Nobody blends good science with bad puns as brilliantly as Spider Robinson, as his legion of devoted fans will attest. Now from the creator of the Callahan series comes an improbable tale of impending doom, a road trip, space, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. Callahan's Key The universe is in desperate peril. The United States' own defense system, orbiting above an unknowing populace, is more vulnerable than its creators could have envisioned. Now, bombarded by a freakish cluster of natural phenomena, the ultimate protection has become a perfect doomsday machine. Its target: not just the U.S., not just Earth, but the entire universe. And only one man can stop the devastation this unholy weapon will wreak. Unfortunately, he's not available. So the job falls instead to bar owner Jake Stonebender. And his wife, Zoey, and superintelligent toddler, Erin. Not to mention two dozen busloads of ex-hippies and freaks, Robert Heinlein's wandering cat, a whorehouse parrot, and misunderstood genius-inventor Nikola Tesla, who is in fact alive and well. It'll take a move to Key West, an experiment in mass telepathy, and hundreds of gallons of Irish coffee to save everything-as-we-know-it from annihilation. But it's nothing Jake Stonebender hasn't done before....Callahan's Keyis the story of a group of humans-more or less-who band together in a cosmic adventure-more or less-to make the universe safe for...well, probably more of the same.

Spider Robinson has won three Hugos, a Nebula, and the John W. Campbell Award. He has written twenty books, sixteen of which have been printed in ten languages. Born in the Bronx, he holds a bachelor's degree in English from the State University of New York. In 1992 he was the toastmaster for the 50th World Science Fiction Convention in Orlando, Florida. He lives in Vancouver with his wife, Jeanne Robinson, a Boston-born writer.

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Cold Reboot

"The future will be better tomorrow." -J. Danforth Quayle

It's always coldest before the warm.

Oh, it could have been colder that day, I guess--I hear there are places up north where fifty below is considered a balmy day. But it could be a lot hotter than where I am now, if it comes to that. This is just about as warm as I care to be--and the day the whole thing started, I was as cold as I ever hope to get again in my life.

It was only twenty below, that day . . . but for Long Island, that's unusually frosty, even in the dead of winter. Which that winter surely was: dead as folk music. Dead as Mary's Place. Dead as Callahan's Place. Dead as my life, or my hopes for the future. You've read Steinbeck's the winter of our discontent? Well, 1989 was the winter of our despair . . .

It's the little things you remember. You know how snow gets into your boots and makes you miserable? I had been forced to stagger through a drift of snow so deep it had gotten into my pants. A set of long underwear makes a wonderful wick. The damp patches from above and below had met at my knees almost at once.

Not that snow of yesterday's blizzard had fallen to a depth of waist height. Long Island isn't Nova Scotia or anything. My long soggies were simply the result of my tax dollars at work.

Just as I'd been in sight of my home--driving with extreme caution, and cursing the damned Town of Smithtown that should have plowed this stretch of Route 25A yesterday, for Chrissake--I had seen the town snowplow, coming toward me from the east. I'd experienced a microsecond of elation before the situation became clear to me, and then I had moaned and banged my forehead against the steering wheel.

Sure enough, the plow sailed by my home at a stately twenty miles an hour, trailing a long line of cars and trucks nearly berserk with rage . . . and utterly buried my driveway with snow, to the aforementioned waist height.

I knew perfectly well that there was nowhere else I could possibly park my car along that stretch of two-lane highway anywhere within even unreasonable walking distance of home in either direction--except the one driveway that I knew perfectly well the sonofabitching plow was about to stop and plow out, which it did. The one right next door to mine. The driveway of the Antichrist, where I would not have parked at gunpoint.

Of course the traffic stacked up behind that big bastard surged forward the instant it fully entered Nyjmnckra Grtozkzhnyi's drive and got out of their way. Of course not one of them gave an instant's thought to the fact that the road under their accelerating tires would now no longer be cleared of snow and ice. And there I was, big as life, right in their way, with my forehead on the steering wheel . . . So by the time I got that snow in my pants, trying to clamber over the new dirty-white ridge that separated my home from civilization, I no longer had to worry about parking the car. Or fixing the damn heater, or putting gas or oil in it, or any such chores. Just paying for the final tow--and, of course, the rest of the payments to the bank. Needless to say, the only car in the whole pileup that had been totaled was mine; all the people who'd caused the accident drove away from the scene. And of course they'd all agreed it had been my fault.

On the bright side, I was reasonably unhurt. Indeed, the only wound I had to boast of was an extremely red face. Not from anger, or even from the cold. Those goddam air bags are not soft. They never mention that in the ads.

So I was not looking forward to going through my front door. In the first place, I hated having to tell Zoey that we were pedestrians again. A nursing mother does not often receive such news gladly--and especially not when the temperature outside is twenty below and nothing useful lies within walking range. And in the second place--

--in the second place I knew exactly what I was going to see when I walked--okay, hobbled--through that door. And I just didn't know if I could take it one more time.

Is there anything sadder in all the world than a great big comfy superbly appointed tavern . . . so unmistakably empty and abandoned that the cobwebs everywhere have dust on them?

I'd tried to keep up a brave front, and sustained it maybe six months. Then I'd gradually slacked off on the mopping and dusting and vacuuming and polishing. By the end of a year, I wasn't even fixing leaks. What was the point? No way in hell was Mary's Place ever going to reopen. We--I, Jake Stonebender, its proprietor, and all of my highly irregular clientele-had made the single, fatal mistake of pissing off Nyjmnckra Grtozkzhnyi. Our Ukrainian next-door neighbor--and the beloved only aunt of Jorjhk Grtozkzhnyi.

Town Inspector Grtozkzhnyi . . .

Have you ever seen the total stack of paperwork required to legally operate a tavern in the Town of Smithtown in the County of Suffolk in the great State of New York in these United States of America? I don't mean the liquor license: assume you have that. Let's just say if I'd had that stack of paperwork--all of it six-point type, and consisting mostly of blanks for me to fill in--in the trunk of the car with me that day, I could have just climbed up on top of it and stepped over that goddam heap of snow left in my driveway by one of Inspector Grtozkzhnyi's minions. In order to open Mary's Place at all, back in '88--in less than five years, for less than half a million dollars--I had been forced to run it outlaw, counting on its isolation and the fact that I made no effort at all to attract business to protect it from official attention.

But as Bob Dylan forgot to say, "To live outside the law, you must be lucky."

Excerpted from Callahan's Key by Spider Robinson
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