New Writings in SF 22 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  Julius Ferrier Birthwhistle took the paper. He began to read it. He became pink. He read more, and became pinker. Finally he looked up and beamed at the headmaster.

  ‘Well, Mr. Birthwhistle?’

  ‘I—er—hardly know what to say, sir. It’s very generous of you. You—ah—certainly give me a standard to maintain.’

  ‘Rubbish. If you’d turned out to be a stinker, I’d have said so in as many words.’ The head handed him another document. ‘One of your small dreams is about to come true. Read that.’

  The other jumped to conclusions. ‘Oh! Have the governors decided to install a time transport?’

  The head snorted. ‘The governing body remind me of a crab; they make up their minds and then go sideways. But they are prepared to shell out some of the gold from our coffers for that.”

  ‘Party of eight,’ JFB said, his eyes glistening.

  ‘With you in charge. Here are nine time visas; get then filled in, will you?’

  Had JFB been just the merest fraction more exuberant, he might have leaped for joy. ‘Wonderful! This is for the anthropologists?’

  ‘And biologists. Talk to Wolstenholme. You’ll have to select-’

  Crash!

  A sharp smacking sound was followed a tenth of a second later by the smashing of a pane of glass in the headmaster’s study window; he leaped from his seat; small pieces of glass crunched under his feet. ‘Now, if that was young Hardacre again, he will get an imperial lashing from me.’ Frowning, the head peered out.

  ‘Sir,’ put in JFB mildly, ‘if he hit your pane he could have missed his target.’

  The head picked up a five millimetre ball bearing. ‘Or else he hit his target first time and we got the ricochet. Whichever master is on duty today, he will have to get to the bottom of this. I will not, cannot have...” He broke off, staring across the verdant sward which seven centuries of greenkeepers had brought to perfection. Walking towards the school came Jock Wilson; in his mouth was a tightly-clenched pipe, and in his right hand was a tightly-clenched James Hardacre. The headmaster opened a window and listened.

  ‘Whatever you say now, young ‘un, will do you no good. You will receive it good and hard from the chief himself, so shut up and take your medicine like a man.’

  The headmaster closed the window with a sigh. From a cupboard he selected a supple cane, more than a metre in length. ‘I think, Mr. Birthwhistle, that you had better go. This is going to be an unhappy occasion for us all.’

  * * * *

  JFB had just finished marking some essays, not quite satisfied that he knew all the subtleties which separated the English and American versions of the same language.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened, and there stood Hardacre, his round face resolute. ‘May I speak to you, sir?’

  ‘Certainly.’ JFB felt no annoyance at all at the boy’s appearance. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  He closed the door, and sat down on the edge of the chair, wincing slightly.

  ‘The time trip, sir. Is it on?’

  ‘Ah, so that’s leaked out, has it? Yes, it’s on.’

  Hardacre seemed distressed. ‘You’ll be—you’ll be choosing the chaps to go, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ JFB knew that he was not helping, deliberately.

  Hardacre’s face showed relief. ‘Oh, that’s good.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  There was an awkward pause, not helped in the least by the severe, pinched expression on JFB’s face.

  ‘Sir ... will I be going?’

  ‘The headmaster has the final say.’

  ‘But—what I mean is, sir—it’s qualifications that count isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, indeed. And not only academic qualifications, Hardacre. What might be called unauthorised extramural studies may also have some influence on decisions. Like the destruction of the headmaster’s study windows.’

  ‘That. Oh, that was just a ricochet, sir. I’m a better shot than that!’ He looked pleadingly at his professor. ‘Couldn’t we have an exam to decide who goes and who doesn’t ? I do want to come, sir. Really I do. And if you’re going to try and choose our time at the life-or-death point? Just imagine, if we arrived at exactly the right time...’ He was standing, now, searching JFB’s face. ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous to see man on two feet ?’

  ‘It would indeed.’

  ‘Sir, am I going?’ The yearning in the boy’s voice was unbearable.

  JFB stiffened. ‘You know that I cannot answer that question. When the names are published, it will be by the headmaster’s decision.’ He added kindly: ‘You must see that, after all your larks, I can’t answer your question?’

