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HEISENBERG'S MAGAZINEbyMichael A. BursteinCopyright � 1997 by Michael A. Burstein. All rights reserved.First appearance in Analog, March 1997.Things seemed a bit strange in the new offices of Dell Magazines. I always liketo know what the place looks like where I send my stories, so I had arranged tohave lunch with Stan Schmidt on the Tuesday after they moved to their newbuilding next to Radio City Music Hall. I arrived a little early, and told thereceptionist that I was here to see anyone from Analog, just in case Stan wasn'tin yet."Hold on," she said, dialing an extension on the phone. The reception area feltempty, even with the cardboard boxes everywhere. I think it was the relativelysmall pile of mail on the receptionist's desk that made it seem so empty.In a minute, the entire editorial staff of Analog ran down the hall to greet me.The exotic Tina Lee, the muscular Scott Towner, the beauteous Sharah Thomas --everyone except Stan. Tina had galleys for me, and Scott proudly handed me a boxfilled with copies of the July 1995 issue I had ordered."Thanks, guys." I looked down at all the stuff they had handed me, and when Ilooked up, Tina and Scott had already gone. That was fast, I thought. Sharahstill waited for me.I reached into my bookbag and surreptitiously handed Sharah a submission forAsimov's, so Stan wouldn't know about it. We hugged in greeting; Sharah and Ihad become good friends since we first met at the Nebulas in 1995 and discoveredthat we had attended Harvard together and lived in the same dorms."I'm sorry to interrupt you guys as you're settling in," I said to her as sheled me to their cubicles.A smile lit up her face. "Think nothing of it. I would stop the world just toget a phone call from you."We arrived at the cubicles. Sharah said goodbye and disappeared behind apartition.Stan was on the telephone, looking none the worse for wear despite the bump onthe head I gave him with a Hugo rocket back in the "Probability Zero" section ofthe October 1995 issue. (Look it up, I'll wait.) As always, his eyes twinkledwith delight when he saw me. He was even more pleased to see me than everbefore, and I wasn't sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the AnalyticalLaboratory Award, the Hugo nomination, or the Campbell nomination.He hung up the phone and said, "Michael! Are you ready? I want to try a newrestaurant today, Argentine Pavillion. New to me, I mean; I've never eatenthere, but I've seen it before.""OK by me. Know where it is?""Yep. I've been by it a dozen times. Let's go." I dropped my stuff in his officecubicle, and we headed out onto Sixth Avenue. I followed Stan to 46th Street,and we walked up and down it twice. All the while Stan kept looking around.Finally, we stopped in front of an abandoned storefront. "It's not here," hesaid."What do you mean?""I could have sworn this was it."I thought for a moment. "Well, we have two choices. We can go back to theoffices and look it up, or we can call Information on a pay phone.""Good idea. I saw a few pay phones on the corner. Let's go."We got to the corner, and there were no payphones. Stan scratched his head,puzzled. Then he laughed."This is familiar," he said."Restaurants and phones disappearing is familiar?" I asked, incredulously."Well, the disappearing part, I mean. Because of the move, a lot of stuff seemsto have been misplaced. Boxes of issues that I thought were in one place turnout to be somewhere else. Even the papers I put on my desk this morningvanished.""That doesn't sound good," I said, thinking of my contracts and checks."Oh, it does have its good points. All the slush manuscripts from unknownwriters disappeared, as well as all the Asimov's Hugos." He grinned."Maybe it's a quantum phenomenon," I suggested. "Heisenberg's UncertaintyPrinciple, and all that. Perhaps there's a wave of uncertainty passing throughthe magazines, even as we speak, making changes left and right.""Hm," Stan said, a gleam in his eye. "You might want to make a 'ProbabilityZero' out of that."I was stunned; I had just been making a joke. "You want another recursive storyabout Analog?" I asked. "Well, if you're willing to publish it, I'm willing towrite it." Then a thought struck me. "Hey, it'll give me a chance to work Sharahinto a story. She's been bugging me to do so, ever since she realized that Ianand Scott were in the last one."He nodded. "You'd better not mention that in print, though, or a lot of peoplewill bug you to put them into stories. Especially Tony Lewis; he loves to keeptrack of recursive science fiction stories, and would probably ask to bementioned in one. In the meantime, let's head back to the offices, before theydisappear entirely." We laughed.Stan had taken only one step when I spotted a pay phone on our corner. "Stan!Look!"He did, and frowned. "I would have sworn this wasn't here a moment ago," hesaid, as I called Information and found the restaurant. The address they gavewas for the abandoned storefront, and when we got there, it was no longer theabandoned storefront, but the restaurant Argentine Pavillion.We didn't question it; maybe there was a wave of uncertainty passing through ourlives at the moment. After all, the fate of the digests had seemed uncertain forquite some time; these were probably residual quantum effects we wereexperiencing.We entered the restaurant and sat down to order lunch. Stan began raving aboutmy stories, and all the ideas he had for my career. He finished by saying,"Michael, as long as I am editor of Analog, your stories will always have amarket. We're going to make you a star!"I blushed and looked down at the table. I still felt a little uncertain aboutthe suddenness of all my success. But I also felt grateful that Stan Schmidt hadshown such faith in me as a writer.Then I looked up. "Stan? Stan!" I shouted, but he had already disappeared.END(If you enjoyed this story, click here to let me