By Orson Scott Card
[Originally published in Aboriginal SF, September 1986]
I met Doc Murphy in a writing class taught by a mad Frenchman at the
University of Utah in Salt Lake City. I had just quit my job as a coat-and-tie editor
at a conservative family magazine, and I was having a little trouble getting used to
being a slob student again. Of a shaggy lot, Doc was the shaggiest and I was
prepared to be annoyed by him and ignore his opinions. But his opinions were not
to be ignored. At first because of what he did to me. And then, at last, because of
what had been done to him. It has shaped me, his past looms over me whenever I
sit down to write.
Armand the teacher, who had not improved on his French accent by
replacing it with Bostonian, looked puzzled as he held up my story before the
class. "This is commercially viable," he said. "It is also crap. What else can I
It was Doc who said it. Nail in one hand, hammer in the other, he crucified
me and the story. Considering that I had already decided not to pay attention to
him, and considering how arrogant I was in the lofty position of being the one
student who had actually sold a novel, it is surprising to me that I listened to him.
But underneath the almost angry attack on my work was something else. A basic
respect, I think, for what a good writer should be. And for that small hint in my
work that a good writer might be hiding somewhere in me.
So I listened. And I learned. And gradually, as the Frenchman got crazier
and crazier, I turned to Doc to learn how to write. Shaggy though he was, he had a
far crisper mind than anyone I had ever known in a business suit.
We began to meet outside class. My wife had left me two years before, so I
had plenty of free time and a pretty large rented house to sprawl in; we drank or
read or talked, in front of a fire or over Doc's convincing veal parmesan or out
chopping down an insidious vine that wanted to take over the world starting in my
backyard. For the first time since Denae had gone I felt home in my home -- Doc
seemed to know by instinct what parts of the house held the wrong memories, and
he soon balanced them by making me feel comfortable in them again.
Or uncomfortable. Doc didn't always say nice things.
"I can see why your wife left you," he said once.
"You don't think I'm good in bed, either?" (This was a joke -- neither Doc
nor I had any unusual sexual predilections.)
"You have a neanderthal way with dealing with people, that's all. If they
aren't going where you want them to go, club 'em a good one and drag 'em away."
It was irritating. I didn't like thinking about my wife. We had only been
married three years, and not good years either, but in my own way I had loved her
and I missed her a great deal and I hadn't wanted her to go when she left. I didn't
like having my nose rubbed in it. "I don't recall clubbing you."
He just smiled. And, of course, I immediately thought back over the
conversation and realized that he was right. I hated his goddam smile.
"OK," I said, "you're the one with long hair in the land of the last surviving
crew cuts. Tell me why you like 'Swap' Morris."
"I don't like Morris. I think Morris is a whore selling someone else's
freedom to win votes."
And I was confused, then. I had been excoriating good old "Swap" Morris,
Davis County Commissioner, for having fired the head librarian in the county
because she had dared to stock a "pornographic" book despite his objections.
Morris showed every sign of being illiterate, fascist, and extremely popular, and I
would gladly have hit the horse at his lynching.
"So you don't like Morris either -- what did I say wrong?"
"Censorship is never excusable for any reason, says you.:
"You like censorship?"
And then the half-serious banter turned completely serious. Suddenly he
wouldn't look at me. Suddenly he only had eyes for the fire, and I saw the flames
dancing in tears resting on his lower eyelids, and I realized again that with Doc I
was out of my depth completely.
"No," he said. "No, I don't like it."
And then a lot of silence until he finally drank two full glasses of wine, just
like that, and went out to drive home; he lived up Emigration Canyon at the end of
a winding, narrow road, and I was afraid he was too drunk, but he only said to me
at the door, "I'm not drunk. It takes half a gallon of wine just to get up to normal
after an hour with you, you're so damn sober."
One weekend he even took me to work with him. Doc make his living in
Nevada. We left Salt Lake City on Friday afternoon and drove to Wendover, the
first town over the border. I expected him to be an employee of the casino we
stopped at. But he didn't punch in, just left his name with a guy and then he sat in
a corner with me and waited.
