In a small snippet of a larger dream, I’m sitting across from Robert Silverberg at a long table while I open my mail, which for at least 15 years—ever since I started editing science-fiction magazines—has consisted not just of envelopes, but of many packages filled with books, DVDs, toys, etc.

As I tear through the parcels and leave the detritus at my feet, I come across a small box with a return address of Wes’ Rib House.

“Ah,” I say in satisfaction, for this what I’d been waiting for.

“Oh?” says Bob. I rip open the box and show Bob the package of rib rub I’d ordered.

Bob, seeing the name on the spices, comments that he recognizes it as a restaurant in Chicago, but when I correct him to say that Wes’ is in Rhode Island, he continues to insist that the place is in Chicago. Even though I’m right, and have eaten there many times in real life, I begin to doubt myself in the dream.

Because after all, it is Robert Silverberg.

We contradict each other for awhile, and then the dream moves on …