Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe by Bill Fawcett, J. E. Mooney

novels and shorter works. Three times he’s won the Rhysling Award for best science fiction poem of the year. In 2012 he was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. The final novel in a trilogy, Earthbound, is just out (after Marsbound in 2008 and Starbound in 2009). Ridley Scott has bought the movie rights to The Forever War. Joe’s next novel is Work Done for Hire. When he’s not writing or teaching—a professor at MIT, he has taught every fall semester since 1983—he paints and bicycles and spends as much time as he can out under the stars as an amateur astronomer. He’s been married for forty-seven years to Mary Gay Potter Haldeman.

A Touch of Rosemary
    TIMOTHY ZAHN
On Gene Wolfe: Many years ago, I was at a convention where Linda, the wife of the chairman, handled registration. She was something of a “mundane,” but loved meeting people.
    Gene had sent in his preregistration for him and his son. Linda, not recognizing his name, pro cessed the memberships like everyone else’s. She was working the registration table when a gentleman walked up to her and said, “I’m Gene Wolfe, and I’m preregistered.”
    Linda calmly pointed to a table to her right and said, “Please pick up your registration over there.” Gene dutifully went over to the table and picked up the registration. Then he asked about a friend of his, Walt, and Linda said that she thought he was in the consuite and pointed him in that direction.
    About ten minutes later Walt came out, slightly aghast, and asked Linda, “Do you know who Gene Wolfe is?”
    Linda looked up and said, “Yes, he registered just a short while ago.”
    When Linda’s husband found out about it, he hurriedly tracked down Gene, apologized profusely, and promised to get him his registration money back. Gene refused, saying he hadn’t had such a good laugh at a convention in years.

    T he tavern didn’t have a name. It didn’t need one. The village was small, and it was the only tavern inside the long log walls that guarded against the dangers of the outside world.
    Most of the villagers, even the poorest, ate at the tavern at least once a month. A few, the wealthier ones who could afford it, sometimes came in as often as once a week.
    The wizard ate there every day.
    There were fewer patrons than usual today, he noted as he sat at his table by the window. Normally the midday hour was bustling with activity, with only the farmers and hunters who labored beyond the walls unable to take the necessary time for a good meal.
    But today only one other table was occupied. The four men seated there were leaning forward, their heads close to each other, talking together in low, nervous tones.
    The server hurried to the wizard’s table. “Good midday, master,” the boy said. He seemed nervous, too. “How may we serve?”
    “One portion,” the wizard said, drawing a small pouch from inside his threadbare tunic. He’d seen more of the outside world than anyone else in the village, and knew that most taverns had several food items to choose from each day. But not here. Here, the cook chose each morning what she would prepare, and that was what was served.
    “Yes, master.” The boy hesitated. “You’re certain you wouldn’t prefer one and a half?”
    “One will do,” the wizard said. The weaving of spells required extra sustenance, but he had no such activities planned for today. “Here’s my payment,” he added, opening the pouch.
    The boy flicked the contents a distracted glance. “Tarragon?”
    “Rosemary,” the wizard said, frowning. The boy knew his spices better than that. “From my window box. Is something wrong?”
    The boy’s eyes shifted to the occupied table. The wizard followed his gaze, to find that the quiet conversation had ceased and all four men were staring at him.
    “Is something wrong?” he repeated, raising his voice to include them as well as the boy.
    One of the men, the village tanner, cleared his throat. “If the elders