by Jerry
Soberly, yet half-grinning, he crossed out KIRTH VYRKO on the first page and wrote NORBERT HOLT.
MANNING STERN rejoiced loudly in this fresh discovery. “This boy’s got it! He makes it sound so real that. . . .” The business office was instructed to pay the highest bonus rate (unheard of for a first story) and an intensely cordial letter went to the author outlining immediate needs and offering certain story suggestions.
The editor of Surprising was no little surprised at the answer:
. . . I regret to say that all my stories will be based on one consistent scheme of future events and that you must allow me to stick to my own choice of material. . . .
“AND who the hell,” Manning Stern demanded, “is editing this magazine?” and dictated a somewhat peremptory suggestion for a personal interview.
The features were small and sharp, and the face had a sort of dark aliveness. It was a different beauty from Lavra’s, and an infinitely different beauty from the curious standards set by the 1949 films; but it was beauty and it spoke to Norbert Holt.
“You’ll forgive a certain surprise, Miss Stern,” he ventured. “I’ve read Surprising for so many years and never thought. . . .”
Manning Stern grinned. “That the editor was also surprising? I’m used to it—your reaction, I mean. I don’t think I’ll ever be quite used to being a woman . . . or a human being, for that matter.”
“Isn’t it rather unusual? From what I know of the field. . . .”
“Please God, when I find a man who can write, don’t let him go all male-chauvinist on me! I’m a good editor,” said she with becoming modesty (and don’t you ever forget it!), “and I’m a good scientist. I even worked on the Manhattan Project—until some character discovered that my adopted daughter was a Spanish War orphan. But what we’re here to talk about is this consistent-scheme gimmick of yours. It’s all right, of course; it’s been done before. But where I frankly think you’re crazy is in planning to do it exclusively.”
Norbert Holt opened his briefcase. “I’ve brought along an outline that might help convince you. . . .”
An hour later Manning Stern glanced at her watch and announced, “End of office hours! Care to continue this slugfest over a martini or five? I warn you—the more I’m plied, the less pliant I get.”
And an hour after that she stated, “We might get some place if we’d stay some place. I mean the subject seems to be getting elusive.”
“The hell,” Norbert Holt announced recklessly, “with editorial relations. Let’s get back to the current state of the opera.”
“It was paintings. I was telling you about the show at the—”
“No, I remember now. It was movies. You were trying to explain the Marx Brothers. Unsuccessfully, I may add.”
“Un . . . suc . . . cess . . . fully,” said Manning Stern ruminatively. “Five martinis and the man can say unsuccessfully successfully. But I try to explain the Marx Brothers yet! Look, Holt. I’ve got a subversive orphan at home and she’s undoubtedly starving. I’ve got to feed her. You come home and meet her and have potluck, huh?”
“Good. Fine. Always like to try a new dish.”
Manning Stern looked at him curiously. “Now was that a gag or not? You’re funny, Holt. You know a lot about everything and then all of a sudden you go all Man-from-Mars on the simplest thing. Or do you. . .? Anyway, let’s go feed Raquel.”
And five hours later Holt was saying, “I never thought I’d have this reason for being glad I sold a story. Manning, I haven’t had so much fun talking to—I almost said ‘to a woman.’ I haven’t had so much fun talking since—”
He had almost said since the agnoton came. She seemed not to notice his abrupt halt. She simply said “Bless you, Norb. Maybe you aren’t a male-chauvinist. Maybe even you’re. . . . Look, go find a subway or a cab or something. If you stay here another minute, I’m either going to kiss you or admit you’re right about your stories—and I don’t know which is worse editor-author relations.”
MANNING STERN committed the second breach of relations first. The fan mail on Norbert Holt’s debut left her no doubt that Surprising would profit by anything he chose to write about.
She’d never seen such a phenomenally rapid rise in author popularity. Or rather you could hardly say rise. Holt hit the top with his first story and stayed there. He socked the fans (Guest of Honor at the Washinvention), the pros (first President of Science Fiction Writers of America), and the general reader (author of the first pulp-bred science fiction book to stay three months on the best seller list).
