Edmond Hamilton - Exile

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EXILE

Edmond Hamilton

I wish now that we hadn’t got to talking about science fiction that night! If we hadn’t, I wouldn’t be haunted now by

that queer, impossible story which can’t ever be proved or disproved.

But the four of us were all professional writers of fantastic stories, and I suppose shop talk was inevitable. Yet,

we’d kept off it through dinner and the drinks afterward. Madison had outlined his hunting trip with gusto, and then

Brazell started a discussion of the Dodgers’ chances. And then I had to turn the conversation to fantasy.

I didn’t mean to do it. But I’d had an extra Scotch, and that always makes me feel analytical. And I got to feeling

amused by the perfect way in which we four resembled a quartet of normal, ordinary people.

“Protective coloration, that’s what it is,” I announced. “How hard we work at the business of acting like ordinary

good guys!”

Brazell looked at me, somewhat annoyed by the interruption. “What are you talking about?”

“About us,” I answered. “What a wonderful imitation of solid, satisfied citizens we put up! But we’re not

satisfied, you know – none of us. We’re violently dissatisfied with the Earth, and all its works, and that’s why we

spend our lives dreaming up one imaginary world after another.”

“I suppose the little matter of getting paid for it has nothing to do with it?” Brazell asked sceptically.

“Sure it has,” I admitted. “But we all dreamed up our impossible worlds and peoples long before we ever wrote a

line, didn’t we? From back in childhood, even? It’s because we don’t feel at home here.”

Madison snorted. “We’d feel a lot less at home on some of the worlds we write about.”

Then Carrick, the fourth of our party, broke into the conversation. He’d been sitting over his drink in his usual

silent way, brooding, paying no attention to us.

He was a queer chap, in most ways. We didn’t know him very well, but we liked him and admired his stories. He’d

done some wonderful tales of an imaginary planet – all carefully worked out.

He told Madison, “That happened to me.”

“What happened to you?” Madison asked.

“What you were suggesting – I once wrote about an imaginary world and then had to live on it,” Carrick answered.

Madison laughed. “I hope it was a more liveable place than the lurid planets on which I set my own yarns.”

But Carrick was unsmiling. He murmured, “I’d have made it a lot different – if I’d known I was ever going to live on

it.” Brazell, with a significant glance at Carrick’s empty glass, winked at us and then asked blandly, “Let’s hear about it,

Carrick.”

Carrick kept looking dully down at his empty glass, turning it slowly in his fingers as he talked. He paused every

few words.

“It happened just after I’d moved next to the big power station. It sounds like a noisy place, but actually it was

very quiet out there on the edge of the city. And I had to have quiet, if I was to produce stories.

“I got right to work on a new series I was starting, the stories of which were all to be laid on the same imaginary

world. I began by working out the detailed physical appearance of that world, as well as the universe that was its

background. I spent the whole day concentrating on that. And, as I finished, something in my mind went click!

“That queer, brief mental sensation felt oddly like a sudden crystallisation. I stood there, wondering if I were

going crazy. For I had a sudden strong conviction that it meant that the universe and world I had been dreaming up all

day had suddenly crystallised into physical existence somewhere.

“Naturally, I brushed aside the eerie thought and went out and forgot about it. But the next day, the thing

happened again. I had spent most of that second day working up the inhabitants of my story world. I’d made them

definitely human, but had decided against making them too civilised – for that would exclude the conflict and violence

that must form my story.

“So, I’d made my imaginary world, a world whose people were still only half-civilised. I figured out all their

cruelties and superstitions. I mentally built up their colourful barbaric cities. And just as I was through – that click!

echoed sharply in my mind.

“It startled me badly, this second time. For now I felt more strongly than before that queer conviction that my

day’s dreaming had crystallised into solid reality. I knew that it was insane to think that, yet it was an incredible

certainty in my mind. I couldn’t get rid of it.

“I tried to reason the thing out so that I could dismiss that crazy conviction. If my imagining a world and universe

had actually created them, where were they? Certainly not in my own cosmos. It couldn’t hold two universes – each

completely different from the other.

“But maybe that world and universe of my imagining had crystallised into reality in another and empty cosmos? A

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Edmond Hamilton - Exile

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