A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  TED WAS yanking desperately at the throttle. His feet danced on the foot-pedals.

  “We’re stuck,” he muttered; “that’s mud under us, not ice.”

  “I’ll get out and try pushing.”

  “Sit still! Don’t you see what’s under us?”

  Carla looked carefully over the vehicle’s side. Where a puddle of water had stood only minutes before, a riverlike current of icy water now rushed. The snowtaxi swayed a little from its tug.

  “Here comes that plane again,” Ted said. Carla ducked dutifully out of sight. Ted began to imitate her, then straightened and grabbed again at the controls of the snowtaxi.

  The vehicle jolted wildly, then began to slide along. Carla relaxed for a moment, believing that Ted had gotten it to moving. Then her face whitened, as the rocking of the snowtaxi told her that it had merely broken loose and was floating along at the mercy of the current.

  Ted fought for balance as the careening thing tried to throw him from the seat. His right arm encircled Carla, supporting her.

  “Jump and swim!” she screamed.

  “No use,” he gasped. “We’d sink like shots in these coats. We’d freeze if we took them off and jumped in; that water’s cold!”

  Hanging to the wildly careening vehicle with one hand, Ted pulled from his pocket with the other revolver. Water was splashing into the seat beside them as he aimed into the air and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Desperately, he jerked again and again at the trigger.

  The fourth time, the weapon fired. But instead of the report of a bulletfiring pistol, there was an uncanny whine and a bright ball of fire that emerged from the muzzle, soared high into the air, glowing redly even in the bright light of morning.

  “You’re aiming wrong!” Carla shouted, mistaking his intentions; “the helicopter’s over that way.”

  “I’m not trying to hit anything. I thought that it might be a signal-pistol instead of a regular gun.” He fired again and again, and three balls danced in the sky. close together.

  The helicopter began to change direction, heading their way.

  “Good thing we didn’t try to shoot anyone with this,” Ted remarked, almost light-hearted with rescue in sight.

  But a scream from Carla answered him. Her face was a mask of terror and her hand shook as she pointed to a point just ahead of the drifting snowtaxi.

  The snowfield fell away into a deep hollow that was now a frigid lake. The vehicle went noiselessly over the edge of the slope, half-fell, half-floated down the incline, and hit bottom with a titanic splash.

  Water spurted through the bottom of the snowtaxi, like the bursting of a high-pressure hose. Ted threw both arms around Carla as the vehicle somersaulted and overturned.

  THE ICY water into which they were thrown was like a slap in the face. Somehow Ted struggled to the surface, clinging desperately to Carla. She was limp until their heads rose above water, then began to kick and struggle like a madwoman, screaming hysterically. Ted felt her pulling him down.

  He shook the water from his eyes, grabbed her hair with his left hand, and with his right fist, hit her on the jaw. She went limp.

  Supporting her with one hand, Ted could have paddled to safety in normal conditions. But the heavy clothing was pulling him down like a weight, the current was moving them along at a dizzy pace, and the near-freezing temperature of the water was numbing Ted’s fingers already.

  He kicked desperately, praying that his feet might hit mud or ice on which he might stand and rest for a moment. But the new river was deep.

  Twice his head went under the surface, and twice a trick of the current enabled him to come up for air. But hit breathing was labored, Carla’s dead weight threatened to slip from his grasp, and things were growing dark around him.

  There was a roaring in Ted’s ears. Unable to see clearly, he attempted to unfasten his coat, get rid of its weight at all costs. The roaring was louder, and as he fumbled for the coat’s fastenings, a snake slithered around his waist.

  Ted clawed desperately at the snake. It tightened inexorably, pressing a vise-like grip around him, pushing the little breath left to him out of his body. There was nothing in Ted’s universe but the numbing water, the grip around his waist, and the roar in his ears, with the automatic clutch of his arm around Carla.

  Then the snake began to pull him upward toward the roar. Ted fought for breath, looked up, and saw through exhausted eyes the helicopter hovering overhead, a rope descending from it, and the loop of the rope around his body. Someone in the hold cautiously but steadily pulled Ted and Carla toward the helicopter.

