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Piers Anthony
Piers Anthony
Alien Plot
The author wishes to thank Alan Riggs for developing this volume.
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CONTENTS
Faces
Alien Plot
Nonent
20 Years
December Dates
Ship of Mustard
Soft Like a Woman
Imp to Nymph
E van S
Vignettes
Hearts
Revise and Invent
Baby
Cloister
Love 40
Kylo
Plague of Allos
Think of the Reader
Acknowledgments
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Faces
The plant labors all the year, green and growing and undistinguished. At last, in its season,
it blooms, and all the folk remark on the beauty of the flower. Yet that bloom is only the
product of the plant. It is wrong to see the flower as the only important thing, for it is the
plant that makes it—yet it is the aspect of the plant designed to receive attention, and
should be judged as such.
Similarly the writer labors to produce his narrative, and if it is wrong to treat that narrative
as if it had no genesis, still it is the aspect the writer chooses to be represented by. Judge
the writer by his narrative rather than his picture—but do not scorn the picture any more
than the green foliage of the plant, for these may be alternative avenues to comprehension
of the whole.
Alien Plot
I need to make a distinction: The title of this story refers to a plot of ground, while the title
of this collection refers to a dastardly conspiracy. It is the conspiracy by editors to frustrate
writers, and a number of the entries in this volume will harp on that theme. This present
novelette is the major piece of the volume, and the major example.
It started in Mayhem 1990, when I received a solicitation from an editor to contribute a story
to a volume titled After the King: Stories in Honor of J.R.R. Tolkien, to be published in mid-
1992, the 100th anniversary of Professor Tolkien's birth. The guidelines were simple:
stories that were true to the spirit of Tolkien's great accomplishments, or stories that his
work made possible. "Please note," the letter said, "that you cannot use Professor
Tolkien's characters and settings..."
Well, that seemed simple enough. Tolkien made possible the entire modern fantasy genre;
virtually all current fantasy fits under that broad umbrella. As for the spirit of his
accomplishments, let me make this plain: I was a Tolkien fan from the 1940's when I read
The Hobbit, which I considered to be the greatest fantasy adventure ever. I see few
influences by others on my manner of writing, but surely Tolkien had a significant effect. I
didn't like THE LORD OF THE RINGS as well, finding it too long and diffuse, but it was still
great fantasy. It would be hard for me to avoid the spirit of Tolkien in my own fantasy.
But I was jammed for time, because I was answering an average of 150 letters a month that
year and had contracts for half a dozen novels. I couldn't just dash off a token entry; to do
justice to the spirit of Tolkien I would have to make a significant effort. That was apt to put
me behind schedule on my existing projects. So I wrote back, demurring because of the
press of business. But the editor insisted, saying that he really had to have me in that
volume. So, reluctantly, I agreed. I finished the novel I was then in, the 108,000-word
MerCycle, and delayed the next, the 141,000-word Fractal Mode, so as to make space for
the 16,000-word "Alien Plot."
I was not allowed to use any Tolkien setting or character, but was supposed to be true to
the spirit of his fantasy. I pondered, and decided to go whole hog: I made a setting and
characters that were nothing at all like his, but a spirit that was exactly his: that of an
ordinary man getting gradually into something quite alien to the contemporary world, and
finding fulfillment there. The original hobbit really wasn't looking for adventure; he was a
quiet homebody. But before he was through, he had had the greatest adventure of them all.
So I started with an ordinary, undistinguished contemporary man, who longed for the
realms of fantasy, but never expected to experience them. Then, by an unexpected and
strange route, he found himself in just such a realm, and managed to acquit himself
honorably by its odd rules. Just as the original hobbit did. The person was
unprepossessing, but underneath he had character that was to be respected. The spirit, the
essence, without the form, just as the editor required.
I completed the story and shipped it off. The editor sent a brief scrawled acknowledgment,
and didn't mention the matter again. But I saw a note on the volume in a newsletter which
listed Anthony as among the contributors, so I figured that was set.