And never had there been an author who was more pure damned fun to work with. Not that you edited him; you checked his copy for typos and sent it to the printers. (Typos were frequent at first; he said something odd about absurd illogical keyboard arrangement.) But just being with him, talking about this, that and those. . . . Raquel, just turning sixteen, was quite obviously in love with him—praying that he’d have the decency to stay single till she grew up and “You know, Manningcita, I am Spanish; and the Mediterranean girls. . . .”
But there was this occasional feeling of oddness. Like the potluck and the illogical keyboard and that night at SCWA. . . .
“I’ve got a story problem,” Norbert Holt announced there. “An idea, and I can’t lick it. Maybe if I toss it out to the literary lions. . . .”
“Story problem?” Manning said, a little more sharply than she’d intended. “I thought everything was outlined for the next ten years.”
“This is different. This is a sort of paradox story, and I can’t get out of it. It won’t end. Something like this: Suppose a man in the remote year X reads a story that tells him how to work a time machine. So he works the time machine and goes back to the year X minus 2000—let’s say, for instance, our time. So in ‘now’ he writes the story that he’s going to read two thousand years later, telling himself how to work the time machine because he knows how to work it because he read the story which he wrote because—”
Manning was starting to say “Hold it!” when Matt Duncan interrupted with, “Good old endless-cycle gimmick. Lot of fun to kick around, but Bob Heinlein did it once and for all in By His Bootstraps. Damnedest tour de force I ever read; there just aren’t any switcheroos left.”
“Ouroboros,” Joe Henderson contributed.
Norbert Holt looked a vain question at him; they knew that one word per evening was Joe’s maximum contribution.
Austin Carter picked it up. “Ouroboros, the worm, that circles the universe with its tail in its mouth. The Asgard Serpent, too. And I think there’s something in Mayan literature. All symbols of infinity—no beginning, no ending. Always out by the same door where you went in. See that magnificent novel of Eddison’s, The Worm Ouroboros; the perfect cyclic novel, ending with its recommencement, stopping not because there’s a stopping place, but because it’s uneconomical to print the whole text over infinitely.”
“The Quaker Oats box,” said Duncan. “With a Quaker holding a box with a Quaker holding a box with a Quaker holding a. . . .”
It was standard professional shop-talk. It was a fine evening with the boys. But there was a look of infinitely remote sadness in Norbert Holt’s eyes.
That was the evening that Manning violated her first rule of editor-author relationships.
THEY were having martinis in the same bar in which Norbert had, so many years ago, successfully said unsuccessfully.
“They’ve been good years,” he remarked, apparently to the olive.
There was something wrong with this evening. No bounce. No yumph. “That’s a funny tense,” Manning confided to her own olive. “Aren’t they still good years?”
“I’ve owed you a serious talk for a long time.”
“You don’t have to pay the debt. We don’t go in much for being serious, do we? Not so dead-earnest-catch-in-the-throat serious.”
“Don’t we?”
“I’ve got an awful feeling,” Manning admitted, “that you’re building up t
o a proposal, either to me or that olive. And if it’s me, I’ve got an awful feeling I’m going to accept—and Raquel will never forgive me.”
“You’re safe,” Norbert said dryly. “That’s the serious talk. I want to marry you, darling, and I’m not going to.”
“I suppose this is the time you twirl your black mustache and tell me you have a wife and family elsewhere?”
“I hope to God I have!”
“No, it wasn’t very funny, was it?” Manning felt very little, aside from wishing she were dead.
“I can’t tell you the truth,” he went on. “You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve loved two women before; one had talent and a brain, the other had beauty and no brain. I think I loved her. The damnedest curse of Ouroboros is that I’ll never quite know. If I could take that tail out of that mouth. . . .”
“Go on,” she encouraged a little wildly. “Talk plot-gimmicks. It’s easier on me.”
“And she is carrying . . . will carry . . . my child—my children, it must be. My twins. . . .”
