Believing Is Seeing

But the real impetus had come when she found Da

“But I don’t know how to work the things!” she had wailed.

“That doesn’t matter. I do. I’ll work it for you,” he replied inexorably. “And I’ll tell you what one to buy, too, or you’ll only waste money.”

He did so. The components were duly delivered and installed, and Daniel proceeded to instruct his mother in how to work as much of them as—as he rather blightingly said—her feeble brain would hold. “There,” he said. “Now write something worth reading for a change.” And he left her sitting in front of it all.

When she thought about it, she was rather ashamed of the fact that her knowledge of the thing had not progressed one whit beyond those first instructions Da

That first day had been a nightmare. She had felt lost and foolish and weak. She had begun, not having anything else in mind, on another installment of lonely aliens. And everything kept going wrong. She had to call Da

“Go away!” she told him. “Out of my sight! I’m going to learn to do this for myself or die in the attempt!”

Da

By this time she had been sitting in front of board and screen for nearly ten hours. It seemed to her that her threat to die in the attempt was no idle one. She felt like death. Her back ached, and so did her head. Her eyes felt like ru

And she typed all over again:

CHAPTER ONE

The Captain had been at board and screen ever since jump—a total of ten hours. Her hands shook with weariness, making it an effort to hold them steady on her switches. Her head was muzzy, her mouth foul with nutrient concentrates. But since the mutiny, it was sit double watches or fail to bring the starship Candida safely through the intricate system of Meld....

At this point she began to get a strange sense of power. She was dominating this damned machine, even though she was doing it only by exploiting her own sensations. Also, she was becoming interested in what might be going to happen to the starship Candida, not to speak of the reasons that had led up to the mutiny aboard her. She continued writing furiously until long after midnight. When she stopped at last, she had to pry her legs loose from her chair.

“That’s more like it, Mum!” Da

He was, as usual, right. Starship Candida was the book that made the name of F. C. Stone. It won prizes. It sold in resorts and newsagents all over the world. It was, reviewers said, equally remarkable for its insight into the Captain’s character as for the intricate personal relationships leading to the mutiny. Much was spoken about the tender and peculiar relationships between the sexes. This last made F. C. Stone grin rather. All she had done was to revenge herself on Da

Her next book, The Mutineers, was an even greater success. For this one, F. C. Stone extended the intricate personal relationships to the wider field of galactic politics. She discovered she reveled in politics. Provided she was making up the politics herself, there seemed no limit to how intricate she could make them.

Since then she had, well, not stuck to a formula—she was much more artfully various than that—but as she said and Da

Da

It was all due to the word processor, she thought, giving the nearest component a friendly pat as she leaned toward the screen again. The latest mug of cooling kivay sat beside her. Her nose was, as usual, tickled by burned ginger or something. Her back was begi

Jump. Time nad the world stretched dna went out. Back. The Captain had sat at her boards for four objective days—four subjective minutes or four subjective centuries. Her head ached, gums adn all. She cursed. Hands trembling on controls, she struggled to get her fix on this system’s star.

Now what had some vastly learned reader suggested about this system’s star? It had some kind of variability, but that was all she could remember. Damn. All her notes for it were in that file Da