I heard from my agent: Another editor was offering me more than ten times as much for the
story. Now this was surprising in more than one respect. First, I hadn't used the agent on
this story; I had dealt directly with the editor. The agent was handling my novels, but
stories were really not worth his while. Second, the amount: I was being offered more than I
got from some novels. What prompted such interest, which I hadn't solicited? It was a
resounding endorsement of the story, but an odd proceeding.
I pondered, but concluded that it would not be right to pull my entry from the Tolkien
memorial edition for which it had been written. My sympathy for editors is small, as this
collection will document abundantly; I try not to miss an opportunity to make a snide
remark about editors. But I try to hold myself to a higher standard than that practiced by
editors, and to honor all commitments I make, whether express or implied. Though I had
not yet received the contract for the story, so was not legally bound, I was ethically bound.
So, with regret, I turned down the far richer sale.
Time passed. When, a year after sending in the story, I still had not received a contract for
it, I realized that there had been a slipup somewhere. So I queried the editor, gently: Wasn't
it time for a report on my story?
He didn't answer. Instead I heard from the other editor: "Alien Plot" had been rejected. The
first editor hadn't bothered to inform me. I had never received notice, and I never got my
manuscript back, but it seemed he had decided that my story wasn't right for the volume.
Maybe I should have ignored the editorial instructions and done a clone of Tolkien, as I
readily could have. That was, it seemed, why the second editor had felt free to make the
richer offer. I had turned it down in favor of a sale I never had.
I mentioned editorial ethics. Well...
In this manner this story came to join my collection of rejects, so was available for this
volume. I submit it as Exhibit A in my case against editors, who can treat seasoned pros as
shabbily as hopeful unsold writers.
I do believe in my story. There are things here that I subscribe to, such as protection of the
environment and a longing for a better world. It is an editor's right to reject what doesn't
suit his taste. But it is a writer's right to make his own case. Here is mine.
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It was a desolate region. What pollution hadn't stunted, the drought had wilted. Duff turned
his eyes away from the dreary scene and snoozed as the taxi carried him on.
He imagined a melange of the great realms of fantasy, where magic worked and fantastic
creatures roamed and swords were the state of the art in weaponry. Where wizards cast
horrendous spells, and maidens were not only beautiful but innocent. He had used fantasy
settings in role-playing games, and had tried many fantasy computer games, but none of
them were quite enough. Mostly he just read and reread the wonderful adventures; they
were his main escape from dullness.
For Duff had long since resigned himself to the fact that though he had the aspirations of
an adventurer, he had the body and mind of a nonentity. He wasn't handsome or brilliant;
about all he could claim was decency, and decency didn't carry much weight in the military
life. Or the civilian life, he knew. So he longed for the realms where magic could supply
what he lacked.
Soon he achieved his desire: He dreamed he was in such a land. He didn't have a quest; he
was just walking through a world he knew was magic. He was sure that if he walked far
enough, he would encounter both dragons and sweet maidens. He didn't even want to hurt
the dragons; he just wanted to be in the same world with them. For in such a place, he
would have some kind of magic ability that would make him a person of note. Not of great
reputation, just someone to be respected for himself, that one woman would find intriguing.
He woke as the car slowed, approaching the project grounds. Here, at least, there was
greenery, and the main building looked like an old hotel. It probably was just that,
converted to military use. Behind it was a tall wire fence with the top angled, the kind used
to contain dangerous men or animals. But all that was visible within that compound was a
forest, with a hill in the background.
A portly man in civilian clothing was waiting as the taxi stopped. Duff climbed out, and
hesitated. "Sir?" he inquired.
"Colonel Clelland, but don't salute," the man said, proffering his hand.
"Sergeant Duff Van Dyke, sir," Duff said, taking the hand.
"Come in. Leave your things; you won't be using them." The Colonel drew him on into the
lobby.
"Sir?"