“Look, Holt. We came in here editor and author—remember back when? Let’s go out that way. Don’t go on talking. I’m a big girl, but I can’t take . . . everything. It’s been fun knowing you and all future manuscripts will be gratefully received.”
“I knew I couldn’t say it. I shouldn’t have tried. But there won’t be any future manuscripts. I’ve written every Holt I’ve ever read.”
“Does that make sense?” Manning aimed the remark at the olive, but it was gone. So was the martini.
“Here’s the last.” He took it out of his breast-pocket, neatly folded. “The one we talked about at SCWA—the one I couldn’t end. Maybe you’ll understand. I wanted somehow to make it clear before. . . .”
The tone of his voice projected a sense of doom, and Manning forgot everything else. “Is something going to happen to you? Are you going to—Oh, my dear, no! All right, so you, have a wife on every space station in the asteroid belt; but if anything happens to you. . . .”
“I don’t know,” said Norbert Holt. “I can’t remember the exact date of that issue. . . .” He rose abruptly. “I shouldn’t have tried a goodbye. See you again, darling—the next time round Ouroboros.”
She was still staring at the empty martini glass when she heard the shrill of brakes and the excited up-springing of a crowd outside.
SHE read the posthumous fragment late that night, after her eyes had dried sufficiently to make the operation practicable. And through her sorrow her mind fought to help her, making her think, making her be an editor.
She understood a little and disbelieved what she understood. And underneath she prodded herself, “But it isn’t a story. It’s too short, too inconclusive. It’ll just disappoint the Holt fans—and that’s everybody. Much better if I do a straight obit, take up a full page on it. . . .”
She fought hard to keep on thinking, not feeling. She had never before experienced so strongly the I-have-been-here-before sensation. She had been faced with this dilemma once before, once on some other time-spiral, as the boys in SCWA would say. And her decision had been. . . .
“It’s sentimentality,” she protested. “It isn’t editing. This decision’s right. I know it. And if I go and get another of these attacks and start to change my mind. . . .”
She laid the posthumous Holt fragment on the coals. It caught fire quickly.
THE next morning Raquel greeted her with, “Manningcita, who’s Norbert Holt?”
Manning had slept so restfully that she was even tolerant of foolish questions at breakfast. “Who?” she asked.
“Norbert Holt. Somehow the name popped into my mind. Is he perhaps one of your writers?”
“Never heard of him.”
Raquel frowned. “I was almost sure. . . . Can you really remember them all? I’m going to check those bound volumes of Surprising.”
“Any luck with your . . . what was it. . .? Holt?” Manning asked the girl a little later.
“No, Manningcita. I was quite unsuccessful.”
. . . unsuccessful. . . . Now why in Heaven’s name, mused Manning Stern, should I be thinking of martinis at breakfast time?
THE LOOM OF DARKNESS
Jack Vance
An old, an ageless tale: the story of a golden woman and a golden tapestry, and of the slender threads of darkness that bound them eternally together . . .
THROUGH the dim forest came Liane the Wayfarer, passing along the shadowed glades with a prancing light-footed gait. He whistled, he caroled, he was plainly in high spirits. Around his finger he twirled a bit of wrought bronze—a circlet graved with angular crabbed characters, now stained black.
By excellent chance he had found it, banded around the root of an ancient yew. Hacking it free, he had seen the characters on the inner surface—rude forceful symbols, doubtless the cast of a powerful antique rune . . . Best take it to a magician and have it tested for sorcery.
Liane made a wry mouth. There were objections to the course. Sometimes it seemed as if all living creatures conspired to exasperate him. Only this morning, the spice merchant—what a tumult he had made dying! How carelessly he had spewed blood on Liane’s cock comb sandals! Still, thought Liane, every unpleasantness carried with it compensation. While digging the grave he had found the bronze ring.
And Liane’s spirits soared; he laughed in pure joy. He bounded, he leapt. His green cape flapped behind him, the red feather in his cap winked and blinked . . . But still—Liane slowed his step—he was no whit closer to the mystery of the magic, if magic the ring possessed.