  Hardacre walked listlessly to the door, and went out. For a moment JFB sat, feeling a heel. But he had done the only possible thing. The list he had submitted to the headmaster did not contain Hardacre’s name. It was something which had exercised JFB’s considerable mental equipment for several hours. What would the head think of him if he included this boy in the list? A boy who, though of great ability, was simply not reliable, had not the fundamental conformity to match that ability? Even considering the undoubted fact that the British still held the view that eccentricity equalled originality equalled wit equalled ... It was a serial equation without a resolution, and it was not favourably regarded by the American professor, who found it even more annoying when he had to admit that he, now, had a thorough liking for the school, and had the feeling that the school liked him.

  ‘Damn!’ said Julius Ferrier Birthwhistle.

  A tap at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Loder, a sixth former, entered. ‘A note from the headmaster, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ JFB took it, opened it as the sixth form student closed the door. It was the list he had submitted to the headmaster, and, as he read it, he hardly knew what to say, or to think. The last name on the list which he had written out was Louis Cousteau; it had now been scored through, and initialled by the head, who had replaced it with the name ‘James Hardacre.’

  JFB said to himself: ‘Julius, my boy, maybe you are just beginning to learn why only a selected few ever become principals, deans or headmasters. It must be instinct; there is no reason in the matter.’

  And he realised, with some wonder, that he was glad that the head had made the decision. A momentary flash of doubt entered his mind, but was gone as soon as he remembered the headmaster’s glowing opinion as expressed in the interim report to the dean. They couldn’t take that away from him.

  * * * *

  Eight pupils and JFB were seated in what looked like an anodised-aluminium freight elevator. Each was clothed in a silvery coverall, each sat in a padded chair, with belt and shoulder straps.

  A gentle female voice was speaking to them, a soothing voice.

  ... ‘Upon your arrival you will find yourselves sitting in the middle of what seems to be an unsupported four metre roadway of metal, which floats on antigrav about three metres from the ground. It draws its power from the sun. You must keep your coveralls on, because these adjust for your comfort in the matter of body temperature. There must be strict observance of the rule demanding that you remain on the roadway; you must do nothing to influence the flow of time at the point in time to which you will be taken, which has been calculated with little more than a month’s leeway. There is nothing to fear from any living creature. In the first instance, the road is invisible to them, and, secondly, should a living being approach to within ten metres of the road, a self activating force screen will gently push the creature away. Be ready to obey your party leader, with whom we shall keep in touch, and remember that there is no cause for alarm.’

  The soft voice spoke in the plug in JFB’s left ear. ‘Just nod if you’re all ready, Mr. Birthwhistle.’

  JFB, his whole body vibrating with excitement, managed a small nod.

  The voice continued. “Now, all you have to do is to relax, which is easy. Tak
e yourselves back to the time when your mothers held you gently until you went to sleep, fearing nothing, feeling completely relaxed..

  The travellers found it easy to comply with the suggestion.

  * * * *

  ‘You have arrived.’ The sweet voice spoke in his earphone and JFB awoke as though from a pleasant catnap. Everything was as they had predicted, and the first smiling face he noticed was Jimmy Hardacre. He knew that the boy thought that his American professor had put him on the list. JFB felt a pang of remorse.

  But he was in charge of the school party. Did not that imply that the head thought well of him... ?

  He started work. ‘Now. This open country before us is comparable in many ways to the African savannah of our own time. However, the greener grass and thicker foliage of the scattered trees indicates higher precipitation. The very large one about a hundred and fifty metres from us appears to be a predecessor of the baobab as we know it. The trees have foliage down to within a metre and a half of the ground, which may well indicate that no herbivores with long necks have yet developed...’

  He stopped as they sighted their first living creature.

  ‘Eohippus,’ Summers said, trying to keep his voice at its usual slightly blase level, and not succeeding. “Like a cross between a donkey and a tapir.’

  Two more of the horse’s ancestor appeared, moving faster and then more, breaking into a run.

  ‘What’s after them?’

  ‘Sabre tooth tiger,’ someone muttered, and JFB glared in the general direction of the remark, not being able to locate the pupil who was treating the whole thing as a rubbernecking tour.

  Two more of the horse-like creatures joined the rout, running along a line roughly parallel to the time road.

  ‘It’s a hunt!’ cried JFB, quivering with excitement, ‘a hunt! It could be—I wonder if it is—we could be very lucky and see-’

  They were lucky. In the very path of the fleeing animals, figures rose to a crouching posture. They were hairy man-creatures, long of jaw, short of nose. They clasped a rudimentary weapon in one fist as they foot-and-knuckled along at a fair run. They spread out, giving cries, making a semicircle around the eohippics. JFB, gripped by the spectacle, had his sound-on hand camera recording their noises, all of which seemed to be the repetition of two syllables, ‘Yug-haaa! YugHaaa!’

