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nce … work for the paper and slant the news the way the publisher demanded； or get out … his conscience won。 He took the big； big step of depending on nothing but his writing talent for an ine。 But Spider writes； he doesn't talk about writing； he works at it。
It wasn't all that easy。 He had personal problems； just like everybody else does。 Not every story he put on paper sold immediately。 Money was always short。
One summer afternoon he met a girlfriend who was ing into town from Nova Scotia。 She had never been to New York before。 Spider greeted her at Penn Station with the news that his lung had just collapsed and he had to get to a hospital right away； he hoped she didn't mind。 The young lady （her name is Jeanne） not only got him to a hospital； she ended up marrying him。 Now they both live in Nova Scotia； where city … born Spider has found that he loves the rural splendor of farm life。 （Me； I stay in the wilds of Manhattan； where all you've got to worry about is strikes； default； muggings and equipment failure。 Nova Scotia？ In winter？ Ugh！）
Meanwhile； Spider's stories kept getting better。 He branched out from Callahan's。 He turned a ludicrous incident on a Greyhound bus into a fine and funny science fiction story。 He wrote a novel with so many unlikely angles to it that if I gave you the outline of it； it would probably drive you temporarily insane。 But he made it work。 It's a damned good novel； with bite as well as humanity in it。 We'll publish a big slice of it in Analog； and it will e out both in hardcover and paperback later on。
And his stories were being noticed； appreciated； enjoyed by the science fiction fans。 At the World Science Fiction Convention in 1974 he received the John Campbell Award as Best New Writer of the Year。 At that time … he had only published three or four stories； but they were not the kind that could be overlooked。
What does it all add up to？ Here we have a young writer who looks； at first glance； like the archetypical hippie dropout； winning respect and admiration in a field that's supposed to admire nobody but the Heinleins and Asimovs。
It just might be that Spider Robinson represents the newest and strongest trend in science fiction today。 He's a humanist； by damn。 An empath。 He's sensitive to human emotions： pain； fear； joy； love。 He can get them down on paper as few writers can。
The SF field began with gadgeteers and pseudoscience。 It developed in the Thirties and Forties with writers such as Heinlein and Asimov； who knew and understood real science and engineering； and could write strong stories about believable people who were scientists and engineers。 In the Fifties and Sixties we began to get voices such as Ted Sturgeon； Fred Pohl； Harlan Ellison … writers who warned that not everything ing from the laboratory was Good； True and Beautiful。
Now here's Spider Robinson； writing stories that are … well； they're about people。 People in pain； people having fun； people with problems； people helping each other to solve their problems。 Spider is a guy who can feel other people's emotions and help to deal with them。 He's like a character out of an early Sturgeon story … kind； down … to … earth； very empathic。 Literarily； he is Sturgeon's heir。
That's the good news。 He is also an inveterate punster。 You'll see his puns scattered all through the Callahan stories。 In fact； there are whole evenings at Callahan's devoted to punning contests。 Nobody's perfect。
I remember getting a newspaper clipping from Spider which showed a NASA drawing of the design for a toilet to be used under zero gravity conditions in the Skylab satellite。 （NASA has problems that thee and me can't even guess at。） The cutaway drawing of this engineering marvel showed that there was a rotating blade inside the toilet bowl； to 〃separate the liquid from the solid wastes；〃 as NASA's engineers euphemistically put it。
Spider； in his scrawly handwriting； had scribbled across the top of the clipping a brief note； followed by an arrow that pointed unerringly to the bowl and the separator blade。 The note said； 〃Ben： Near as I can figure； the shit is supposed to hit the fan！〃
As I said； nobody's perfect。 But Spider es pretty damned close。 Read about him and his friends at Callahan's Place。 Enjoy。
April； 1976
New York City
Foreword
by Spider Robinson
Books get written for the damndest reasons。 Some are written to pay off a mortgage； some to save the world； some simply for lack of anything better to do。 One of my favorite anecdotes concerns a writer who bet a friend that it was literally impossible to write a book so B*A*D that no one could be found to publish it。 As the story goes； this writer proceeded to write the worst； most hackneyed novel of which he was capable … and not only did he succeed in selling it； the public demanded better than two dozen sequels （I can't tell you his name： his estate might sue； and I have no documentation。 Ask around at any SF convention； it's a reasonably famous anecdote）。
This book； as it happens； was begun for the single purpose of getting me out of the sewer。
I mean that literally。 In 1971； after seven years in college； with that Magic Piece of Paper clutched triumphantly in my fist； the best job I was able to get was night watchman on a sewer project in Babylon； New York … guarding a hole in the ground to prevent anyone from stealing it。 God bless the American educational system。
What with one thing and another； I seemed to have a lot of time on my hands。 So I read a lot of science fiction； a custom I have practiced assiduously since； at the age of five； I was introduced to Robert A。 Heinlein's Rocket Ship Galileo。 One evening； halfway through a particularly wretched example of Sturgeon's Law （〃Ninety percent of science fiction … of anything … is crap〃）； I sat up straight in my chair and said for perhaps the ten thousandth time in my life； 〃By Jesus； I can write better than this turnip。〃
And a lightbulb of about two hundred watts appeared in the air over my head。
I had written a couple of stories already； acquiring just enough rejection slips to impress friends with； and had actually had one printed in a now … defunct fanzine called Xrymph。 （Hilariously enough； one of the crazies who produced Xrymph was the editor who bought this book that you hold in your hands： Jim Frenkel。） But my entire output at that time could have been fit into a business envelope； and its quality might be most charitably described as shitful。 On the other hand； I had never before had the motivation I now possessed： I Wanted Out Of The Sewer。
It was time to bee a Pro。
I realized from previous failures that as a tyro； it behooved me to select a subject I knew thoroughly； as I was not yet skillful enough to bluff convincingly。 Accordingly； I selected drink。 Within a week I had pleted the first chapter of this book； 〃The Guy With The Eyes。〃
Looking in a lib