  AN HOUR later, wrapped in heavy blankets and sipping scalding coffee, Ted and Carla again faced Dr. Dietrich, this time in his living quarters at the observatory.

  “It’s all your own fault,” he told Ted, without malice—merely explaining. “That switchboard happened to be the basic control-panel for the whole plant. When you wrecked it, our equipment went crazy; this all-out thaw got started before I could get out and alert the place.”

  “But why did you save our lives?” Ted asked bitterly. “You created misery for the whole world; you could have saved yourself some trouble by letting a couple more people drown.”

  “Now you’re getting doubtful about us again,” Dr. Dietrich chuckled. “You think we’re evil, but you aren’t so sure. As a matter of fact, we operate on the basic law of doing nothing that will cost lives. When we upset the weather, it makes people uncomfortable and they keep busy trying to survive the cold and the storms; but we never make it so bad that they’ll die.”

  “You admit that this is a conspiracy?” Carla asked.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” the official answered. “I kept trying to find a way to explain to you two and ask you to join us; but you were always in hot water, from the beginning to the end around here.”

  Ted laughed hollowly at the thought of joining this outfit. Dr. Dietrich raised a finger toward him.

  “Listen to me for a minute,” the official insisted. “Haven’t you ever heard of choosing between the lesser of two evils? That’s what has been done, and the secrecy has been necessary to save the world from itself. Think back a few years. Isn’t it true that there hasn’t been a serious war since the climate started to get worse?”

  Ted and Carla stared at him.

  “About forty years ago, scientific organizations all over the world saw how their discoveries were being misused in war. The scientists decided to do something about it. They strengthened their organizations, to prevent the rest of the people from knowing precisely what was happening; then they messed up the weather, simply to give man something to do besides fight wars.

  “When crops started to fail, and transportation got knocked out, the politicians and the generals couldn’t fight wars; there was no way to move men and the soldiers were needed to produce food. The newspapers couldn’t get one country upset about the actions of another country, because all the countries were too busy keeping warm and dry and fastening down the roof in the gales.

  “Finally, we reached a point in weather-control where we have a more direct control. If some nation decides to act belligerent, we simply clamp down fogs and gales on that country until it behaves.”

  DIETRICH smiled. “The governments know what we scientists are doing but they’re helpless to do anything about it. If one of these weather stations were sabotaged, there are plenty of others to pinchhit. And our own weapon prevents the scientists from getting too dictatorial—if we make conditions too bad, we’ll all starve or blow away.

  “It’s really the old story all over again. Give man something important to do, and he’ll be too busy to fight his neighbor. We didn’t have a Civil War in the United States until most of the continent had been explored and civilized. They’re working on rocket-ships now; as soon as we get to Mars in them, colonizing that planet will keep earth people so busy that we can probably let the weather here go back to normal.”

  “I want to believe it,” Te
d said slowly, “but it sounds terribly wild.”

  “Then you can both come to work for us here,” Dr. Dietrich said, “and learn the proof. You know more about the science already than a lot of the people at the station; and I’ve always wanted Carla back as my secretary.” The thaw was over outside, and snowflakes were again tapping at the window. Carla turned to Ted. “Let’s stay,” she proposed.

  Dr. Dietrich turned and walked discreetly out of the room. Ted answered: “I think he’s right. And I’ve just remembered some more of that poem, the second line. It goes:

  “ ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

  ‘Thou art not so unkind. . . .’ ”

  DEATH ON BETELGEUSE

  Dee Arlen

  BILL CRANE was only eighteen at the time, and he was making the Martian run on the passenger liner Betelguese, actually a converted cargo carrier, running between Terran Station and Phobos. Since interplanetary travel as increased so vastly with the application of Atomics, ships have been multiplying like rabbits.

  At Mars minus two days, he had discovered an electronic relaying section of the ship on the number two bulkhead and despite the warning signs in six languages on the door, Bill entered the little room and found it fascinating. It was essentially the control center and of course was jammed with racks, cables wires, tubes and all the paraphernalia of electronic gadgetry.

