Iterations and other stories (collection)

The cube rounded out onto the landing platter. A variety of robots—flatbeds, info cubes, and some kinds I hadn’t seen before—were already at work on the Foxtrot.; others were rolling in from various places around the starport. I looked at the ship, its sleek lines, its powerful engines. I thought of the giant, lonely Terry Fox up in orbit. I thought and thought and thought. “Stop,” I said at last.

The robots did just that. “Yes, Carl?” said the multitude.

I hesitated. The words weren’t easy. But they were the truth. “I—I just had to see for myself that it was my choice; that I still had my free will.” I cleared my throat. “Wendy?”

The tank on the nearest info robot became transparent. Interference-pattern cubes coalesced into the pretty face within. “Yes, darling?”

“I love you.”

“You know I love you, too, Carl.”

I steeled myself. “And I’m staying.”

Her voice sang with joy. “Just relax, darling. This won’t hurt a bit.”

Her image was replaced by dancing and whirling prismatic lights. I was aware of a new image forming in the tanks of the other info robots, an image growing more and more refined as cubic pixels divided and subdivided: an image of the two of us, side by side, together, forever. I let myself go.

I was home at last.

Lost in the Mail

Finalist for the Aurora Award for Best Short Story of the Year

Author’s Introduction

A writer is usually too modest to mention his own reviews, but I have a reason in this instance, so please bear with me: “Among the full-length stories in TransVersions #3, the standout is ‘Lost in the Mail’ ”—Tangent, “This great and gimmicky story almost makes the whole package worth it all by itself”—Scavenger’s Newsletter; “Excellent, imaginative, and well-written, further evidence of Sawyer’s talents^—North Words, “If there is any justice in the world, Sawyer should win the Aurora Award for the emotive ‘Lost in the Mail’ ”—Sempervivum.

Not too shabby, eh? And although I didn’t win the Aurora— Canada’s top honor in SF—that year (Robert Charles Wilson’s fabulous “The Perseids” did), I did come in second. But the story in question was rejected seventeen times before it sold—which just goes to show that a writer shouldn’t give up if he or she believes in a particular piece of work.

“Lost in the Mail” is not autobiographical—although I can see how people giving it a cursory read might think that it is. Like Jacob Coin, I used to want to be a paleontologist. And, again like him, I spent many years as a nonfiction writer. But Jacob is a sad man, and I am not. He decided not to pursue his dream, and instead settled into an uninteresting, uneventful life. Me, I did go after one of my dreams—being an SF writer. I’m pleased—and, frankly, a little surprised—that such a quiet, introspective, personal tale struck a responsive chord with so many people.

* * *

The intercom buzzer sounded like a cardiac defibrillator giving a jump-start to a dying man. I sprang from my chair, not even pausing to save the article I was working on, threw back the dead bolt, and hurried into the corridor. My apartment was next to the stairwell, so I swung through the fire door and bounded down the three flights to the lobby, through the inner glass door, and into the building’s entry chamber.

The Pope was digging through his bag. Of course, he wasn’t really the Pope—he probably wasn’t even Catholic—but he bore a definite resemblance to John Paul II. The underarms of his pale blue Canada Post shirt were soaked and he was wearing those dark uniform shorts that made him look like an English schoolboy. We exchanged greetings; he spoke in an obscure European accent.

A hole in the panel above the mailboxes puckered like an infected wound. John Paul inserted a brass key into it. The panel flopped forward the way a pull-down bed does, giving him access to a row of little cubicles. He began stuffing the day’s round of junk mail into these—a bed of fertilizer for the first-class goodies. He left my mailbox empty, though, and instead dealt out a frill set of leaflets and sale flyers onto the counter that jutted from the wall.

For most people the real mail amounted to one or two pieces, but I got a lot more than that—including a copy of the Ryerson Rambler, the alumni magazine from Ryerson Polytechnic University. When he was finished, the Pope scooped up my pile and handed it to me. As usual, it was too much to fit comfortably into the box. “Thanks,” I said, and headed back into the lobby.

I’d promised myself that I’d always take the stairs up to the third floor—one of these days I’d lose that spare tire—but, well, the elevator was right there, its door invitingly open…