It was Charles Sheffield who first took me to Cambridge, England. The year was 1987. I had attended the World Science Fiction Convention in Brighton that year, and Charles had mentioned in passing there that he was going to go up to his Alma Mater for one reason or another, I can’t remember why, but, as I had been to Oxford University, but never to Cambridge University, I thought it would be a good idea to see the place. So I asked if I could go along with him. It seemed to me a mysterious, wonderful town and I thought that, with a proper guide, I might get a better sense of the place.

Cambridge, of course, was the home of great scientists living and dead. The dead ones included Charles Darwin—whose grandfather, the amazing Erasmus Darwin—I had learned about through Charles’ excellent Erasmus Magister stories. In these, the learned eighteenth century man traveled about solving seemingly supernatural occurrences with his rational ability, like a combination of William Hope Hodgson’s Karnaki, Ghost Finder, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.

At Cambridge, Charles showed me this and that. The most vivid memory I have was walking in the medieval courtyard of St. John’s College while Charles spoke of how damned cold his old rooms there had been. When an Englishman complains of cold rooms, we’re talking arctic. Charles, a physicist and mathematician through his training at Cambridge, had always, in the, gee, ten years I’d known him by then, spoken of Sir Isaac Newton with the highest regard. Oh yes, all the other physicists from Einstein to Schrodinger were well within his vocabulary —as well as the slew of other scientists whose work Charles knew intimately. But for some reason, Newton seemed to be a favorite.

And why not? After all, Isaac Newton was the father of modern physics and, as a Cambridgian floating under the Mathematical Bridge on the lazy river Cam, young punter Sheffield must oft have thought of that apple guy as he sipped hard cider and conjured equations on golden afternoons in the Backs. However, it wasn’t until I actually spent time (to the tune of five months) in Cambridge and learned the truth about Sir Isaac and Cambridge itself that I understood your toastmaster here at this assembly fully.

You see, Sir Isaac Newton was an alchemist.

And so is the man who will be so ably turning your leaden Hugo Ceremony time into gold.

Perhaps it’s some secret course scientists take at Cambridge. I’m not sure. In fact, I must admit that I was pretty surprised to discover Newton’s obsession with alchemy, seeing as I’d always thought of him as a Stalwart of the Enlightenment, a Bulwark of Reason. Alchemy generally has the reputation of being more or less...well, magical. The review of a recent I. Newton bio stated that in fact, Newton’s contributions to physics have very much to do with his enmeshment in alchemy. Thus, it would seem that modern science owes much to that mysterious, magical practice.

I would have been more surprised, if I hadn’t known your Master of Ceremonies was an alchemist as well. I know this not only because I have visited the lab in his basement, where he keeps his arcane volumes, his steaming beakers smoking with humours and elixirs, along with pickled homunculi and mummified sprites. I know this not just because he writes wildly imaginative science fiction firmly encased in gravity boots to keep itself rooted in the Possible. I know this because I know the man, and although he claims he’s merely a scientist (and no genius), he seems to have alongside his wooden leg (inside of which I’ve seen much beer and wine poured, to no deleterious effect) some kind of wooden brain, a transdimensional portal from which he summons remarkable aspects of knowledge, wit, and character in far too voluminous a quantity to be held within the realm of a mere mortal man’s grey matter. Because for years and years he has been a good friend, confidant and collaborator and has put up with my foibles—a fancy magic act indeed!

In addition to his development of special computer programs to intercept pictures from satellites (and heaven knows what other uses of his amazing mathematical abilities he’s never mentioned to me), he has been an accomplished businessman for EarthSat, flying all about the world for special assignments long before he even started to write fiction. He has raised four children, remarkable and wonderful all. He has served as an officer of many professional science organizations—and has been president of the only professional science fiction organization. He has been married three times—managing on the third go-round (and this just recently) to further excel in his alchemical abilities by turning the fabled ball and chain into the delightful and beautiful Nancy Kress. Best of all, through lo! these many years he has not only remained nothing less than gracious, amusing and knowledgeable company — but hasn’t changed a jot in appearance since I met him! (And curiously enough, years ago when I met the man who’d helped recruit him from England during the Brain Drain in the sixties, the fellow assured me that Charles looked exactly the same in his twenties!)