  He watched Larsen turn suddenly to the Captain.

  “Sir,” he said, “Freighter Orpheus request permission to match velocities and bring an injured crewman aboard. They have no doctor and the man’s badly burned.”

  “Of course,” the Captain replied, “tell ‘em to match and send him on. Dr. Frane will take care of him.”

  This little exchange was not extraordinary though Bill thought it dramatic and moving. Rescue work in deep space. He remained at the monitor fascinated. He switched to a view of the boarding lock—external and internal and he could see the careful maneuvering of a standard KK-class freighter coming alongside to transfer the man.

  Wide-eyed, Bill watched. The freighter carefully matched velocities, paralleling the Betelguese at two hundred meters. From the open lock of the freighter, somebody shot a line across and a few moments later a “sick-suit” shaped somewhat like a coffin, was being escorted along the handline by three men from the freighter.

  Bill shifted the monitor to internal view and watched the interior door open. The coffin-like suit came in followed by the crewmen. Dr. Frane and the Captain waited to receive them.

  The crewman who was the leader of the little group, without removing his helmet, stepped forward to the head of the sick-suit and opened the clips on it. A yellowish gas burst from the container in enormous volume and Bill saw Dr. Frane, the captain and passengers suddenly grasp at their throats and then sink helplessly to the floor. Bill’s trembling hand ran over the monitor switch and he saw the scene duplicated everywhere as the air pressure units spread the insidious gas all over the ship.

  Without hesitation, the space-suited figures went through the ship, cabin after cabin, room and hold after room and hold. They missed nothing. Sick with fear and numb with horror Bill crouched in his suit in one corner of the relay room. Then an idea struck him. He put himself back against the suit-rack just as if he were still an empty suit. Anything more than the casual inspection would show the suit filled with a man, but there was simply no place to hide.

  As he expected the door swung open and a head stuck itself in, started to make a cursory sweep of the room, but before it could focus on the suits, someone outside must have said something and the door slammed shut. Bill was safe!

  There was no petty looting. In the control room, Bill saw and heard the pirate leader giving orders, completely oblivious of the dead bodies around him.

  “. . . Ferrin’s got the drug supply and liquor ready for trans-shipment. Forget about the junk. Make sure we nail all tools and instruments. You know what that stuff’ll bring on Venus . . .”

  Calmly and coolly the pirate leader ordered the calculated looting of the Betelguese, taking only materials of use in general deep-space and colonial work.

  Finally the leader gave the order to abandon ship.

  “All right, boys. That does it. I’m setting her for full blast. She’ll hit the Martian deserts and there won’t be a shred of metal left at the velocity she’ll have . . .” He laughed. “The Phobos station will think she’s simply vanished. I’m putting her in a paraboloid that’ll throw clear of any possible radar or Patrol detection.”

  A few minutes later he and his men were gone and Bill saw the freighter-rocket disappear. He was alone aboard an empty vessel filled with dead men.

  It took no genius to use the radio equipment and a half hour later when he was sure the pirates were gone for good and out of range, he put through the top-priority emergency one.

  The Phobos station picked him up and caught his story after they were able to convert his babbling into common sense. When he was calmed down sufficiently, they showed him how to cut power.

  Five hours later a Patrol ship matched the Betelguese and the Lawmen boarded and took over.

  And that was Bill’s role. Triplanet Insurance took care of him with a hundred thousand credits. The Patrol caught the pirates who were planning a series of grand coups like this and which probably would have succeeded for some time.

  THE BLACK TIDE

  Arthur G. Stangland

  Space in its far dark reaches can be fickle with a man; it can shatter his dreams, fill him with tear and hate. It can also cure a man-if he is strong enough.

