A Blink of the Screen

uncertainly.
    ‘If you say so,’ said Erdan.
    ‘And you watch too much far-seeing box.’
    ‘Television,’ corrected Erdan. ‘Can I take it back?’
    ‘What, to Chimera?’
    ‘It get lonely on the endless taiga between books.’
    ‘You found the Channel Four button, I see.’ Dogger turned the idea over in his mind. It had a certain charm. Erdan the Barbarian with his blood-drinking sword, chain-mail kilt, portable television, and thermal blanket.
    No, it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t as if there were many channels in Chimera, and probably one of the few things you couldn’t buy in the mysterious souks of Ak-Terezical was a set of decent ni-cads.
    He shivered. What was he thinking about? He really was going mad. The fans would kill him.
    And he knew he’d never be able to send Erdan back. Not now. Something had changed, he’d never be able to do it again. He’d enjoyed creating Chimera. He only had to close his eyes and he could see the Shemark Mountains, every lofty peak trailing its pennant of snow. He knew the Prades Delta like the back of his hand. Better. And now it was all going, ebbing like the tide. Leaving Erdan.
    Who was evolving.
    ‘Here it say “House of Tofu”,’ said Erdan.
    Who had learned to read.
    Whose clothes somehow looked less hairy, whose walk was less of a shamble.
    And Dogger knew that, when they walked through that door, Erdan and Nicky would hit it off. She’d see him all right. She always seemed to look right through Dogger, but she’d see Erdan.
    His hair was shorter. His clothes looked merely stylish. Erdan had achieved in a short walk from the bus stop what it had taken most barbarians ten thousand years to accomplish. Logical, really. After all, Erdan was basically your total hero type. Put him in any environment and he’d change to fit. Two hours with Nicky and he’d be torpedoing whaling ships and shutting down nuclear power stations single-handedly.
    ‘You go on in,’ he said.
    ‘Problems?’ said Erdan.
    ‘Just got something to sort out. I’ll join you later. Remember, though, I made you what you are.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Erdan.
    ‘Here’s the spare key to the flat in case I’m not back. You know. Get held up or something.’
    Erdan took it gravely.
    ‘You go ahead. Don’t worry, I won’t send you back to Chimera.’
    Erdan gave him a look in which surprise was leavened with just a hint of amusement.
    ‘Chimera?’ he said.
    The word processor clicked into life.
    And the monitor was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the screen, with of course the exception of the beckoning flicker of the cursor.
    Dogger’s hand moved upon the face of the keyboard.
    It ought to work both ways. If belief was the engine of it all, it ought to be possible to hitch a ride if you really were mad enough to try it.
    Where to start?
    A short story would be enough, just to create the character. Chimera already existed, in a little bubble of fractal reality created by these ten fingers.
    He began to type, hesitantly at first, and then speeding up as the ideas began to crystallize.
    After a little while he opened the kitchen window. Behind him, in the darkness, the printer started up.
    The key turned in the lock.
    The cursor pulsed gently as the two of them came in, talked, made coffee, talked again in the body language of people finding they really have a lot in common. Words like ‘holistic approach’ floated past its uncritical beacon.
    ‘He’s always doing things like this,’ she said. ‘It’s the drinking and smoking. It’s not a healthy life. He doesn’t know how to look after himself.’
    Erdan paused. He found the printed output cascading down the table, and now he put down the short MS half read. Outside a siren wailed, dopplered closer, shut off.
    ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.
    ‘I said he doesn’t look after himself.’
    ‘I think he may have to learn,’ he said. He picked up a pencil, regarded the end of it thoughtfully until the necessary skills clicked precisely in his head, and made a few insertions. The idiot hadn’t even specified what kind of clothing he was wearing. If you’re really going to write first person, you might as well keep warm. It got damn cold out on the steppes.
    ‘You’ve known him a long time, then?’
    ‘Years.’
    ‘You don’t look like most of his friends.’
    ‘We were quite close at one time. I expect I’d better see to the place until he comes back.’ He pencilled in ‘but the welcoming firelight of