Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Eight: Hot Times in Magma City

The stories in this volume were written between July of 1990 and March of 1995—the second half of the fifth decade of my career as a science-fiction writer. I don’t think I could have imagined, when I began that career in the early 1950s, that science-fiction publishing would evolve the way it did over the next forty years. Here, then, is the cream of the Silverberg output, 1990-95. I suppose I wrote more short stories in the first six months of 1957 than in that entire six-year period; but so be it. It’s a different world today. I look back nostalgically on the small-town atmosphere of the era in which I began my career, and there are times when I’d be glad to “call back yesterday, bid time return.” As Shakespeare pointed out, though, that can’t be done. The one recourse is the one I have chosen, which is to soldier staunchly onward through the years, come what may, writing a story or two here and a book there, while the world changes out of all recognition around me. And so—to leap neatly from the Bard of Avon to F. Scott Fitzgerald—“so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

But, for all that, I went on writing short fiction all through the seventh and eighth decades of my life, and though I’m not very active these days, I would still pay attention if someone were to approach me with an interesting and challenging short-story project, or if some absolutely irresistible story idea were to come into my mind. I will not, at this point, try to claim that the stories that are collected here are the last short stories I will ever write. Surely some editor, in the years ahead, will tickle my imagination with a proposal I can’t resist. But I doubt that will be happening very often; and, meanwhile, here’s the harvest of the fourteen years that began in 1995—not an enormous number of stories, no, but stories nevertheless that I think are worth reading and reprinting.

But, for all that, I went on writing short fiction all through the seventh and eighth decades of my life, and though I’m not very active these days, I would still pay attention if someone were to approach me with an interesting and challenging short-story project, or if some absolutely irresistible story idea were to come into my mind. I will not, at this point, try to claim that the stories that are collected here are the last short stories I will ever write. Surely some editor, in the years ahead, will tickle my imagination with a proposal I can’t resist. But I doubt that will be happening very often; and, meanwhile, here’s the harvest of the fourteen years that began in 1995—not an enormous number of stories, no, but stories nevertheless that I think are worth reading and reprinting.

The stories in this volume were written between July of 1990 and March of 1995—the second half of the fifth decade of my career as a science-fiction writer. I don’t think I could have imagined, when I began that career in the early 1950s, that science-fiction publishing would evolve the way it did over the next forty years. Here, then, is the cream of the Silverberg output, 1990-95. I suppose I wrote more short stories in the first six months of 1957 than in that entire six-year period; but so be it. It’s a different world today. I look back nostalgically on the small-town atmosphere of the era in which I began my career, and there are times when I’d be glad to “call back yesterday, bid time return.” As Shakespeare pointed out, though, that can’t be done. The one recourse is the one I have chosen, which is to soldier staunchly onward through the years, come what may, writing a story or two here and a book there, while the world changes out of all recognition around me. And so—to leap neatly from the Bard of Avon to F. Scott Fitzgerald—“so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” Table of Contents: Introduction In the Clone Zone Hunters in the Forest A Long Night’s Vigil at the Temple Thebes of the Hundred Gates It Comes and Goes Looking for the Fountain The Way to Spook City The Red Blaze is the Morning Death Do Us Part The Martian Invasion Diaries of Henry James Crossing into the Empire The Second Shield Hot Times in Magma City

Somehow, for all my outward pretence of cold-eyed professionalism, all my insistence that writing is simply a job like any other, I've discovered to my surprise and chagrin that there's more than that going on around here, that I write as much out of karmic necessity and some inescapable inner need to rededicate my own skills constantly to my--what? My craft? My art? My profession? I wrote these stories because the only way of earning a living I have ever had has been by writing, but mainly, I have to admit, I wrote these stories because I couldn't not write them. Well, so be it. They involved me in a lot of hard work, but for me, at least, the results justify the toil. I'm glad I wrote them. Writing them, it turns out, was important for me, and even pleasurable, in a curiously complex after-the-fact kind of way. May they give you pleasure now too.

Somehow, for all my outward pretence of cold-eyed professionalism, all my insistence that writing is simply a job like any other, I've discovered to my surprise and chagrin that there's more than that going on around here, that I write as much out of karmic necessity and some inescapable inner need to rededicate my own skills constantly to my--what? My craft? My art? My profession? I wrote these stories because the only way of earning a living I have ever had has been by writing, but mainly, I have to admit, I wrote these stories because I couldn't not write them. Well, so be it. They involved me in a lot of hard work, but for me, at least, the results justify the toil. I'm glad I wrote them. Writing them, it turns out, was important for me, and even pleasurable, in a curiously complex after-the-fact kind of way. May they give you pleasure now too.

The stories in this volume were written between July of 1990 and March of 1995—the second half of the fifth decade of my career as a science-fiction writer. I don’t think I could have imagined, when I began that career in the early 1950s, that science-fiction publishing would evolve the way it did over the next forty years. Here, then, is the cream of the Silverberg output, 1990-95. I suppose I wrote more short stories in the first six months of 1957 than in that entire six-year period; but so be it. It’s a different world today. I look back nostalgically on the small-town atmosphere of the era in which I began my career, and there are times when I’d be glad to “call back yesterday, bid time return.” As Shakespeare pointed out, though, that can’t be done. The one recourse is the one I have chosen, which is to soldier staunchly onward through the years, come what may, writing a story or two here and a book there, while the world changes out of all recognition around me. And so—to leap neatly from the Bard of Avon to F. Scott Fitzgerald—“so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

The stories in this volume were written between July of 1990 and March of 1995.