Free The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge by Vernor Vinge Page A

much?”
    “Fantasia was made way back in 1940. It cost Disney more than two million dollars. But when they got around to Magica thirty-five years later, the price tag had risen to twenty-seven million dollars, even though Magica is a much poorer job. Nowadays, almost any mainline picture—whether animation or with real actors—costs more than ten million dollars. Howard’s actually discovered a cheap way of making films.”
    “Why didn’t you just ask for the time then?” I asked Prentice.
    Howard looked stubborn. He has his own peculiar brand of integrity. “Bob, do you honestly believe you would’ve said yes? I’m an artist. I may be a good researcher, but that was a means to an end. Moira and I had to do this, even though I knew it’d hurt Royce in the short run.”
    “Chief, it doesn’t matter whether Howard planned this to help you or not. The point is, he’s dropped a fortune in your lap.”
    When Arnold put it that way … Four million dollars wasn’t too bad for a topnotch movie, and if Howard had had organized help, besides his wife, it might have cost a lot less. It would be at least eight years before we miniaturized computers like the 4D5 for the consumer market. Until then, filmmaking would remain the prerogative of the large organization. It had taken Howard years to perfect this technique, so we were way ahead of potential competition. Figuratively speaking, we were standing on the ground floor of a whole new industry.
    Su saw that I was swayed. “Well?”
    “Well,” I said grudgingly, “I guess we’re in the movie business.” I didn’t realize how true I spoke till we got that first Oscar.

THE PEDDLER’S APPRENTICE

    For years, I have been fascinated by Fredric Brown’s short story, “Letter to a Phoenix.” What if a lone human survived beyond his civilization, and the next, and the next? Brown’s protagonist was nearly immortal. A similar effect could be achieved by an ordinary human, using some kind of suspended animation. What motive could such a traveler have—beyond crazed curiosity? Perhaps I could have a merchant who traded across time intead of space. But my merchant could move in only one direction … and the problem of estimating “consumer demand” at the next port would be truly enormous.
    I worked off and on with the idea in the late 1960s; I had part of the story written, but I couldn’t push it through to an ending. I put the story aside, and this turned out to be the most clever thing I could have done.
    From 1972 to 1979 I was married to Joan D. Vinge. Of course, we talked about our various projects all the time; it was a great pleasure to scheme with such a good writer. Yet for all our plot discussions, only once did we collaborate on a story: I showed Joan my “merchant out of time” fragment and told her my plans for how the story might end. We chatted it up, decided that a story “frame” was needed to hold the loose parts together. (I think this is one of the few times either of us has used that device.) Joan wrote the frame and the latter part of “The Peddler’s Apprentice,” then rewrote my draft. The result appears below. Keep in mind that up to a certain point I was writing (with some later revision by Joan), and after that it is Joan’s writing. Can you spot the break?

    L ord Buckry I of Fyffe lounged on his throne, watching his two youngest sons engaged in mock battle in the empty Audience Hall. The daggers were wooden but the rivalry was real, and the smaller boy was at a disadvantage. Lord Buckry tugged on a heavy gold earring; thin, brown-haired Hanaban was his private favorite. The boy took after his father both in appearance and turn of mind.
    The lord of the Flatlands was a tall man, his own unkempt brown hair graying now at the temples. The blue eyes in his lean, foxlike face still perceived with disconcerting sharpness, though years of experience kept his own thoughts hidden. More than twenty years had passed since he had won