Monday, October 19, 2009
Los Alamos, New Mexico, USA

"Manuscripts sent from outside Canada should include Canadian stamps or International Reply Coupons (IRCs, available from most post offices)." My voice is shrill as I wave my dog-eared, stapled copy of the On Spec Submissions Guide at the bored postal employee.

"Sorry, they don't make those any more."

"Yes they do. I saw them on the USPS web site."

"Sorry, we haven't gotten them in a long time. You could look around. Maybe some other post office still has some old ones."

"This is Los Alamos! The great minds of the world are gathered here to make the world safe for thermonuclear annihilation. There must be lots of international correspondence here."

"Maybe they use the internet."

Later, back in my office, I collect myself. I pick up the phone and call home. "Karen?"

"Yes?"

"If you're going into Santa Fe today, could you stop by the post office and pick up some IRCs?"

"Some what?"

"International Reply Coupons. You send them with a letter, and the person who receives them can exchange them for postage to write back to you."

"Oh, OK. Sure."

    #

Monday, October 19, 2009
Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA

"Some what?"

"International Reply Coupons."

"I'll have to ask my supervisor. Follow me."

Karen walks down the long corridor, lined with memorabilia from the disgruntled postal worker shooting sprees of the 1980s. In a small, dimly lit room, an old man sits surrounded by undeliverable parcels. His blue postal uniform is rumpled, as though he's slept in it for a week.

"IRCs? IRCs? She wants IRCs, does she?"

"Yes please."

"Now that brings back memories." One of his eyes turns upward and to the left. "Oh no, you won't find them now. Not here, oh no. Maybe satellite post offices."

At dinner, we discuss, consider, ruminate. "It is a science fiction magazine, you know. Maybe I have to travel to a satellite before I can submit a story."

"You could try Tesuque. Ali McGraw lives there. She's an international celebrity. She must use hundreds of IRCs."

"Good idea," I say, but my heart is troubled.

    #

Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tesuque, New Mexico,USA

"Don't know. Might be in the safe." She reminds of Marilyn from Northern Exposure, and she's in perfect form today.

I'm tense with anticipation. "Can you open the safe?"

"No. Only Paula can open the safe. She works in the morning."

"Why are they in the safe? Are they valuable or something? Can you make drugs with them?"

"Don't know. We keep everything in the safe. That way, we can't get to it."

    #

Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tesuque, New Mexico, USA

"You're the first person to ask about them in more than three years."

"So you don't have them?" I'm in shock. George R. R. Martin lives around here. Doesn't he submit to On Spec? "Where can I get some, then?"

"Any post office in Santa Fe will have them."

"Thanks."

    #

Thursday, October 22, 2009
White Rock, New Mexico, USA

"Here they are." He flips his long black pony tail over his shoulder and plops the great three-ring binder of postal arcana open to the back pocket.

The glint of gilded blue catches my eye. I've found them, found them at last!

"These are pretty old, though," he says.

I reach for one, lifting it gingerly by its fragile coffee-brown edges.

"Can you read the expiration date?"

"1946," I say hoarsely, tears welling up in my eyes. The ancient coupon crumbles to dust in my hands.

I drop to my knees. I lift my face and my fists to the heavens and wail. "No!!!!"

    #

Friday, October 23, 2009
Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA

I enter the main post office of the capital city of the great state of New Mexico, feeling small and humble amidst its great columns and lofty arched ceilings. To think, I walk now where Bill Richardson stood, contemplating his presidential campaign. US Attorney David Iglesias mailed his resignation letter here - certainly, he did - launching the chain of events that brought down the corrupt Department of Justice and changed the world forever.

Such a place must have whole rooms devoted to IRCs.

"Nope, don't make them any more."

An old man in the corner of the lobby laughs knowingly and shakes his head.

"Yes they do. They are mentioned on the USPS web site. And in the On Spec Submissions Guide. " I wave my evidence without enthusiasm.

"Maybe you can order them online."

"No, I tried that."

"I can't remember the last time I saw one here. I don't even know how to redeem them."

"OK, thanks."

The old man grabs my shoulder as I leave. "My grandpappy saw an IRC once. Flew a biplane in the Great War. Almost got shot down over the Atlantic."

    #

Friday, October 23, 2009
Cuyamungue, New Mexico, USA

Karen comes into the dining room and sees it covered with paper and envelopes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sending US currency to random addresses in Canada, along with a letter pleading for Canadian postage."

"Maybe you should just give it up. There are US magazines you can submit to instead. Doesn't On Spec prefer Canadian writers anyway?"

"But that's just it, Karen. I have to try, if there's even the smallest chance. Being published in On Spec. Do you what that means? It means I write better than some assortment of Canadian people do. If I give up now, I'll never know. I couldn't live with myself, couldn't bear going to my grave not knowing."

She smiles reassuringly and picks up one of the envelopes, with a $10 bill stuffed into it. "Won't people just keep the money?"

"I ask that if they can't send postage themselves, they pass the letter on to a friend."

"Do you have a curse if they break the chain?"

"Ooh, good idea!" I grab a handful of letters and pencil in the change.

"Are you enclosing a SASE for them to send the stamps back?"

"Doh!"

     #

Friday, October 23, 2009
Cuyamungue, New Mexico, USA

The house is lit by the half-light of a swinging lamp, and I stare into the dark sky beyond my back deck. I could book an overnight flight to Los Angeles. A major international city like that would be sure to have post offices with IRCs. I could be back by morning.

Then it hits me. I understand now. I must go the rest of the way on foot, and I must go alone. It is only 1300 miles to Edmonton. I will set out before dawn tomorrow.

The disappearance of the IRCs can mean only one thing. On Spec seeks to join with the author in person. I must go to Canada, and key in the final sequence by hand.