Among Others

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.
    T HURSDAY 10 TH J ANUARY 1980
    In hospital, in bed, in traction, in terrible pain, excuse appalling handwriting. This had better help.
    F RIDAY 11 TH J ANUARY 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