A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  By morning the combat had almost ended, and the countless corpses of triceratopses and tyrannosauruses, some still barely twitching the tips of their tails, some dragging the ripped tatters of their stomachs, lay tumbled across the landscape.

  Almost without exception, the corpses of triceratopses had their entrails dug out. their ribs laid bare, and their neck shields chopped into ribbons. But most of the tyrannosauruses showed only deep puncture wounds in their necks and bellies, escaping utter destruction.

  There were even a few scattered survivors. But none had escaped unscathed. All had lost the energy to keep on fighting.

  One tyrannosaurus, his flung-out leg half mincemeat from the thigh down, continued to drag out and gobble the guts of the triceratops he had slaughtered.

  Behind him sprawled the body of one of his comrades, a gaping hole bored through its neck, its body clotted with dried blood, while no more than five meters away a triceratops grazed silently on the grass, blood still seeping from one of its eyes.

  Every now and then the tyrannosaurus would raise its head and glare—though perhaps this was only their fancy balefully at the grazing triceratops.

  If you eat that crud. why’d you kill us?

  The father and son almost felt they could hear that voice.

  If there’s too much to eat, why did you keep on butchering us?

  The triceratops’s unbloodied eye seemed to ask that back.

  The father and son watched as they walked slowly to the station. The corpses that weren’t dripping were at least tolerable. But even they were brought up short where the large intestines of a tyrannosaurus lay heaped across the road, as if they had sprung writhing from the animal’s torn-open belly. After a moment’s pause they edged by on the side of the street.

  A woman in fashionable white slacks passed through that blood-smeared landscape, her shoes clicking loudly, her eyes suspiciously watching father and son.

  A microbus filled with kindergarteners passed through that landscape, bearing its load of lively chatter.

  An elementary-school student passed through that landscape, singing a jingle.

  Skylark dancing to the sky

  God is reigning in the sky.

  The world, the world’s a trifle.

  1983

  SOMETHING COMING THROUGH

  Cherry Wilder

  Wheeler was alone in a strange city; a glance out of the eastern windows of his small apartment told him, morning and evening, that it was one of the strangest cities on the face of the earth. Deskar was very white. The sun at noon was flung back at the brazen sky from white walls of plexiglass, stucco, concrete and white-washed brick. The savage glare of the streets produced a painful equivalent of snow-blindness.

  The local designers favoured the ramp and the covered way: they were partial to helices. At last, in the evening, when sunset turned the walls to rose and gold, Wheeler knew where he had seen Deskar. It was that ‘city of the future drawn by Twentieth Century artists. There it was at last, soaring impossibly, full of pointless pinnacles and staircases that went nowhere.

  Wheeler had been placed by Intourist and the Department of Justice in a half-completed white apartment block a kilometer from the centre of the city. Roberta Nyass, the attorney, his only contact, assured him that it was not a tourist ghetto. He began to note down conscientiously all the persons he met in the apartment block. “Two Africans on the stairs,?staff; German prospector, elevator three; M. Dupont, manager, terrace; African woman, western jeansuit, lower lobby.”

  His own apartment was on the top floor, the third; beyond the elevators was a makeshift partition of white and gold laminated metal. Through the cracks one could see the raw sides of the west wing plunging downwards and the workmen in djibbahs and white rags toiling on its construction.

  Wheeler’s journal was written very small on sheets of rice paper and hidden in the lining of his Macduff overcoat hanging in the wardrobe. He had intended to record interviews with Judi and Raoul and any of the proceedings he was permitted to witness. After the first interview he was driven back to his apartment in a state of abject terror and frustration. He wrote it all down with a shaking hand then remained wide awake for twenty-four hours, prowling the four white rooms.

  Roberta Nyass had briefed him thoroughly before he entered the Imperial Prison. He wore a white shirt and white duck trousers specially purchased for the occasion and carried photocopies of all his documents attested and sealed with red wax by two attorneys. He bore in his left hand a paper carrying bag from the tourist supermarket containing two bottles of orange juice, four melons, a round of bread, a tin of herring and a plastic basin. He was passed quickly through the outer wards into the search area where he had a huge black man in a robe of Imperial purple all to himself.

