Chilton swirled his beer around within the smoky brown bottle.
"But Star Trek was set only a couple of centuries ahead. Heinlein's Future History, Smith's Instrumentality, Niven's Known Space -- they all just dipped their toes in the infinite oceans of time stretching out before us."
Burly, bearded Rabinski stood across the room, arguing with pencil-thin Sedgwick over the period authenticity of the new Arthurian series from the BBC. Cox and the others, however, stood in a semicircle around Chilton, paying at least minimal attention.
"In the early days of science fiction," Chilton continued, "writers seemed less inhibited. Look at Wells' Time Machine. The main action takes place in the Morlocks' era, the year. . ."
He paused. Griffith lowered his tumbler of ice tea and filled the void:
"Eight hundred and two thousand, seven hundred and one!"
Chilton smiled thinly.
"Thank you, Captain Trivia. . . It's true, though. After the Morlocks, the Time Traveller visits the end of the world, when the sun has all but burned out. Hodgson's House on the Borderland has a similar plot, with the hero travelling billions of years into the future. And House was published in 1912."
Pokurov, the bespectacled creator of the Venus Colony series, coughed politely.
"You're forgetting Stapledon. . ."
Chilton, in the middle of a swig, pointed at him.
"Just getting to him!" he exclaimed after he swallowed. "Last and First Men. Stretches from the 1930s to A.D. Two Billion! He had to chart it like scientists chart geological epochs. But his books were philosophical treatises -- not big on action. Besides, even that was back in 1930."
The writer spread his arms wide, gazing far beyond his audience, a God contemplating Creation with an empty Heineken bottle in one hand.
"Why not adventures over hundreds of thousands of years? Millions, even billions? I see the Eons series following the life of the universe, the T'chali Empire spreading across the spiral arms, then to other galaxies, crashing into other empires, each one taking up a substantial portion of the cosmos --"
Janette Kyle, prominent author of the six "Psychodyne" novels, worked her way to the front of the gathering.
"Big words, Greg. Just remember: Talk us to death with your ideas, and you'll lose the drive to write 'em down. Like Ellison said."
"I thought that was Bradbury," said Cox, the editorial assistant from Fantasy Tales.
"Everybody's said that," interrupted Griffith, "because it's true."
Janette fixed Chilton with her jade green eyes and her patented elf-grin.
"The proof is in the pudding, Greg. Write one of these cosmic adventures, then we'll be impressed."
"Maybe," added Griffith.
Just a short at first, thought Chilton on the way home, so I can show something to the Fictioneers' Club next month.
The '22 Tawara Badger hummed down the highway as he ran his fingers over the keyboard. Something simple, but eons and megaparsecs away. First contact between the T'chali Empire and another galaxy. Wouldn't be until, oh, ten thousand years after the beginning of space travel. Heck, make it forty thousand. It takes a while to conquer a galaxy.
The Badger rolled up into Chilton's driveway.
"We have arrived, Mr. Chilton," the onboard peecee announced.
"Thanks, Badge," muttered the writer. "Save file TCHALI backslash CONTACT point zero zero one. Copy to house."
He sat up through the night at his creation station, sometimes key-entering, sometimes dictating. A third party, more powerful than either empire? No -- too much like Brown's "Arena" and its clones. A meeting of exact equals? Unlikely. Besides, that called to mind Leinster's "First Contact." The extragalactics should be markedly superior to the T'Chali, and truly alien. . . Yes. He envisioned quasi-energy forms like squashed jellyfish. Their ships were little more than shells around them, keeping their substance from dispersing.
He whispered "The end" as the night sky grew purple-grey, then he slept.
He woke at the crack of dinner and spent three hours revising. At nine P.M. he swallowed a handful of V-pills with his espresso.
"To hell with the Fictioneers," he cried as he scanned the story again. "This is ready to go!"
He called up the address of Cosmic Stories and e-mailed "Contact Sports" to their offices in New Jersey.
He checked the mail the next day at noon. He spotted the legend Cosmic Stories and scrolled up the rest of the letter excitedly:
Esteemed Terrestrial:
We regret to inform you that your story, "Contact Sports," is not suitable for our present needs. As with many novice writers, you insist on equipping starships with "Faster Than Light" drive, which, as our scientists have demonstrated to yours, cannot exist. Also, there is no planet resembling your T'chal in the Beta Crucis system, as our probes in that area of the galaxy have shown conclusively.
As for your other proposed series, "Times of Change": as our scientist have also proven, time travel is not possible. If you wish to have a reasonable chance of publication in Cosmic Stories, please try to keep within the realms of logic. Why not a set of essays covering our mutually beneficial trade agreements?
Respectfully yours,
Oquuikomm Xichar, Editor
Chilton stared at the beryl-blue screen for five minutes.
"Science fiction was more fun before the aliens landed," he grumbled.