know.) [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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HEISENBERG'S MAGAZINEbyMichael A. BursteinCopyright � 1997 by Michael A. Burstein. All rights reserved.First appearance in Analog, March 1997.Things seemed a bit strange in the new offices of Dell Magazines. I always liketo know what the place looks like where I send my stories, so I had arranged tohave lunch with Stan Schmidt on the Tuesday after they moved to their newbuilding next to Radio City Music Hall. I arrived a little early, and told thereceptionist that I was here to see anyone from Analog, just in case Stan wasn'tin yet."Hold on," she said, dialing an extension on the phone. The reception area feltempty, even with the cardboard boxes everywhere. I think it was the relativelysmall pile of mail on the receptionist's desk that made it seem so empty.In a minute, the entire editorial staff of Analog ran down the hall to greet me.The exotic Tina Lee, the muscular Scott Towner, the beauteous Sharah Thomas --everyone except Stan. Tina had galleys for me, and Scott proudly handed me a boxfilled with copies of the July 1995 issue I had ordered."Thanks, guys." I looked down at all the stuff they had handed me, and when Ilooked up, Tina and Scott had already gone. That was fast, I thought. Sharahstill waited for me.I reached into my bookbag and surreptitiously handed Sharah a submission forAsimov's, so Stan wouldn't know about it. We hugged in greeting; Sharah and Ihad become good friends since we first met at the Nebulas in 1995 and discoveredthat we had attended Harvard together and lived in the same dorms."I'm sorry to interrupt you guys as you're settling in," I said to her as sheled me to their cubicles.A smile lit up her face. "Think nothing of it. I would stop the world just toget a phone call from you."We arrived at the cubicles. Sharah said goodbye and disappeared behind apartition.Stan was on the telephone, looking none the worse for wear despite the bump onthe head I gave him with a Hugo rocket back in the "Probability Zero" section ofthe October 1995 issue. (Look it up, I'll wait.) As always, his eyes twinkledwith delight when he saw me. He was even more pleased to see me than everbefore, and I wasn't sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the AnalyticalLaboratory Award, the Hugo nomination, or the Campbell nomination.He hung up the phone and said, "Michael! Are you ready? I want to try a newrestaurant today, Argentine Pavillion. New to me, I mean; I've never eatenthere, but I've seen it before.""OK by me. Know where it is?""Yep. I've been by it a dozen times. Let's go." I dropped my stuff in his officecubicle, and we headed out onto Sixth Avenue. I followed Stan to 46th Street,and we walked up and down it twice. All the while Stan kept looking around.Finally, we stopped in front of an abandoned storefront. "It's not here," hesaid."What do you mean?""I could have sworn this was it."I thought for a moment. "Well, we have two choices. We can go back to theoffices and look it up, or we can call Information on a pay phone.""Good idea. I saw a few pay phones on the corner. Let's go."We got to the corner, and there were no payphones. Stan scratched his head,puzzled. Then he laughed."This is familiar," he said."Restaurants and phones disappearing is familiar?" I asked, incredulously."Well, the disappearing part, I mean. Because of the move, a lot of stuff seemsto have been misplaced. Boxes of issues that I thought were in one place turnout to be somewhere else. Even the papers I put on my desk this morningvanished.""That doesn't sound good," I said, thinking of my contracts and checks."Oh, it does have its good points. All the slush manuscripts from unknownwriters disappeared, as well as all the Asimov's Hugos." He grinned."Maybe it's a quantum phenomenon," I suggested. "Heisenberg's UncertaintyPrinciple, and all that. Perhaps there's a wave of uncertainty passing throughthe magazines, even as we speak, making changes left and right.""Hm," Stan said, a gleam in his eye. "You might want to make a 'ProbabilityZero' out of that."I was stunned; I had just been making a joke. "You want another recursive storyabout Analog?" I asked. "Well, if you're willing to publish it, I'm willing towrite it." Then a thought struck me. "Hey, it'll give me a chance to work Sharahinto a story. She's been bugging me to do so, ever since she realized that Ianand Scott were in the last one."He nodded. "You'd better not mention that in print, though, or a lot of peoplewill bug you to put them into stories. Especially Tony Lewis; he loves to keeptrack of recursive science fiction stories, and would probably ask to bementioned in one. In the meantime, let's head back to the offices, before theydisappear entirely." We laughed.Stan had taken only one step when I spotted a pay phone on our corner. "Stan!Look!"He did, and frowned. "I would have sworn this wasn't here a moment ago," hesaid, as I called Information and found the restaurant. The address they gavewas for the abandoned storefront, and when we got there, it was no longer theabandoned storefront, but the restaurant Argentine Pavillion.We didn't question it; maybe there was a wave of uncertainty passing through ourlives at the moment. After all, the fate of the digests had seemed uncertain forquite some time; these were probably residual quantum effects we wereexperiencing.We entered the restaurant and sat down to order lunch. Stan began raving aboutmy stories, and all the ideas he had for my career. He finished by saying,"Michael, as long as I am editor of Analog, your stories will always have amarket. We're going to make you a star!"I blushed and looked down at the table. I still felt a little uncertain aboutthe suddenness of all my success. But I also felt grateful that Stan Schmidt hadshown such faith in me as a writer.Then I looked up. "Stan? Stan!" I shouted, but he had already disappeared.END(If you enjoyed this story, click here to let me know.) [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]