  Wheeler spread his documents on the bench; the giant rose up slowly, flicking a fly-whisk, and smiled.

  “Business is slack,” he said in velvety Oxford English. “Relax, Mr Wheeler . . .”

  He ripped off the ring-pull top of the herring can and deposited the contents in the plastic basin. He dipped a finger in the herring brew and tasted a morsel of the fish.

  “The tins must be discarded,” he explained, “because of the suicide risk.”

  He slashed open the four melons, selected two and put them aside.

  “For supper,” he said. “Do you know the cheese bar at the supermarket?”

  “Sure . . .”

  “The camembert is very good.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Wheeler.

  “Now the part you’ve been dreading,” continued the guard. “Quite painless and not in the least humiliating.”

  He gestured Wheeler towards the shining metal search cabinet. Wheeler removed his trousers, handed them to the guard, stepped into the tall padded box and adjusted the chin rest. He was slightly off balance and had the sensation of falling forward. The guard searched the trousers quickly then moved to the control panel of the cabinet somewhere beyond Wheeler’s left ear. The X-ray hummed.

  “How did you fracture your thigh, Mr Wheeler?” asked the guard.

  “Ski-ing accident.”

  For a minute or so Wheeler concentrated on his memories of Sun Valley while invisible fingers probed and prodded his anatomy.

  He left the search area for interrogation laden with the food in its disintegrating bag, the bowl of herring and, in his right hand, his documents. The Inquisitor was a spare, light-skinned man of about fifty, Wheeler’s contemporary. His accent was unclassifiable. The examination lasted half an hour with the Inquisitor returning several times to his first questions.

  “What is your relationship to the prisoners?”

  “I am Judi Crane’s stepfather. She is the daughter of my wife by a previous marriage.”

  “Do you have children with this wife?”

  “We have one son, Jon . . . fourteen years old.”

  “Where does the mother live?”

  “We live in the United States of America . . . California . . .”

  “There is no such place as the United States of America.”

  “I mean, of course, the United States of North America, the USNA.”

  “You are aware the prisoners are wanted by the police in Toronto in the state of Ontario?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware of the charges against them?”

  “Not exactly. They are Canadian Separatists who opposed mergence.”

  “I suggest that they are Terrorists and fall into the category of stateless outlaws against which every hand must be raised.”

  “That is incorrect. You . . . that is, the Imperial Government knows about these charges from local news printouts carried by the young man, Raoul Martin,” said Wheeler. “They are Separatists wanted in connection with a street demonstration.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the Inquisitor. “We have them so far only on the drug charges: Tobacco and Alcohol.”

  He made a note on his clipboard and re
turned Wheeler’s documents.

  “They risk the garotte for the alcohol but it is complicated by the tobacco. The two together may add up to the guillotine which is public.”

  “I protest!” said Wheeler, trying to keep his voice level. “This is a savage and inhuman penalty!”

  “The guillotine?” asked the Inquisitor sadly. “Yes, it upsets the families, especially those of certain tribes.”

  “The death penalty for carrying alcohol and tobacco is hideously unjust!”

  “Our Imperial reformed religion forbids alcohol, and the tobacco is a prohibited substance, specifically proscribed by the World Health Organisation.”

  “They didn’t mean to enter your country!” burst out Wheeler. “They crossed an unmarked border zone by accident.”

  “They are here,” said the Inquisitor.

  “I protest!” said Wheeler.

  “There is little hope,” said the Inquisitor. “We may ask for a clarification from the USNA embassy in Tanzania. If they are declared to be terrorists the penalty is almost the same: firing squad.”