But, oh yes—the alchemy theme. Well, when I read that article in Cambridge and added pi and the square root of the hypotenuse to the numerological values of the letters in Charles’ name.... Well, I figured I was onto something here. So, being in Cambridge itself, I thought I should check into this a bit. Now, I knew that Charles’ advisor at Cambridge was none other than another English SF author and mathematician—Sir Fred Hoyle. However, Charles had told me that Sir Fred was always away somewhere... Charles seldom saw him. Which made me think that there might be other important formative influences in young Charles’ life. I checked the course listings and found no Alchemy Departments, per se. However, when the fall term students came in, I found myself perusing a number of booths at Student Societies Day. And what do you think I should find, but the Quicksilver Quintessence Colloquium. Behind the desk there sat a young man with dark hair, Errol Flynnish eyes that clearly knew their way about quadratic equations and the oeuvre of Arthur C. Clarke, and a neatly trimmed black goateeish beard. As Charles’ only son, Kit, looks more like Dr. Who than his sire, I wondered for a moment if Charles himself was visiting—but no, the guy was simply even younger looking than Dr. Sheffield.

As it turned out, this was indeed the Alchemy Society. They met every fortnight on Mondays at the John Dee Pub. I took down the information and left, haunted by how much the young student had looked like Charles. He was even wearing a coat and tie and was thumbing through a recent copy of The New Scientist, behind which was a copy of a recent Analog.

Curiosity consumed me. The next Monday was a meeting night. At dusk, I hopped on my bike, pedaled across Parker’s Piece, forded the Cam, hurried along the Backs and found the pub in an ancient area of Cambridge.

At the tap area, I purchased a pint of Mad Judge Ale ("Try Him...Or He’ll Try You!") and headed toward the back room where, the innkeep assured me, the Alchemy Society was convening. I took a stiff gulp of brew, then a deep breath and then pushed through the doors.

There were perhaps twenty-five people in the backroom conversing in small, casual groups. All wore black jackets and black ties, and had black goatees—even the ten women. I drank down the rest of my pint hurriedly, and was happy to see another bar in the back of this room. I was about to step toward this when I was stopped.

"Pardon me sir," said a dwarf. He too had on a tie and goatee. "This is a private meeting."

"I...Uhm...," I said. Perhaps I would have turned and dashed away, but the recent beer emboldened me. "I would like to attend this meeting of the Colloquium?"

"Are you a student with near genius mathematical and science fictional abilities?" he asked.

"Actually, no, but I know one..."

The frown told me that I was on my way out.

"And, in fact wrote a book about evolutionary offshoots of mankind with huge penises who impregnate Scots lassies and New York editors!"

The dwarf smiled. "Yes. The Selkie! You must be David Bischoff! I must say, though, that I preferred The Judas Cross. The finest oubliette scene in English literature, upon my word!"

"Thank you!"

"Of course, you’re welcome here, Mr. Bischoff. But you’re not properly attired."

The dwarf handed me a black jacket, a tie, and a black goatee. He then gave me something he called "Paracelsus Elixir" to glue it on.

"I take it Charles has sent you here to learn about alchemy then, eh?" said the dwarf, a merry gleam in his eye. He elbowed me in the knee. "Nothing like it for a getting a bit of Philosopher’s Stone, then. Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Know what I mean?"

"Uhm... Well, I was reading that Isaac Newton was an alchemist and so I was naturally curious about the Cambridge Alchemy Society... And I guess I wanted to get to know a little more about Charles." I put on the coat and tie. The moment I put on the goatee though was a revelation—I had two tremendous urges. One was to sit down at a word processor and write hard science fiction.

