The Night We Buried Road Dog

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Jack Cady never looked like a stereotypical writer. He looked like a Pacific Northwest fisherman. He had an angular, weather-toughened face, which he accented with a beard but no mustache. His deep voice was authoritative, but his eyes were always kind.

And he was patient—oh, so very patient.

He had to be. When he sent me “The Night We Buried Road Dog,” he walked into the middle of a battle zone. I, the thirty-two-year-old new editor of F&SF, and Edward L. Ferman, the magazine’s former editor and the publisher who had hired me, were in the midst of a war.

I believe that novellas are the heart and soul of fantasy and science fiction at the short length. Ed didn’t like novellas at all—partly (mostly) because they cost so much and took up so much space in the magazine. Jack Cady’s “Road Dog,” which was how we referred to it in-house, was 30,000 words long—exactly half the length of an issue of the magazine.

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