Introduction to The Best of David Gerrold

So it’s come to this. Here I am, in the prime of my advanced state of youth, minding my own business and not bothering anyone, when the order comes down: I must write an introduction for The Best of David Gerrold.

What does that entail, I want to know.

Just say a few nice things about him and we’ll throw tons of money at you, is the answer.

Well, as I sit here at my keyboard, I can look at the trophy case across the room and see four Hugos lined up on a shelf. That encourages me. They state for all the world to see: “Here is a professional liar of unquestioned ability.” When all is said and done, what better qualification does one need to say nice things about David Gerrold?

David and I go back a long way. (Actually, David goes back much farther because I am only 23, no matter what anyone says.) I first became aware of him when I saw “The Trouble With Tribbles” on Star Trek. I thought it was a pretty good script, especially for a new kid on the block. A few million Trekkies later agreed with me; it was voted the most popular episode in the history of the series.

The first time I ever encountered David in the flesh was at the 1969 Worldcon in St. Louis. I stopped by the SFWA Suite to meet someone or other, I can’t remember the details. David somehow found out that I wasn’t a member—that detail I remember—and he and Anne McCaffrey, who was the secretary or treasurer or something that gave her authority over lesser beings, found out I had sold a few sf novels and literally would not let me leave until I had signed up and paid my dues. As I write these words I have been a member of the Science Fiction Writers of America for 34 years, and I am still not sure I have forgiven either of them for that.

I saw David from time to time after that, usually at Worldcons. I remember picking up his novel, When H.A.R.L.I.E. Was One when it came out, and deciding that I really hated anyone who was that good that early in his career. It should have won the Hugo for Best Novel; it lost to a far bigger name, but not to a better book. I believed that then; I believe it now.

A few years later David produced another near-classic novel, The Man Who Folded Himself. Is it the best time paradox story ever written? I don’t know. Heinlein wrote two pretty fair time paradox stories himself: “By His Bootstraps” and “All You Zombies.” But I will state without equivocation that it is unquestionably the finest time paradox novel ever written.

I kept running into David at conventions. In 1978 we judged the Worldcon masquerade in Phoenix. It was three million degrees that night, give or take a degree, and if you want to know why that particular masquerade had more run-throughs than any other in history, it’s because we discovered that the only room in town where the air-conditioning was working full-force was the judges’ deliberation room, and we kept going back to it to sit in the cool, drink our lemonades, and exchange market info while one costumer after another fainted from the heat.

That’s when I decided he wasn’t such a terrible fellow after all.

We stayed in touch, sat on some panels together, chatted on Compuserve and elsewhere, even toyed with collaborating on a round-robin novel…and then came the fatal day back in 1991 when I invited him to contribute a story to Alternate Presidents, an anthology I was editing for Tor Books.

So why was it fatal, since nobody died?

Simple: my opinion of David as a brilliant novelist who didn’t much dabble in short fiction died. (I should have known better; I loved “With a Finger in My I” when it came out. I probably just forced myself to forget who wrote it.)

Well, the gist of it was that David’s story was so good that I had no choice but to invite him back for Alternate Kennedys. And then for still more anthologies: Alternate Outlaws, Dinosaur Fantastic, More Whatdunits, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Witch Fantastic, Deals With the Devil, Alternate Warriors, Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, By Any Other Fame…

Move the clock ahead to 2003 and I’m still inviting him. This year he contributed stories to Men Writing SF as Women and to Stars, for which I am only 50% responsible since I co-edited it with Janis Ian, so if you don’t like his story send half of your hate mail to her.

This is not the easiest guy in the world to work with, this Gerrold. When I got the editing assignment for Christmas Ghosts, I asked for stories about the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future. David replied that he would only contribute if he could write about the Ghost of Christmas Sideways. All right, you cocky son of a bitch, I thought; let’s call your bluff and see what happens. (*sigh*) What happened was a brilliant story about the Ghost of Christmas Sideways.

In 1996, at the Worldcon in Los Angeles, Bantam took all of its authors, including David and me, to the La Brea Tar Pits for a banquet. It proved to be fertile ground for David’s perverse mind. He wrote a story about why he shoved me—sweet, innocent, lovable me, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose—into the tar pits for Return of the Dinosaurs.

I’ve seen him in serious moments as well. When he won the Nebula in 1995 for Best Novelette with “The Martian Child,” he gave as moving an acceptance speech as I’ve ever heard. I won Best Novella and had to follow him; it was as painful as having your story follow “The Martian Child” in a magazine.

He pulled the same trick a few months later at the Worldcon in Scotland. Won the Hugo for Best Novelette. Even shed a tear. (I shed a couple myself; the dirty bastard beat my own novelette for the award.) This time when I won the Hugo for Best Novella and had to get up on stage right after David, I was prepared. I muttered “Thank You” and went right back to my chair.

So if my relationship with David consists mostly of joining a schizoid organization, losing a Hugo to him, and waiting in vain for him to write a story I could reject, what’s the real reason I consented to write this introduction?

Easy.

Damned near half the stories in this book wouldn’t have been written if I hadn’t commissioned them.

I had to do something to expiate my guilt.