"We have less than an hour to get you into action," the Colonel said. "Keep your mouth
shut and listen while we get you ready."
Duff obeyed, knowing better than to argue with an officer. But he was beginning to doubt
his wisdom in accepting this mysterious assignment. He had admitted to being bored with
military life, and to the consideration of letting his hitch lapse so he could return to civilian
life. But he still had three months to go, and his commander had made him an offer he
couldn't refuse: finish out his hitch with this special assignment, and if thereafter he
wished to re-enlist he would receive a jump promotion. If he elected to leave the service, he
would be given an equivalent civilian job in any region he chose. The commander was a
man of honor; Duff could trust the deal. So he agreed, without knowing anything about it. In
fact, he had been flattered that his re-enlistment was so strongly sought; he had been no
more than a quiet, hardworking paper-pusher. He hadn't figured they would miss him.
He still did not know the nature of his assignment. It was evidently secret. But strange.
The Colonel brought him to a private chamber. A middle-aged woman was there. "Dress
him," the Colonel told her.
She approached Duff immediately and began to remove his clothing. "Sir—" Duff protested,
surprised.
"Stand still; there's no time for that." The Colonel flashed a momentary glare that showed
that he had indeed had decades of command, and Duff was cowed. He tuned out the
woman as well as he could, and listened.
"As you know, we have been exploring alternate aspects of reality," the Colonel continued
after a pause. Duff hadn't known that, but masked his surprise. The military cult of secrecy
was one of the things that had made him yearn for civilian life. Evidently the Colonel
assumed he had been briefed. "Most of the alternates we have discovered are similar to our
own culture, with distressingly similar problems of overpopulation, depletion of resources,
and fouled-up political systems. There really is no point in establishing relations with them;
they can't help us and we can't help them. We have been looking for rich wilderness worlds
to colonize and exploit; we could solve all our problems with a few of those."
"Yes, sir," Duff said. But he remembered how the Western Hemisphere had represented
such a solution for crowded Europe. He was something of a fan of medieval Europe,
because that was the implied setting for much of heroic fantasy. It was even said that
Middle Earth was merely a map of Europe turned sideways. But in real life, Europe had
destroyed most of its heroic natural resources. All too soon the New World had been fully
colonized and exploited, and now had problems just like the old ones. Was it really good to
have man laying waste pristine lands for short-term benefits?
Meanwhile, the woman was undressing him. She was perfectly businesslike, but it was hard
to tune it out completely.
"A year ago, we discovered an ideal world," the Colonel said. "Phenomenal resources of
wood, coal, oil, gold, diamonds, pure water—everything this Earth of ours ever had,
because it is this world, but with all its assets untouched. There are people there, but they
do not use these things. They do not seem to amass wealth. They do not practice war. They
seem to live in absolute peace and harmony with nature. It's uncanny, and of course
suspicious."
"Of course, sir," Duff agreed. Oh, to live in such a culture! He was tired of the rat race that
was daily existence. He had enlisted in the military life because of the security of money,
housing and health care it offered, but felt stultified by its lack of adventure. It would not be
better in war time, he knew; then there would be excitement of a sort, but it could kill him.
He wanted ultimate security and ultimate freedom, and it didn't seem to exist.
Which reminded him: He was now standing naked, the woman having stripped him
completely. The Colonel didn't seem to notice.
"So we sent in an armed party to subdue them, naturally. And it disappeared. So we sent in
planes and tanks—and they disappeared. Obviously the natives have some kind of weapon
we don't know about. We don't dare try to colonize and exploit that world until we have
pacified those dangerous aliens. But we can't pacify them until we nullify their weapon, and
we can't do that until we know what it is."
"That makes sense, sir," Duff said. But in his private heart, he was rooting for the folk of the
other world. Let them remain undespoiled!
Now the woman was dressing him in odd clothing. Strange thick underwear, and a winding
around the waist. The dress of the otherworld folk?

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