Experiment, that was the word!
He stopped where the ruby sunlight slanted down without hindrance from the high foliage, examined the ring, traced the glyphs with his fingernail. He peered through. A faint film, a flicker? He held it at arm’s length. It was clearly a coronet. He whipped off his cap, set the band on his brow, rolled his great golden eyes, preened himself . . . Odd. It slipped down on his ears. It tipped across his eyes. Darkness. Frantically Liane clawed it off . . . A bronze ring, a hand’s-breadth in diameter. Queer.
He tried again. It slipped down over his head, his shoulders. His head was in the darkness of a strange separate space. Looking down, he saw the level of the outside light dropping as he dropped the ring.
Slowly down . . . Now it was around his ankles—and in sudden panic, Liane snatched the ring up over his body, emerged blinking into the maroon light of the forest.
He saw a blue-white, green-white flicker against the foliage. It was a Twk-man, mounted on a dragon-fly, and light glinted from the dragon-fly’s wings.
Liane called sharply, “Here, sir! Here, sir!”
The Twk-man perched his mount on a twig. “Well, Liane, what do you wish?”
“Watch now, and remember what you see.” Liane pulled the ring over his head, dropped it to his feet, lifted it back. He looked up to the Twk-man, who was chewing a leaf. “And what did you see?”
“I saw Liane vanish from mortal sight—except for the red curled toes of his sandals. All else was as air.”
“Ha!” cried Liane. “Think of it! Have you ever seen the like?”
The Twk-man asked carelessly, “Do you have salt? I would have salt.”
Liane cut his exultation short, eyed the Twk-man closely.
“What news do you bring me?”
“Three erbs killed Florejin the Dream-builder, and burst all his bubbles. The air above the manse was colored for many minutes with the flitting fragments.”
“A gram.”
“Lord Kandive the Golden has built a barge of carven mo-wood ten lengths high, and it floats on the River Scaum for the Regatta, full of treasure.”
“Two grams.”
“A golden witch named Lith has come to live on Thamber Meadow. She is quiet and very beautiful.”
“Three grams.”
“Enough,” said the Twk-man, and leaned forward to watch while Liane weighed out the salt in a tiny balance. He packed it in small panniers han
ging on each side of the ribbed thorax, then twitched the insect into the air and flicked off through the forest vaults.
Once more Liane tried the bronze ring, and this time brought it entirely past his feet, stepped out of it and brought the ring up into the darkness beside him. What a wonderful sanctuary! A hole whose opening could be hidden inside the hole itself! Down with the ring to his feet, step through, bring it up his slender frame and over his shoulders, out into the forest with a small bronze ring in his hand.
Ho! and off to Thamber Meadow to see the beautiful golden witch.
Her hut was a simple affair of woven reeds—a low dome with two round windows and a low door. He saw Lith at the pond bare-legged among the water shoots, catching frogs for her supper. A white kirtle was gathered up tight around her thighs; stock-still she stood and the dark water rippled rings away from her slender knees.
She was more beautiful than Liane could have imagined, as if one of Florejin’s wasted bubbles had burst here on the water. Her skin was pale creamed stirred gold, her hair a denser, wetter gold. Her eyes were like Liane’s own, great golden orbs, and hers were wide apart, tilted slightly.
Liane strode forward and planted himself on the bank. She looked up startled, her ripe mouth half-open.
“Behold, golden witch, here is Liane. He has come to welcome you to Thamber; and he offers you his friendship, his love . . .”
Lith bent, scooped a handful of slime from the bank and flung it into his face.
Shouting the most violent curses, Liane wiped his eyes free, but the door to the hut had slammed shut.
Liane strode to the door and pounded it with his fist.
“Open and show your witch’s face, or I burn the hut!”
The door opened, and the girl looked forth, smiling. “What now?”
Liane entered the hut and lunged for the girl, but twenty thin shafts darted out, twenty points pricking his chest. He halted, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching.
“Down, steel,” said Lith. The blades snapped from view. “So easily could I seek your vitality,” said Lith, “had I willed.”