"Don't you have to work?" I asked.
"I'm working." he said.
"I used to work just the same way, but I got fired."
"I've got to wait my turn for a table. I told you I made my living with
And it finally dawned on me that he was a freelance professional -- a player
-- a cardshark.
There were four guys named Doc there that night. Doc Murphy was the
third one called to a table. He played quietly, and lost steadily but lightly for two
hours. Then, suddenly, in four hands he made back everything he had lost and
added nearly fifteen hundred dollars to it. Then he made his apologies after a
decent number of losing hands and we drove back to Salt Lake.
"Usually I have to play again on Saturday night," he told me. Then he
grinned. "Tonight I was lucky. There was an idiot who thought he knew poker."
I remembered the old saw: Never eat at a place called Mom's, never play
poker with a man named Doc, and never sleep with a woman who's got more
troubles than you. Pure truth. Doc memorized the deck, knew all the odds by
heart, and it was a rare poker face that Doc couldn't eventually see through.
At the end of the quarter, though, it finally dawned on me that in all the time
we were in class together, I had never seen one of his own stories. He hadn't
written a damn thing. And there was his grade on the bulletin board -- A.
I talked to Armand.
"Oh, Doc writes," he assured me. "Better than you do, and you got an A.
God knows how, you don't have the talent for it."
"Why doesn't he turn it in for the rest of the class to read?"
Armand shrugged. "Why should he? Pearls before swine."
Still it irritated me. After watching Doc disembowel more than one writer, I
didn't think it was fair that his own work was never put on the chopping block.
The next quarter he turned up in a graduate seminar with me, and I asked
him. He laughed and told me to forget it. I laughed back and told him I wouldn't.
I wanted to read his stuff. So the next week he gave me a three-page manuscript.
It was an unfinished fragment of a story about a man who honestly thought his
wife had left him even though he went home to find her there every night. It was
some of the best writing I've ever read in my life. No matter how you measure it.
The stuff was clear enough and exciting enough that any moron who likes Harold
Robbins could have enjoyed it. But the style was rich enough and the matter of it
deep enough even in a few pages that it made most other "great" writers look like
chicken farmers. I reread the fragment five times just to make sure I got it all.
The first time I thought it was metaphorically about me. The third time I knew it
was about God. The fifth time I had thought it was about everything that mattered,
and I wanted to read more.
"Where's the rest?" I asked.
He shrugged. "That's it," he said.
"It doesn't feel finished."
"Well, finish it! Doc, you could sell this anywhere, even the New Yorker.
For them you probably don't even have to finish it."
"Even the New Yorker. Golly."
"I can't believe you think you're too good for anybody, Doc. Finish it. I
want to know how it ends."
He shook his head. "That's all there is. That's all there ever will be."
And that was the end of the discussion.
But from time to time he'd show me another fragment. Always better than
the one before. And in the meantime we became closer, not because he was such a
good writer -- I'm not so self-effacing I like hanging around with people who can
write me under the table -- but because he was Doc Murphy. We found every
decent place to get a beer in Salt Lake City -- not a particular time-consuming
activity. We saw three good movies and another dozen that were so bad they were
fun to watch. He taught me to play poker well enough that I broke even every
weekend. He put up with my succession of girlfriends and prophesied that I
would probably end up married again. "You're just weak willed enough to try to
make a go if it," he cheerfully told me.
At last, when I had long since given up asking, he told me why he never
I was two and a half beers down, and he was drinking a hideous mix of Tab
and tomato juice that he drank whenever he wanted to punish himself for his sins,
on the theory that it was even worse than the Hindu practice of drinking your own
piss. I had just got a story back from a magazine I had been sure would buy it. I
was thinking of giving it up. He laughed at me.
"I'm serious," I said.
"Nobody who's any good at all needs to give up writing."
"Look who's talking. The king of the determined writers." He looked
angry. "You're a paraplegic making fun of a one-legged man," he said.
"I'm sick of it."
"Quit then. Makes no difference. Leave the field to the hacks. You're
probably a hack, too."
