In the 1980s, Poul helped me devise orbits for both Eon and The Forge of God. Karen helped with my history and Greek. Poul and Karen together provided expertise and imagination for many aspects of my work over the decades. I remember a lengthy discussion with Poul and his brother John about the science behind Darwin’s Radio. They helped me hone my facts and arguments, invaluable when exploring deep and controversial topics.

There are so many tales of camping, hiking, visits to Denmark (and especially to Tivoli). Twenty years! Amazing for a true fan of Poul Anderson.

But in 2000, a cloud loomed. Poul was diagnosed with cancer. Despite strong hopes for a reversal, by early 2001, it was obvious he would not survive. Poul and Karen visited our home in Washington state and we held a farewell party, attended by many friends. Shortly after, I visited Poul and Karen in Orinda and shared a lovely summer lunch in the shade on the front lawn. The Orinda house was the scene of so many parties, visits, discussions, debates. This was the childhood home of my wife; Poul and Karen were still here. How could things change? It was impossible to believe that Poul wouldn’t continue to travel and visit and write. But it was not to be. He went into Alta Bates hospital. I last spoke with him by phone. The diagnosis was final.

Astrid flew to Orinda.

In late July of 2001 we alerted people by email that Poul was fading fast. The result was amazing. Within a few hours, a thousand messages poured in from around the world, expressing how much Poul meant to readers and friends everywhere. During his last afternoon, Karen and Astrid read these messages to him as he sat up in bed, drinking a Carlsberg and having a small glass of Jubilaeum akvavit. Poul listened and smiled; it was confirmation of what we already knew. Amazing, and wonderful, this tribute.

And now, for his friends and his readers, for all who love him or will come to love him, NESFA Press is collecting his finest works. If you have yet to read Poul Anderson, you have many adventures and treats in store, with or without long swords, slide rules, or beer.

Skol!

Call Me Joe

The wind came whooping out of eastern darkness, driving a lash of ammonia dust before it. In minutes, Edward Anglesey was blinded.

He clawed all four feet into the broken shards which were soil, hunched down and groped for his little smelter. The wind was an idiot bassoon in his skull. Something whipped across his back, drawing blood, a tree yanked up by the roots and spat a hundred miles. Lightning cracked, immensely far overhead where clouds boiled with night.

As if to reply, thunder toned in the ice mountains and a red gout of flame jumped and a hillside came booming down, spilling itself across the valley. The earth shivered.

Sodium explosion, thought Anglesey in the drumbeat noise. The fire and the lightning gave him enough illumination to find his apparatus. He picked up tools in muscular hands, his tail gripped the trough, and he battered his way to the tunnel and thus to his dugout.