  He waved a hand and Wheeler scooped up his horrible possessions. He went through two more check points and found himself suddenly confronting Judi and Raoul through the bars of chromed steel. The sight of them, unharmed, clean and healthy, filled him with relief. He went forward grinning foolishly, and handed the food through the bars to Judi. A guard in magenta battledress on her side of the bars did not stir in his chair.

  “Judi!”

  He had recognised her at once even down to the pouting underlip. Raoul, whom he had never met, lounged in another chair chewing at a green leaf and scowling.

  “Judi, how are they treating you?”

  “Are you from the Embassy or something?” she asked solemnly.

  Wheeler paused, waiting for her to identify him. He saw the whole structure of the visit falling to the ground if she really failed to recognise him. “You claim to be the girl’s stepfather . . .” murmured the Inquisitor in his mind. Judi wiped her hands on her jeans.

  “This fish is kind of sloppy.”

  “Herring . . .” said Wheeler.

  “You’re Griff Wheeler, right?” she said, without a smile. “Is Mom here?”

  “No. She’s not well. I made the journey. Are you comfortable, Judi?”

  “Sure. We got busted.”

  “Judi, it is very serious.”

  She was a small girl with a pale, high forehead. Wheeler had always found her rather plain. Now her ragged short hair and slender neck put him in mind of Carl Dreyer’s Joan of Arc.

  “You better talk to Raoul if it’s anything about extradition,” she said.

  She went and whispered to Raoul and the young man sprang up.

  “You don’t have to worry!” he said in a loud harsh voice. “We’re fine. Tell those guys in the embassy that extradition won’t work!”

  “There is no embassy,” said Wheeler. “Raoul, I was saying to Judi . . .”

  “Pig!” said Raoul. “Stupid yankee pig! Why don’t you go back home on the first plane!”

  He was swarthy, handsome; his muscles bulged under a white T-shirt printed with a red maple leaf. Wheeler shuddered, looking at the somnolent guard.

  “Your situation is serious, Raoul!”

  “Get my name out of your mouth, pig!” said Raoul. “Judi, why the hell are you talking to this guy?”

  He walked around the tiled enclosure making faces at Wheeler.

  “Excuse him,” grinned Judi. “He’s high.”

  Wheeler jumped. The guard avoided his eye, took a green leaf from his pocket and began to chew methodically.

  “We get a ration of this neo-vert . . . new green. It is kind of like coca,” she explained. “Makes you feel better.”

  “New green?” asked Wheeler stupidly.

  “Yeah,” she glanced at Raoul who was squatting on the seat of his chair and whistling. “Seems crazy. To be busted for tobacco, you know, and then given this ration. Some guys burn the new green . . . inhale the fumes . . .”

  “Judi, do you know the penalty for carrying tobacco or alcohol?”

  “Yeah, well, so it’s five years or even ten. We’re never going back. You serve the time somewhere else. We spoke to a guard who had French and he told Raoul you go to either the Ring or the Basket. If these places up country are half as good as this Imperial pen we will do fine. We get to share a cell, Griff; honestly, where else could you do that? The food is okay. We don’t want to be extradited. They can’t . . . the Yank Invaders have no treaty with the Empire.”

  Raoul came up to the bars again panting, his eyes rolling in his head.

  “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I’ve heard, I’ve had a message. We’ll be out of here. We’ll bust right out again.”

  Wheeler felt as if he were choking.

  “We’ll do everything we can,” he whispered. “Your mother sends her love, Judi.”

  He turned away. As he hurried down to the nearest check point he heard Raoul laughing; Judi called after him something that might have been “Thanks for the herring.”

  Outside the prison gates kindly Madame Nyass bundled him into the official Merc Electra and they were driven through the blanched streets back to the apartment. Wheeler saw the tourist bazaar, the sparse, darting electric cars and mopeds, the gates of the Imperial palace, he saw all these things and did not see them. He sat numb and silent while the attorney recited ways and means, avenues of approach, things that might put off the evil day.

  “Never lose hope, Mr Wheeler,” she said.