Perched on the bar was the famous portrait of Isaac Newton—only now wearing a black goatee. After a few sips of Grumpy Monk Bitter, I felt a pull at my sleeve. Beside me was a fellow in the prerequisite goatee—but with extremely large ears. "I say—did you say you know Charles Sheffield?"

"That’s right," I replied.

"Well, from one Chuck to another, man—tell him there’s nothing like the Finiculum Pendulum Ex Libris Transformation for dealing with difficult ex-wives. Worked rather well for me!"

"Certainly," I agreed.

"Sheffield! Did I hear the name Sheffield used?"

The voice was strange, a collection of monotone syllables strung together without the slightest trace of a British accent. I turned and found myself faced with a gangly man in a motorized chair, head tilted oddly and eyes not quite in focus, but fingers busy at the keyboard of a mechanical device, typing out words which in turn were translated into sounds. He wore the regulation black coat, black tie, and black goatee.

"Yes. I’m just looking around his Cambridge haunts."

"Well, you tell Charles that I thought Tomorrow and Tomorrow was excellent. Hugo material! I could tell that he used a nice batch of eye of newt and toe of dog on that one. He uses the same formulas for his non-fiction as I do, you know."

Despite his attire I recognized him for the world-famous scientist that he was. I finally got around my astonishment sufficiently to ask the burning question in my brain. "So...let me get this straight. You’re a scientist... but also an alchemist? Like Charles?"

"Absolutely! Look at my tie-clip. Gold! From the batch that Charlie and I brewed up when I was just an initiate here. Charlie was telling me that he wanted to write a book called A Brief History of Time but I beat him in an Esoteric Think-Off and got dibs on that. But wait. If you want to know about the relationship of science...specifically physics... You’ll really want to talk to our Master, yonder. Isaac! Oh, Isaac!"

"Isaac Newton? But he’s —" I spluttered.

"Oh no! Isaac Asimov. Ike... someone’s here who knows Charles Sheffield!"

A grinning man with thick glasses and bushy sideburns above his black goatee sauntered up.

I was stunned. "But you... You’re... I mean.... You’re supposed to be in the same condition as Isaac Newton...!"

"Merely on a different wavelength now, m’boy," said the jolly man, stroking the familiar anecdote riding his shoulder. "Thanks to my alchemical brotherhood, I’m past all that mortality business. The other Isaac is off addressing fellow scientists Down Under."

"Australia?"

"No, of course not. Hell! Hell!"

"But...but... science isn’t alchemy!" I said. "Science is pure inquiry into the unknown, using specific tools of rational thought."

Immediately, Isaac A. broke into a paroxysm of laughter. The famous scientist in the motorized wheelchair rocked back and forth while his computer giggled. The whole room started laughing.

The dwarf pointed a stubby finger at me. "Sucker!"

The word echoed in my head. The room closed around me. I fell back in a faint—and woke up in bed.

"A dream! It was all a dream!" I said.

"Well, of course it was a dream, you ninny," said the caterpillar atop the huge mushroom smoking a hookah. "Oxfordians such as Lewis Carroll and myself know Cambridge produces inferior mathematicians and scientists. Great science fiction writers, though. Pardon me. I must practice my Master of Ceremonies speech."

The caterpillar stuffed the mouthpiece of his hookah above his black goatee and started puffing away.

Well, there you have it. Proof positive that Charles Sheffield, like his Cambridgian forefather, Isaac Newton, is an alchemist.

But after all, I need not prove anything. The evidence will be before you when he practices his charm as he officiates at Bucconeer. Or, if you want direct proof, immediately, just read one of his fine books. Alchemy, indeed.

But pardon me. I have to go now. I’ve a date with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter to watch our favorite show.

One more witness to Charles Sheffield’s alchemical prowess, you request?

Go ask Alice. She’s been quite absorbed in Sheffield’s Jupiter novels from Tor Books.