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Harry and Joan and Todd and Moira, world travelers all, once made their home in Imperial Beach, California, in the path of what is now the 805 freeway. And it was in this house that Harry and Joan entertained all and sundry, and taught me a great deal about the writer's life, science fiction, and the world in general. I was a pretty awkward and ambitious youth then, and Harry's obvious accomplishments as a story-teller were only matched by his tendency to drop glittering diamonds of advice, as well as pungent anecdotes. All of us, sf fans in San Diego, tried to imitate Harry's rapid-fire delivery and savoir-faire, with little success. Joan's petite beauty and matching wit and superb cooking skills (and her reluctance to listen to young men full of silly puns) added to a delightful and highly educational salon atmosphere that extended through Harry's tenure as a teacher at San Diego State College. And ever since then, Harry has tried, in vain, to jerk me up and clue me in about the necessaries of being a worldly writer. I treasure all those pieces of advice. But what I hope Harry also realizes is that it was not just his personality, it was his writing that taught by example. Harry's approach to writing was at once ambitious and humble; his origins as a comic book artist (no mean thing in our eyes, either) taught him the vanity of literary airs, yet he was obviously a craftsman who sweated over his words. That he could write humor (something I've never managed) as well as adventure and speculation and socially stunning novels made my brain whirl. When I've tried to express my appreciation, Harry has politely brushed it off. Well, here it is again, Harry--you opened doors and windows for me. You helped shape the writer that I am today. And for that, many thanks. - Greg Bear
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