Doc hadn't been drinking anything to make him surly, not drunk-surly,
anyway. "Hey, Doc, I'm asking for encouragement."
"If you need encouragement, you don't deserve it. There's only one way a
good writer can be stopped."
"Don't tell me you have a selective writer's block. Against endings."
"Writer's block? Jesus, I've never been blocked in my life. Blocks are
what happen when you're not good enough to write the thing you know you have
I was getting angry. "And you, of course are always good enough."
He leaned forward, looked at me in the eyes. "I'm the best writer in the
"I'll give you this much. You're the best who never finished anything."
"I finish everything." he said. "I finish everything, beloved friend, and then
I burn all but the first three pages. I finish a story a week, sometimes. I've written
three complete novels, four plays. I even did a screenplay. It would've made
millions of dollars and been a classic."
"Says -- never mind who says. It was bought, it was cast, it was ready for
filming. It had a budget of thirty million. The studio believed in it. Only
intelligent thing I've ever heard of them doing."
I couldn't believe it. "You're joking."
"If I'm joking, who's laughing? It's true."
I'd never seen him looked so poisoned, so pained. It was true, if I knew
Doc Murphy, and I think I did. Do. "Why?" I asked.
"The Censorship Board."
"What? There's no such thing in America."
He laughed. "Not full-time anyway."
"Who the hell is the Censorship Board?"
He told me.
When I was twenty-two I lived on a rural road in Oregon, he said, outside of
Portland. Mailboxes out on the road. I was writing, I was a playwright, I thought
there'd be a career in that; I was just starting to try fiction. I went out one morning
after the mailman had gone by. It was drizzling slightly. But I didn't much care.
There was an envelope there from my Hollywood agent. It was a contract. Not an
option -- a sale. A hundred thousand dollars. It had just occurred to me that I
was getting wet and I ought to go in when two men came out of the bushes --
yeah, I know, I guess they go for dramatic entrances. They were in business suits.
God, I hate men who wear business suits. The one guy just held out his hand. He
said, "Give it to me now and save yourself a lot of trouble." Give it to him? I told
him what I thought of his suggestion. They looked like the mafia, or like a comic
parody of the mafia, actually.
They were about the same height, and they seemed almost to be the same
person, right down to a duplicate glint of fierceness in the eyes, but then I realized
that my first impression had been deceptive. One was blond, one dark-haired; the
blond had a slightly receding chin that gave his face a meek look from the nose
down; the dark one had once had a bad skin problem and his neck was treeish,
giving him an air of stupidity, as if a face had been pasted on the front of the neck
with no room for head at all. Not mafia at all. Ordinary people.
Except the eyes. That glint in the eyes was not false, and that was what had
made me see them wrong at first. Those eyes had seen people weep, and had
cared, and had hurt them again anyway. It's a look that human eyes should never
"It's just a contract, for Christ's sake," I told them, but the dark one with
acne scars only told me again to hand it over.
By now, though, my first fear had passed; they weren't armed, and so I
might be able to get rid of them without violence. I started back to the house.
They followed me.
"What do you want my contract for?" I asked.
"That film will never be made," says Meek, the blond one with the missing
chin. "We won't allow it to be made."
I'm thinking who writes their dialogue for them, do they crib it from
Fenimore Cooper? "Their hundred thousand dollars says they want to try. I want
"You'll never get the money, Murphy. And this contract and that
screenplay will pass out of existence within the next four days. I promise you
I ask him, "What are you, a critic?"
By now I was inside the door and they were on the other side of the
threshold. I should have closed the door, probably, but I'm a gambler. I had to
stay in this time because I had to know what kind of hand they had. "Plan to take
it by force?" I asked.
"By inevitability," Tree says. And then he says, "You see, Mr. Murphy,
you're a dangerous man, with your IBM Self-Correcting Selectric II typewriter
that has a sluggish return so that you sometimes get letters printed a few spaces in
from the end. With your father who once said to you, 'Billy, to tell you the
honest-to-God truth, I don't know if I'm your father or not. I wasn't the only guy
your Mom had been seeing when I married her. So I really don't give a damn if
you live or die.'"