  IT FILLED all the ebony depths of space. Twirling slowly in awesome majesty, the meteor scintillated like a massive black diamond. And with its onrush came a devastating sense of doom. He looked everywhere. To the front, to the side, and below—there was no escape. Transfixed, he stared at the great rock flashing in the fire of myriad suns as it—

  Bill Staker, passenger rocket captain for Interplanetary Lines, came fully awake in his New York hotel room. For a minute, he lay unmoving on his bed, savoring the delicious sensation of weight. No queazy stirring in the pit of his belly for lack of gravity, no forced squinting because of muscular re-orientation.

  With a muttered curse he unwound himself from his covers and sat up. For a moment he rested his head in his hands, thinking, only a nightmare, thank God, only a nightmare.

  He lifted his head, and found cold sweat on his hands. Then sighing in relief he swung his feet over the edge of his bed.

  A glance at the clock showed 10:45 p.m. Monday, June 10th, 2039. Heavily, he clumped across the room in the peculiar flat-footed gait of a spaceman accustomed to magnetic contact shoes. Cigarette in hand he sank into a heavy chair, touched a button on the arm, then sat back to watch the telescreen.

  It was a rehash of the day’s news. In nasal tones a senator was accusing the Republicrats of raising taxes. Then followed scenes from a spectacular fire. Suddenly, Bill’s drooping eyelids popped open.

  The small meteor ripped through the Space Bird’s crew compartment, blinding the radar scope and severing communication with Earth.

  A commentator was saying, “. . . the two rockets of the Staker Space Mining Company, ready for a scouting trip to the asteroid Beta Quadrant.”

  A close-up of Tom Staker followed. Tall, rangy, with blond hair like straw in the wind. Bill laid his cigarette in a tray and with critical interest leaned forward to look at his brother.

  “We figure to find uranium,” Tom was saying, with a glance toward the vertical rockets, “all through the Beta Quadrant. Our departure is waiting on the return of my brother, Bill, from his Mars-to-Earth run.”

  A reporter asked Tom, “Private enterprise is unique in these days of virtual monopolies. What’s the story behind it?”

  “Well, our great-grandfather, George Staker, believed passionately in private enterprise,” Tom began. “Somewhere around 1952 or 1953 he established a trust fund for his third generation descendants to finance any proj
ect they think worthwhile. And he got an ironclad guarantee from the government that the trust fund for private enterprise would be honored in the future. You see, my ancestor was quite a romanticist. In one of his books entitled ‘The Philosophy of Science’ he says ‘People of this dawning Atomic Age little realize they are living in a vast dream. A dream that is slowly taking objective shape. A tool here, a part there, a plan on some drafting table. Men of ideas are pointing the way, structuring the inner dream world of a generation. Even today’s science fiction literature contains important ideas for the dreams-become-reality of tomorrow.’ ” Tom finished up, “With our Project Venture, Bill and I are going to bring a dream into reality—making a little on the side, of course!”

  The commentator ended his interview with: “And so, we await with great interest the carrying out of George Staker’s dream, a man whose Twentieth Century ideas of private enterprise have blown a breath of fresh air into an age of dull dreams and little imagination.”

  Bill Staker pressed the control button, darkening the screen. “Dream boy. Tom, you damned fool.” He got up and scuffed into the bathroom to stare into the mirror. Twenty-five years old, and already lines were grooving both sides of his nostrils. Tousled black hair like brush hanging over a high bank, and ridged creases in his forehead. Little lumps of flesh bulging over the corners of his mouth from constant tension. The tension of outwitting space on each trip ‘tween the planets. But worst of all was the look in his gray eyes. The look that never went away anymore. The look of a man who has spent too much time staring into the enigma of the Universe and—thinking.

  “I’m scared—scared as hell!” he blurted at his reflection. “And if I don’t get hold of myself, I’m through—washed up!”

  Space was no place for a man with imagination—too much imagination. You stared into the empty blackness here, you stared into the inky blackness there, behind you the Earth a tiny pinpoint, the Earth that meant rock solid footing, the caress of wind and land in all directions. But out there in the aching void you raced for Mars like a mouse scuttling across a lighted floor. Raced because of what you couldn’t see, couldn’t fathom. Yet, you knew It was out there, staring back inscrutably.