  A pair of swallows sliced across their path, twisted in mid-air so close to the windshield that Griff Wheeler saw the glitter of their eyes. The driver swerved, clever and quick as the birds themselves. Wheeler roused himself a little.

  “What is neo-vert . . . new green?” he asked.

  Madame Nyass smiled.

  “It is from the agave,” she said. “Oh, it spread out very quickly. The plains by Hirondel were covered with the green leaves in no time.”

  Is it a stimulant?”

  “A mild one, apparently.”

  They were already at the apartment block. Wheeler was so eager to be alone that he climbed the stairs to the third floor for fear that he might meet someone in the elevator. He began straight away to write down his minute account of the first prison visit. Half-way through he remembered that, if it were not a dream, he had passed a woman crouched down weeping on the stairs; the smart African woman in western dress whom he had seen earlier in the lobby.

  He gritted his teeth and began a letter to Sara, his wife, rehearsing in his mind a second and truer account of things. The letter would be censored. He threw down his pen suddenly when the real letter became too difficult and the letter in his head became angry and desperate. It seemed certain that Judi and Raoul were going to die and he was powerless.

  Wheeler prowled the four white rooms, lay down to sleep and rose up again, aching and unrefreshed. His discomfort was profound, a cerebral irritation, the more agonising because he regarded it as selfish. He could not think of Sara and young Jon; he could not think of Judi and Raoul. He sat motionless, his eyes unfocussed until he was aroused by a thump or cry within the building, the sound of a dripping tap, a bird on the balcony, a whiff of resinous perfume.

  He cringed at the thought of his next prison visit. His visa would last six weeks; this encompassed three visits to the prison. He did not leave the apartment for several days but at last his mood changed. His apathy gave way to a furious activity. He exercised in the bathroom, travelled up and down the elevators, jogged around the terrace behind the building.

  When Roberta Nyass came to restock his refrigerator he talked greedily of ways and means. He examined the texts of his two petitions to the Emperor, inscribed in French on imitation parchment. The first begged for clemency for the prisoners; the second begged for an extension of his own visa so that he might witness their execution. He asked silly questions.

  �
��There is no presumption of innocence,” said Madame Nyass, shaking her magnificent green and gold turban, “and no appeal against sentence.”

  The day before his second visit he rode in elevator three with the German prospector who was in a talkative mood. He introduced himself to Wheeler: “Schwalbe, Gottfried!” and shook him warmly by the hand.

  “I have been ordered home,” said Herr Schwalbe. “I have something you might like . . . a book in English.”

  Wheeler was enthusiastic; they met in the same elevator next morning and transferred the book from Schwalbe’s briefcase to Wheeler’s airline satchel. That afternoon the Inquisitor’s first question made Wheeler tremble.

  “Now, about your books . . .”

  “Books?”

  “Your firm, Pegasoid Press.”

  “It is a small specialty publishing company,” said Wheeler, relieved.

  This was a true description which suggested pornography to most strangers he met in the States.

  “We print books,” he continued, “no cassettes. Even a number of hard covers. We print, for instance, books in Braille and collectors’ editions of English classical authors. In fact many of our customers are collectors . . .”

  “The paper shortage must have affected you,” said the Inquisitor.

  “We use a little of the new pliokraft,” said Wheeler, “and a range of rare, high-grade papers . . . willow paper from Japan, for instance.”

  “We have no problem with paper,” said the Inquisitor, smiling. “Our forestry projects replenish our needs with excellent speed. Especially in the region of Hirondel.”

  Wheeler was allowed to gather up his groceries and before he came to the visiting room he realised that the Inquisitor had taken him momentarily into his confidence. He had made an ironic reference to the regime. Hirondel? Then he was confronted by Judi and Raoul, the chromed bars, the sleepy guard in magenta battle-dress.

  They knew the truth. Wheeler was not sure if this was good or bad. Judi crouched shivering on a chair, Raoul approached and solemnly shook Wheeler’s hand.

  “She is depressed,” he murmured. “Excuse my former behaviour, Mr Wheeler.”