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Callahan's
Crosstime
Saloon
By
Spider Robinson
©1977
Page 1
Spider Robinson:
The SF Writer As Empath
By Ben Bova
When Analog magazine was housed over atGraybarBuilding onLexington Avenue ,
our offices were far from plush. In fact, they were grimy. Years worth of
Manhattansoot clung to the walls. The windows were opaque with grime. (What has
this to do with Spider Robinson? Patience, friend.)
Many times young science fiction fans would come toManhattan and phone me
from Grand Central Station, which connected underground with the good old
Graybar. "I've just come toNew York and I read every issue of Analog and I'd
like to come up and see what a science fiction magazine office looks like," they
Page 2
would invariably say.
I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always
ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the
battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the
ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His
mouth would sag open.
He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV
attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and
a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in
the spanking newCondeNastBuilding on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to
that dream.)
The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow-hued bobble of
his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.
Still, despite the cramped quarters and the general dinginess, we managed to
put out an issue of Analog each month, and more readers bought it than any other
science fiction book, magazine, pamphlet, or cuniform tablet ever published.
And then came Spider Robinson.
Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail
first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now
he's off inNova Scotia , living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where
nobody-not even short-memoried editors-can reach him easily.
Anyway, in comes Spider. I look up from my desk and see this lank, almost-
cadaverous young man, bearded, long of hair, slightly owlish behind his
eyeglasses, sort of grinning quizzically, as if he didn't know what to expect.
Neither did I.
Page 3
But I .thought, At least he won't be put off by the interiordecor.
You have to understand that those same kids who expected Analog's office to
look like an out-take from 2001: A Space Odyssey also had a firm idea of what an
Analog writer should look like: a tall, broadshouldered, jutjawed, steelyeyed
hero who can repair a starship's inertial drive with one hand, make friends with
the fourteen-legged green aliens of Arcturus, and bring the warring nations of
Earth together under a benignly scientific world government-all at the same
time, while wearing a metallic mesh jumpsuit and a cool smile.
Never mind that no SF writer ever looked like that. Well, maybe Robert A.
Heinlein comes close, and he could certainly do all of those things if he'd just
stop writing for a while. But Asimov is a bit less than heroic in stature;
Silverberg shuns politics; Bradbury doesn't even drive a car, much less a
starship.
Nevertheless, this was the popular conception of a typical Analog writer.
Spider Robinson was rather wider of that mark than most.
He had a story with him, called "The Guy with the Eyes." There wasn't much
science fiction in it. But it was one helluva good story. About a crazy bunch of
guys who get together at a truly unique place called Callahan's.
We went to lunch, and Spider began telling me how he worked nights guarding a
sewer 'way out onLong Island . Far from being a drop-out, he was writing stories
and songs, as well as sewer-sitting. He's a worker, and he knows science fiction
very well, a fact that surprised a lot of people when he started reviewing books
for Galaxy magazine. He's also a guitar-strummin' singer, and I found out how
good he is at many a party. But that was later.
I bought "The Guy with the Eyes." When it came out in Analog, it caused a mild
ripple among our readers. I had expected some of them to complain because it
Page 4
wasn't galaxy-spanning superheroic science fiction. Instead, they wrote to tell
me that they got a kick out of Callahan's Place. How about more of the same?
Now, an editor spends most of his time reading lousy stories. John Campbell,
who ran Analog (nee Astounding) for some thirty-five years, often claimed to
hold the Guinness Book of Records championship for reading more rotten SF
stories than anyone else on Earth. (Most likely he could have expanded his claim
to take in the entire solar system, but John was a conservative man in some
ways.)
So when you spend your days and nights-especially the nights-reading poor
stories, it's a pleasure to run across somebody like Spider: a new writer who
has a good story to tell. It makes all those lousy stories worthwhile. Almost.
It's a thrill to get a good story out of the week's slushpile-that mountain of
manuscripts sent in by the unknowns, the hopefuls, the ones who want to be
writers but haven't written anything publishable yet.
But the real thrill comes when a new writer sends in his second story and it's
even better than the first one. That happens most rarely of all. It happened
with Spider. He brought in the manuscript of "The Time Traveler," and I knew I
was dealing with a pro, not merely a one-time amateur.
We talked over the story before he completed the writing of it. He warned me
that he couldn't really find a science fiction gimmick to put into the story. I
fretted over that (Analog is, after all, a science fiction magazine), but then I
realized that the protagonist was indeed a time traveller; his "time machine" ,
was a prison.
Just about the time the story was published, thousands of similar time
travelers returned to theU.S. from North Vietnamese prisons. Spider's story
Page 5
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Callahan's
Crosstime
Saloon
By
Spider Robinson
©1977
Page 1
Spider Robinson:
The SF Writer As Empath
By Ben Bova
When Analog magazine was housed over atGraybarBuilding onLexington Avenue ,
our offices were far from plush. In fact, they were grimy. Years worth of
Manhattansoot clung to the walls. The windows were opaque with grime. (What has
this to do with Spider Robinson? Patience, friend.)