He had it right down. Word for word, what my father told me when I was
four years old. I'd never told anybody. And he had it word for word.
CIA, Jesus. That's pathetic.
No, they weren't CIA. They just wanted to make sure that I didn't write.
Or rather, that I didn't publish.
I told them I wasn't interested in their suggestions. And I was right -- they
weren't muscle types. I closed the door and they just went away.
And then the next day as I was driving my old Galaxy along the road, under
the speed limit, a boy on a bicycle came right out in front of me. I didn't even
have a chance to break. One second he wasn't there, and the next second he was.
I hit him. The bicycle went under the car, but he mostly came up the top. His foot
stuck in the bumper, jammed in by the bike. The rest of him slid up over the hood,
pulling his hip apart and separating his spine in three places. The hood ornament
disemboweled him and the blood flowed upon the windshield like a heavy
rainstorm, so that I couldn't see anything except his face, which was pressed upon
against the glass with the eyes open. He died on the spot, of course. And I wanted
He had been playing Martians or something with his brother. The brother
was standing there near the road with a plastic ray gun in his hand and stupid look
on his face. His mother came out of the house screaming. I was screaming, too.
There were two neighbors who saw the whole thing. One of them called the cops
and ambulance. The other one tried to control the mother and keep her from
killing me. I don't remember where I was going. All I remember is that the car
had taken an unusually long time starting that morning. Another minute and a
half, I think -- a long time, to start a car. If it had started up just like usual, I
wouldn't have hit the kid. I kept thinking that -- it was all just a coincidence that
I happened to be coming by just at that moment. A half-second sooner and he
would have seen me and swerved. A half-second later and I would have seen him.
Just coincidence. The only reason the boy's father didn't kill me when he came
home ten minutes later was because I was crying so damn hard. It never went to
court because the neighbors testified that I didn't have a chance to stop, and the
police investigator determined that I hadn't been speeding. Not enough
negligence. Just terrible, terrible chance.
I read the article in the paper. The boy was only nine, but he was taking
special classes at school and was very bright, a good kid, ran a paper route and
always took care of his brothers and sisters. A real tear-jerker for the consumption
of the subscribers. I thought of killing myself. And then the men in the business
suits came back. They had four copies of my script, my screenplay. Four copies is
all I had ever made -- the original was in my file.
"You see, Mr. Murphy, we have every copy of the screenplay. You will
give us the original."
I wasn't in the mood for this. I started closing the door.
"You have so much taste," I said. I didn't care how they got the script, not
then. I just wanted to find a way to sleep until when I woke up the boy would still
They pushed the door open and came in. "You see, Mr. Murphy, until we
altered your car yesterday, your path and the boy's never did intersect. We had to
try four times to get the timing right, but we finally made it. It's the nice thing
about time travel. If you blow it, you can always go back and get it right the next
I couldn't believe anyone would want to take credit for the boy's death.
"What for?" I asked.
And they told me. Seems the boy was even more talented than anyone
thought. He was going to grow up and be a writer. A journalist and critic. And
he was going to cause a lot of problems for a particular government some forty
years down the line. He was especially going to write three books that would
change the whole way of thinking of a large number of people. The wrong way.
"We're all writers ourselves," Meek says to me. "It shouldn't surprise you
that we take our writing very seriously. More seriously than you do. Writers, the
good writers, can change people. And some of the changes aren't very good. By
killing that boy yesterday, you see, you stopped a bloody civil war some sixty
years from now. We've already checked and there are some unpleasant side
effects, but nothing that can't be coped with. Saved seven million lives. You
shouldn't feel bad about it."
I remembered the things they had known about me. Things that nobody
could have known. I felt stupid because I began to believe they might be for real.
I felt afraid because they were calm when they talked of the boy's death. I asked,
"Where do I come in? Why me?"
