Dean R. Koontz (as Aaron Wolfe)
Husband
INTRODUCTION
by Barry Malzberg
The world is a madhouse.
Death is real and final.
Somewhere between these two poles where the narrative of Aaron Wolfe's novel occurs something else happens: it becomes a vision.
This is Aaron Wolfe's first novel. Thirty-four years old and successful in another artistic field he has asked for compelling personal reasons that his real identity not interfere with his fiction and therefore "Aaron Wolfe" is a pseudonym. He is thirty-four years old, married with one child and lives in the midwestern United States.
Aaron Wolfe's work has appeared in Escapade, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and the Virginia Quarterly; fiction and poetry. He was the recipient of a North American Review writing fellowship in 1965 and one of his stories published that year appeared on the Martha Foley Roll of Honor of distinguished American short stories. INVASION, nonetheless, is his first novel and his first work of science-fiction.
"I've always loved to read science-fiction," he says, confessing to owning a "large collection" of old pulp magazines and anthologies, "and even have a passion for it. I've been addicted since I was ten and when I sit down with a science-fiction novel I'm like a child again. Who could react otherwise to this marvelous stuff?"
INVASION gives some indication of what a literary writer of the first rank can do when he essays fiction for a wider audience. It is simply one of the most remarkable first novels, in any field, that I have ever read.
Other comments relevant to my role in the Laser Book series, how it came about and what I take my own role to be may be found in my introduction to K. W. Jeter's SEEKLIGHT, the first of this group of novels published recently, and I refer the reader, gratefully, to that.
Barry Malzberg
New Jersey.
WEDNESDAY
The Beginning
1
The three-hundred-acre Timberlake Farm, which we were renting that year, was as isolated a refuge as you could possibly find in New England. Elsewhere highways had cut open regions once closed to man by dense pine forests and rocky landscapes; and the small towns, previously content with their unsophisticated ways, had begun to build industrial "parks" to lure manufacturers from the choked cities; and the suburbs continued to sprawl, gobbling up the open countryside, macadamizing and concretizing and tract housing the woodlands. Contemptuous of the noise and the grime of civilization, northern Maine shunned highways that went nowhere; and it did not welcome commuters who wanted to move into the snow country with their big cars and snowmobiles and aluminum-redwood houses. Some day, of course, when the population pressure reached an unbearable peak, even Timberlake Farm would be filled with lookalike, two-bed-room ranch houses and condominium apartment buildings; however, the year that we lived there the farmhouse was two miles from the nearest neighbor and eleven miles from the nearest town, Barley,
Maine.
Isolated.
Perhaps too isolated.
But that realization was not to come to us until December, after we had lived on the farm for more than six months. And then it was definitely too late for second thoughts.
The farmhouse was a two story flagstone manor with four large bedrooms, three baths, a drawing room, study, pine-panelled library, formal dining room, and modern kitchen. The luxury was greater than one might expect to find in a farmhouse in Maine-but Timberlake had been conceived as a gentleman's retreat and not as an enterprise that must support itself. The land had never been cultivated, and the barn had never contained any animals but riding horses.
Isolation:
The house had one telephone, the lines for which had been run in at no little expense by Creighton
Development, the company that owned and rented the property through Blackstone
Realty in Barley. It was completely furnished except for a television set-and we had early decided to do without that questionable luxury in favor of books and conversation.
Isolation:
Every two weeks the three of us drove in to Barley in our Volkswagen microbus. We might take in a movie at the Victory Theater, and we always had dinner at the Square Restaurant. We picked up new magazines and paperbacks at the cigar store across the street from the restaurant. That was the full extent-aside from rare telephone calls and the occasional letter we received in the weekly maildrop at the end of our lane-of our contact with the outside world.
Initially, that was all we required. But once the snows came and the trouble began, we damned our isolation a hundred times a day and wished fervently for contact with people outside our family, with anyone at all..
The first major blizzard of the year began on the twelfth day of December, late in the afternoon, when there was already eight inches of early-season snow on the ground. Toby and I were in the woods to the north of the house, tracking the foxes, snow rabbits, weasels, squirrels, and the few cats that kept active until the snow was so deep, even under the trees, that they were forced to remain in their caves, burrows, and nests. Toby's favorite pastime was tracking and spying upon our animal neighbors. I enjoyed the gentle sport as much as he did-perhaps because it was gentle, perhaps because I was proud that my son had never once suggested that we go up to the house and get a rifle and hunt down the animals. We were deep in the forest that afternoon, hot on the trail of a fox, when the snow began to sift heavily between the pine boughs, so heavily that we knew a bad storm must be sweeping across the open land, beyond the shelter of the woods. By the time we had followed our own trail back to the edge of the woods, a new inch of snow lay atop the old eight inches; and the farmhouse at the top of the rise three hundred yards away was all but invisible behind shifting curtains of flakes.
"Will it be deep?" Toby asked.
"I'm afraid so," I said.
"I like it deep."
"You would."
"Real deep."
"It'll be over your head," I told him. For a ten-year-old boy he was somewhat slender and a bit short; therefore, I wasn't exaggerating all that much when I held my hand over his head so that he could look up and see how far it would be to the surface if he should become buried in new snow.
"Great!" he said, as if the notion of being buried alive in a drift were too close to paradise to be borne. He ran off to the right and scooped up a handful of new snow and threw it at me. But it was too dry to pack into a ball, and it only flew apart and blew back on him when he tossed it.
"Come on, Toby. We better get back to the house before we're stranded down here." I held out my hand to him, hoping that he would take it. Ten-year old boys usually insist on proving their self-reliance; but thirty-year-old fathers would much rather have them dependent, just a little bit, just for a few more years, just enough to need a hand to negotiate a slippery hillside.
He grinned broadly and started back towards me — then stopped a dozen feet away and stared at the ground. From the way he was bent over, and from the intensity of his gaze, I knew that he had come across a set of tracks and was puzzling out the nature of the animal that had made them.
We had been tramping through the forest for more than three hours, and I was ready for a warm fireplace and a vodka martini and a pair of felt-lined slippers. The wind was sharp; snowflakes found their way under my coat collar and down by back. "There'll be hot chocolate up at the house," I told him.
He didn't say anything or look up at me.
"And a plate of doughnuts."
He said nothing.
"Doughnuts, Toby."
"This is something new," he said, pointing to the tracks in front of him.