technologist Templars manipulating all of history for mysterious ends—maybe to get people to go to the moon, where they have a cache or something, as in The Sirens of Titan?—is just so wonderful.
At the end, I told everyone about The Sign of the Unicorn, but couldn’t lend it to anyone because Daniel still has it. I’ll ask him to send it. Almost everyone was excited, and the two or three people who hadn’t read the first two—and they’re in for a treat—got told about them. Only Brian doesn’t like Zelazny. Greg says he’ll order it for the library, but not until April because they’re out of money for book purchase until the new financial year. If I was rich, I’d donate lots of money to libraries.
“Meanwhile, people can get it through interlibrary loan,” Greg said, and smiled at me.
“That reminds me,” I said. “What else has Zelazny written?”
Tons, apparently, but almost none of it in print. Greg’s going to put ILL for it all through for me. He’s one of the nicest people I know. You can’t tell at first because he’s very closed down, but underneath he’s lovely.
Next week, Cordwainer Smith! Terrific.
Wim came up to me as we were all leaving. “Did you say you hadn’t read The Dream Master?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I said.
“I could lend you that, if you don’t want to wait for it to come. If you like, I could meet you here with it on Saturday.”
So I’m meeting Wim in the library at half past eleven on Saturday for him to lend it to me.
Nobody who offers to lend me Zelazny could be as black as he’s been painted.
Thursday 10th January 1980
In hospital, in bed, in traction, in terrible pain, excuse appalling handwriting. This had better help.
Friday 11th January 1980
I feel kidnapped. I came to the hospital yesterday morning for an outpatient appointment. The doctor, Dr. Abdul, looked at my x-rays for five minutes, poked at my leg for two minutes, and said I needed a week in traction. He told his assistant to make a date for it, found there was a bed available right now, telephoned Daniel and the school, and the next thing I knew here I was on the rack. It really feels like being on the rack. It’s hard to do anything. Writing is very hard. I’m doing it forwards, because backwards is just too difficult, even with all the practice I get. I keep pouring water on myself when I drink. Even reading is hard. My leg is held out on this thing, elevated on white metal bars, strapped in place, stretched agonisingly so it hurts like hell every second, and the rest of me is forced flat. I can hardly move at all. I have read all three books I had in my bag, one of them twice. (Clement’s Mission of Gravity.) I should have brought more, but I only had three because I know about hospital waiting times.
Pain, pain, more pain, and the indignity of bedpans. I have to press a button for a nurse when I want a drink or a bedpan, and sometimes they don’t come for ages, but if I count on that and call early, they seem to come right away. To add insult to injury there’s a television at the end of the ward. It’s unavoidable, and even more unbearable than usual as it’s constantly tuned to ITV, so there are adverts. I wonder if hell is like this? I’d definitely prefer lakes of sulphur and at least being able to swim about in them.
All the other patients have visitors between two and three, or six and seven, which are visiting hours. This is the second day I’ve watched them all troop in with flowers and grapes and odd expressions. I watch them compulsively, as well as I can watch anyone from this angle. I’m not expecting anyone, and indeed, I don’t get anyone. Daniel could come. It’s not all that far, and he knows I’m here. I don’t expect they’ll let him though.
I won’t be able to meet Wim tomorrow and he’ll think I didn’t show because I have heard bad things about him.
A woman at the end of the ward has started to scream, short staccato cutoff screams. They’re putting screens around her bed so the rest of us can’t see what they’re doing to her. This is definitely much worse than the way most people describe hell.
Saturday 12th January 1980
Still on the rack.
Miss Carroll came in towards the end of visiting time last night with a pile of light paperbacks. They’re from the school library and therefore not ordinarily terribly exciting, but right now they seemed like manna. She couldn’t stay long. Nobody told her I was here, but when she hadn’t seen me she went to find out what had happened. She came as soon as she knew. I almost cried when she told me that. I had no idea how hard it is to blow my nose in this position. She promised to tell Greg where I was, and he can tell Wim and the others. She’s coming back tonight with more books.
Dear God, if you are there and care and can bless people, please bless Alison Carroll with your very best blessing.
She brought me three books by Piers Anthony, the first books in two different series. I think she chose them because they’re at the beginning of the alphabet and she was in a hurry. I hadn’t read them, because, frankly, they looked like crap. I’m beyond the stage of reading the whole library in alphabetical order, though I’m glad to have done it once. I’m enjoying these anyway. So far I’ve read Vicinity Cluster, and Chaining the Lady, and I’m about to start A Spell for Chameleon which is fantasy. I was right, they are crap really, but they hold my attention and don’t require all my brain, which when half of my brain is sending me messages like “Ow, Ow, Ow” or “Remove leg from rack soonest,” is actually an advantage. I had weird “hosts” universe dreams last night, about transferring into alien bodies. All of them had bad legs, though; even when I was in a ballerina’s body she had to dance with a walking stick. I suppose that was the pain coming through even when I was asleep. Last night I read myself to sleep and then they woke me up to give me a sleeping pill.
Sunday 13th January 1980
Miss Carroll came back last night with more books and a bunch of grapes, and Greg came this afternoon, bringing Janine and Pete, and more books. Also, while they were here and we were talking about Piers Anthony, who Pete likes, and Greg compared to Chaucer (!), Daniel turned up. I didn’t notice him at first, because I wasn’t obsessively looking over at the door at other people’s visitors because I had three of my own for a change. He came sidling up to the bed looking embarrassed. I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should kiss me or not, and in the end he didn’t. He had also brought books, and a big card from his sisters, and more grapes, little red ones. I don’t know why people bring grapes. Are they supposed to be specially healing? Janine brought a Mars Bar, which was rather more welcome, though messy to eat. The food in here is just beyond horrible.