"Oh, it's simple. You're a very good writer. Destined to be the best of your
age. Fiction. And this screenplay. In three hundred years they're going to
compare you to Shakespeare and the poor old bard will lose. The trouble is,
Murphy, you're a godawful hedonist and a pessimist to boot, and if we can just
keep you from publishing anything, the whole artistic mood of two centuries will
be brightened considerably. Not to mention the prevention of a famine in seventy
years. History makes strange connections, Murphy, and you're at the heart of a lot
of suffering. If you never publish, the world will be a much better place for
"You weren't there, you didn't hear them. You didn't see them, sitting on
my couch, legs crossed, nodding, gesturing like they were saying the most natural
thing in the world. From them I learned how to write genuine insanity. Not
somebody frothing at the mouth; just somebody sitting there like a good friend,
saying impossible things, cruel things, and smiling and getting excited and --
Jesus, you don't know. Because I believed them. They knew, you see. And they
were too insane, even a madman could have come up with a better hoax than that.
And I'm making it sound as if I believed them logically, but I didn't, I don't think
I can persuade you, either, but trust me -- if I know when a man is bluffing or
telling the truth, and I do, these two were not bluffing. A child had died, and they
knew how many times I had turned the key in the ignition. And there was truth in
those terrible eyes when Meek said, "If you willingly refrain from publishing, you
will be allowed to live. If you refuse, then you will die within three days. Another
writer will kill you -- accidentally, of course. We only have authority to work
I asked them why. The answer made me laugh. It seems they were from the
Author's Guild. "It's a matter of responsibility. If you refuse to take
responsibility for the future consequences of your acts, we'll have to give the
responsibility to someone else."
And so I asked them why they didn't just kill me in the first place instead of
wasting time talking to me.
It was Tree who answered, and the bastard was crying, and he says to me.
"Because we love you. We love everything you write. We've learned everything
we know about writing from you. And we'll lose it if you die."
They tried to console me by telling me what good company I was in.
Thomas Hardy -- they made him give up novels and stick to poetry which nobody
read and so it was safe. Meek tells me, "Hemingway decided to kill himself
instead of waiting for us to do it. And there are some others who only had to
refrain from writing a particular book. It hurt them, but Fitzgerald was still able to
have a decent career with the other books he could write, and Perelman gave it to
us in laughs, since he couldn't be allowed to write his real work. We only bother
with great writers. Bad writers aren't a threat to anybody."
We struck a sort of bargain. I could go on writing. But after I had finished
everything, I had to burn it. All but the first three pages. "If you finish it at all,"
says Meek, "we'll have a copy of it here. There's a library here that -- uh, I guess
the easiest way to say it is that it exists outside time. You'll be published, in a
way. Just not in your own time. Not for about eight hundred years. But at least
you can write. There are others who have to keep their pens completely still. It
breaks our hearts, you know.
I knew all about broken hearts, yes sir, I knew all about it. I burned all but
the first three pages.
There's only one reason for a writer to quit writing, and that's when the
Censorship Board gets to him. Anybody else who quits is just a gold-plated
jackass. "Swap" Morris doesn't even know what real censorship is. It doesn't
happen in libraries. It happens on the hoods of cars. So go on, become a real
estate broker, sell insurance, follow Santa Claus and clean up the reindeer poo, I
don't give a damn. But if you give up something that I will never have, I'm
through with you. There's nothing in you for me.
So I write. And Doc reads it and tears it to pieces, everything except this. This
he'll never see. This he'd probably kill me for, but what the hell? It'll never get
published. No, no I'm too vain. You're reading it, aren't you? See how I put my
ego on the line? If I'm really a good enough writer, if my work is important
enough to change the world, then a couple of guys in business suits will come
make me a proposition I can't refuse, and you won't read this at all, but you are
reading it, aren't you? Why am I doing this to myself? Maybe I'm hoping they'll
come and give me an excuse to quit writing now, before I found out that I've
already written as well as I'm ever going to. But here I thumb my nose at those
goddam future critics and they ignore me, they tell exactly what my work is worth.
Or maybe not. Maybe I really am good, but my work just happens to have a
positive effect, happens not to make any unpleasant waves in the future. Maybe
I'm one of the lucky ones who can accomplish something powerful that doesn't
need to be censored to protect the future.
Maybe pigs have wings.