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with something less than fondness.

In the early eighties, he published a "review" of a sky-novel of mine called "The Secret Sea" in which he ripped open like a dressed deer on a New Hampshire state road. Full of ad hominem attacks and snide suggestions of my lack of nautical knowledge, the review sent a torpedo into my career as a sky-fie writer. (In retrospect, he did me a favor, but at the time, I was kind of stunned because the review was quite vicious, and I'd never met the guy, and couldn't figure out what I'd done --like Job and God--to Piss. Him. Off.

So, as chance may have it, Budrys was a guest of honor at an upcoming sf con in DC, so I showed up and stood in line to get his autograph--the piece I asked him to sign was, of course, his hatchet-review. I had prepared myself to confront my Adversary, and was pulling the literary equivalent of running into his festering lair with spear held high and screaming "Where is the son of a btch!?" But as I approached him, I was shocked to see a florid faced, overly corpulent character who looked about as menacing as the guy who does those blow-and-twist balloon animals at kids' parties. I intro'd myself and he started acting antsy, and asked me he could buy me a drink when he fiinished signing so we could "talk about things.". I ignored that one and told him I didn't care about him hating my book--that was cool, but I needed to know why he'd attacked me so personally and viciously. He fidgeted and finally said he thought I had been "getting too much praise lately, and needed to be knocked down a few notches."

I looked at him and had to control my anger. "Really, who died and gave you THAT fucking job," I said. "I want to punch your face right now. But instead, I'll just do this."

Without another word, I picked up the fountain pen he'd been signing with and and I snapped it in half. Ink went flying (a stupid move on my part) and I walked away. That was the last time I ever talked to him. What a business . . . . .