Many times young science fiction fans would come toManhattan and phone me
from Grand Central Station, which connected underground with the good old
Graybar. "I've just come toNew York and I read every issue of Analog and I'd
like to come up and see what a science fiction magazine office looks like," they
Page 2
would invariably say.
I'd tell them to come on up, but not to expect too much. My advice was always
ignored. The poor kid would come in and gape at the piles of manuscripts, the
battered old metal desks, and mountains of magazines and stacks of artwork, the
ramshackle filing cabinets and bookshelves. His eyes would fill with tears. His
mouth would sag open.
He had, of course, expected whirring computers, telephones with TV
attachments, smoothly efficient robots humming away, ultramodern furniture, and
a general appearance reminiscent of a NASA clean room. (Our present offices, in
the spanking newCondeNastBuilding on Madison Avenue, are a little closer to
that dream.)
The kid would shamble away, heartsick, the beautiful rainbow-hued bobble of
his imagination burst by the sharp prick of reality.
Still, despite the cramped quarters and the general dinginess, we managed to
put out an issue of Analog each month, and more readers bought it than any other
science fiction book, magazine, pamphlet, or cuniform tablet ever published.
And then came Spider Robinson.
Truth to tell, I don't remember if he sent in a manuscript through the mail
first, or telephoned for an appointment to visit the office. No matter. And now
he's off inNova Scotia , living among the stunted trees and frost heaves, where
nobody-not even short-memoried editors-can reach him easily.
Anyway, in comes Spider. I look up from my desk and see this lank, almost-
cadaverous young man, bearded, long of hair, slightly owlish behind his
eyeglasses, sort of grinning quizzically, as if he didn't know what to expect.
Neither did I.
Page 3
But I .thought, At least he won't be put off by the interiordecor.
You have to understand that those same kids who expected Analog's office to
look like an out-take from 2001: A Space Odyssey also had a firm idea of what an
Analog writer should look like: a tall, broadshouldered, jutjawed, steelyeyed
hero who can repair a starship's inertial drive with one hand, make friends with
the fourteen-legged green aliens of Arcturus, and bring the warring nations of
Earth together under a benignly scientific world government-all at the same
time, while wearing a metallic mesh jumpsuit and a cool smile.
Never mind that no SF writer ever looked like that. Well, maybe Robert A.
Heinlein comes close, and he could certainly do all of those things if he'd just
stop writing for a while. But Asimov is a bit less than heroic in stature;
Silverberg shuns politics; Bradbury doesn't even drive a car, much less a
starship.
Nevertheless, this was the popular conception of a typical Analog writer.
Spider Robinson was rather wider of that mark than most.
He had a story with him, called "The Guy with the Eyes." There wasn't much
science fiction in it. But it was one helluva good story. About a crazy bunch of
guys who get together at a truly unique place called Callahan's.
We went to lunch, and Spider began telling me how he worked nights guarding a
sewer 'way out onLong Island . Far from being a drop-out, he was writing stories
and songs, as well as sewer-sitting. He's a worker, and he knows science fiction
very well, a fact that surprised a lot of people when he started reviewing books
for Galaxy magazine. He's also a guitar-strummin' singer, and I found out how
good he is at many a party. But that was later.
I bought "The Guy with the Eyes." When it came out in Analog, it caused a mild
ripple among our readers. I had expected some of them to complain because it
Page 4
wasn't galaxy-spanning superheroic science fiction. Instead, they wrote to tell
me that they got a kick out of Callahan's Place. How about more of the same?
Now, an editor spends most of his time reading lousy stories. John Campbell,
who ran Analog (nee Astounding) for some thirty-five years, often claimed to
hold the Guinness Book of Records championship for reading more rotten SF
stories than anyone else on Earth. (Most likely he could have expanded his claim
to take in the entire solar system, but John was a conservative man in some
ways.)
So when you spend your days and nights-especially the nights-reading poor
stories, it's a pleasure to run across somebody like Spider: a new writer who
has a good story to tell. It makes all those lousy stories worthwhile. Almost.
It's a thrill to get a good story out of the week's slushpile-that mountain of
manuscripts sent in by the unknowns, the hopefuls, the ones who want to be
writers but haven't written anything publishable yet.
But the real thrill comes when a new writer sends in his second story and it's
even better than the first one. That happens most rarely of all. It happened
with Spider. He brought in the manuscript of "The Time Traveler," and I knew I
was dealing with a pro, not merely a one-time amateur.
We talked over the story before he completed the writing of it. He warned me
that he couldn't really find a science fiction gimmick to put into the story. I
fretted over that (Analog is, after all, a science fiction magazine), but then I
realized that the protagonist was indeed a time traveller; his "time machine" ,
was a prison.
Just about the time the story was published, thousands of similar time
travelers returned to theU.S. from North Vietnamese prisons. Spider's story
Page 5
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