Edmond Hamilton - Exile

I wish now that we hadnt got to talking about science fiction that night! If we hadnt, I wouldnt be haunted now by that queer, impossible story which cant ever be proved or disproved.

But the four of us were all professional writers of fantastic stories, and I suppose shop talk was inevitable. Yet, wed kept off it through dinner and the drinks afterward. Madison had outlined his hunting trip with gusto, and then Brazell started a discussion of the Dodgers chances. And then I had to turn the conversation to fantasy.

I didnt mean to do it. But Id had an extra Scotch, and that always makes me feel analytical. And I got to feeling amused by the perfect way in which we four resembled a quartet of normal, ordinary people.

Protective coloration, thats what it is, I announced. How hard we work at the business of acting like ordinary good guys!

Brazell looked at me, somewhat annoyed by the interruption. What are you talking about?

About us, I answered. What a wonderful imitation of solid, satisfied citizens we put up! But were not satisfied, you know none of us. Were violently dissatisfied with the Earth, and all its works, and thats why we spend our lives dreaming up one imaginary world after another.

I suppose the little matter of getting paid for it has nothing to do with it? Brazell asked sceptically.

Sure it has, I admitted. But we all dreamed up our impossible worlds and peoples long before we ever wrote a line, didnt we? From back in childhood, even? Its because we dont feel at home here.

Madison snorted. Wed feel a lot less at home on some of the worlds we write about.

Then Carrick, the fourth of our party, broke into the conversation. Hed been sitting over his drink in his usual silent way, brooding, paying no attention to us.

He was a queer chap, in most ways. We didnt know him very well, but we liked him and admired his stories. Hed done some wonderful tales of an imaginary planet all carefully worked out.

He told Madison, That happened to me.

What happened to you? Madison asked.

What you were suggesting I once wrote about an imaginary world and then had to live on it, Carrick answered.

Madison laughed. I hope it was a more liveable place than the lurid planets on which I set my own yarns.

But Carrick was unsmiling. He murmured, Id have made it a lot different if Id known I was ever going to live on it.

Brazell, with a significant glance at Carricks empty glass, winked at us and then asked blandly, Lets hear about it, Carrick.

Carrick kept looking dully down at his empty glass, turning it slowly in his fingers as he talked. He paused every few words.

It happened just after Id moved next to the big power station. It sounds like a noisy place, but actually it was very quiet out there on the edge of the city. And I had to have quiet, if I was to produce stories.

I got right to work on a new series I was starting, the stories of which were all to be laid on the same imaginary world. I began by working out the detailed physical appearance of that world, as well as the universe that was its background. I spent the whole day concentrating on that. And, as I finished, something in my mind went click!

That queer, brief mental sensation felt oddly like a sudden crystallisation. I stood there, wondering if I were going crazy. For I had a sudden strong conviction that it meant that the universe and world I had been dreaming up all day had suddenly crystallised into physical existence somewhere.

Naturally, I brushed aside the eerie thought and went out and forgot about it. But the next day, the thing happened again. I had spent most of that second day working up the inhabitants of my story world. Id made them definitely human, but had decided against making them too civilised for that would exclude the conflict and violence that must form my story.

So, Id made my imaginary world, a world whose people were still only half-civilised. I figured out all their cruelties and superstitions. I mentally built up their colourful barbaric cities. And just as I was through that click! echoed sharply in my mind.

It startled me badly, this second time. For now I felt more strongly than before that queer conviction that my days dreaming had crystallised into solid reality. I knew that it was insane to think that, yet it was an incredible certainty in my mind. I couldnt get rid of it.

I tried to reason the thing out so that I could dismiss that crazy conviction. If my imagining a world and universe had actually created them, where were they? Certainly not in my own cosmos. It couldnt hold two universes each completely different from the other.

But maybe that world and universe of my imagining had crystallised into reality in another and empty cosmos? A cosmos lying in a different dimension from my own? One which had contained only free atoms, formless matter that had not taken on shape until my concentrated thought had somehow stirred it into the forms I dreamed?

I reasoned along like that, in the queer, dreamlike way in which you apply the rules of logic to impossibilities. How did it come that my imaginings had never crystallised into reality before, but had only just begun to do so? Well, there was a plausible explanation for that. It was the big power station nearby. Some unfathomable freak of energy radiated from it was focusing my concentrated imaginings, as super-amplified force, upon an empty cosmos where they stirred formless matter into the shapes I dreamed.

Did I believe that? No, I didnt believe it but I knew it. There is quite a difference between knowledge and belief, as someone said who once pointed out that all men know they will die and none of them believe it. It was like that with me. I realised it was not possible that my imaginary world had come into physical being in a different dimensional cosmos, yet at the same time I was strangely convinced that it had.

A thought occurred to me that amused and interested me. What if I imagined myself in that other world? Would I, too, become physically real in it? I tried it. I sat at my desk, imagining myself as one of the millions of persons in that imaginary world, dreaming up a whole soberly realistic background and family and history for myself over there. And my mind said click!

Carrick paused, still looking down at the empty glass that he twirled slowly between his fingers.

Madison prompted him. And of course you woke up there, and a beautiful girl was leaning over you, and you asked Where am I?

It wasnt like that, Carrick said dully. It wasnt like that at all. I woke up in that other world, yes. But it wasnt like a real awakening. I was just suddenly in it.

I was still myself. But I was the myself I had imagined in that other world. That other me had always lived in it and so had his ancestors before him. I had worked all that out, you see.

And I was just as real to myself, in that imaginary world I had created, as I had been in my own. That was the worst part of it. Everything in that half-civilised world was so utterly, common-placely real.

He paused again. It was queer, at first. I walked out into the streets of those barbaric cities, and looked into the peoples faces, and I felt like shouting aloud, I imagined you all! You had no existence until I dreamed of you!

But I didnt do that. They wouldnt have believed me. To them, I was just an insignificant single member of their race. How could they guess that they and their traditions of long history, their world and their universe, had all been suddenly brought into being by my imagination?

After my first excitement ebbed, I didnt like the place. I had made it too barbaric. The savage violences and cruelties that had seemed so attractive as material for a story were ugly and repulsive at first hand. I wanted nothing but to get back to my own world.