  Now the quarry were almost surrounded by the advancing apemen; they halted, uncertain, and bayed, baring their teeth, occasionally bucking nervously as the apemen advanced, intent on the kill.

  * * * *

  Among the pupils of Revell’s school, there was a tense silence. With the apemen and their quarry, for a moment, there was also silence. Summers, behind Hardacre, pointed left. ‘Hey look, there’s the party of hunters who were coming after the eohippus—two groups after one lot of meat!’

  Jimmy Hardacre nodded. He was fascinated, wishing that he could have brought his camera, but JFB was the only one allowed to bring official kit. ‘Five of this second lot—six of the first—could be a fight.’

  Next indications were that there would be a fight. Party A stopped, rolled their heads, bared their teeth, and stood on three limbs while using the fourth to wave club or stone.

  ‘Yughaaaa! Yughaaaaa!’ they snarled.

  Party B replied equally intelligibly. ‘Sheghee! Sheg-heeeeee!’

  They fanned out, as though each was going to pick an opponent. Hardacre was working out the odds he might offer, when the party on the shining strip got another surprise. All the apemen save two sat down in a wide, wary circle.

  Summers muttered: ‘How about that, then, young ‘un?’

  ‘What?’ asked Hardacre.

  ‘Taking any bets ?’ Summers asked.

  Jimmy rose to the bait, pointed out the champion of the first group. ‘Bet you ten dollars big and hairy here wins.’

  ‘Tens!’ Summers said. ‘My my, we have changed, haven’t we! OK, ten that long ‘un over there wins. Yours has got too much fat on him.’

  ‘Got good shoulders,’ Hardacre said. Indeed, he was already beginning to feel that he had been rash. But he couldn’t welsh oh a bet, not now. And he noticed, too, that his champion had somewhat more backside than was necessary for agility, if not for comfort.

  ‘Shegheeee!’

  ‘Yughaaaaaa!’

  ‘Man of few words,’ muttered Summers.

  ‘Shurrup!’ whispered reckless bettor.

  ‘Wish they’d get on with it,’ Summers said.

  Came action. As though by common signal, the two apemen went towards each other, using all fours, the one gripping a club, the other ready with a half-metre length of slatey rock. Now Hardacre noticed that Summers’ man was longer of arm and leg, as well as younger. Ten dollars! Ten! He who wouldn’t take more than one dollar British per day from any client!

  The lanky one made a sudden rush; the other shuffled back, tripped, and rolled over; his opponent was almost upon him when he did an upwards slash before regaining his feet, and stood facing the snarling visage of Lanky. Watching, Jimmy Hardacre had the feeling that for two pins his champion would turn and run, and that would be defeat, and ten dollars out of the kitty, as well as the ragging he would get from the others. Hardacre discovered, quite suddenly, that he had a streak of ruthless pride within him. If only he could go out there and give his apeman some encouragement, like a bigger club, or a better piece of stone!

  Then he had an idea, and to think was to act.

  ‘Here,’ Summers said, ‘you’re not potting at my man-’

  ‘Brasshead!’ snorted the other. He waited until his ape-man was crouching with his posterior well exposed. A ballbearing was already within the leather of the catapult. He raised the weapon, aiming consciously at the tenderest spot of a very tender area.

  He let fly.

  Smack!

  The apeman leaped a metre into the air with a howling yelp. Landing on his feet, with one hand holding his rear, he looked for a moment as though he was going to drop back on all fours.

  But he didn’t.

  Half bent, he felt the balance of his body, moved shakily and then, as though in the power of new and undreamed of forces, he straightened, cautiously. He found he could do it. He breathed deeply, thumped his chest, snarled and roared from his new and conquering height. He moved forward, gathering confidence at every step, his initial hurt forgotten, and he went hell for leather after his younger opponent, who took one look at a creature like himself behaving with such lack of propriety, and scarpered off with the rest of his tribe, snarling and yelling.

  And JFB had filmed it all.

  ‘Ten dollars,’ Hardacre said.

  ‘Look here,’ Summers said, ‘if you hadn’t-’

  ‘Nothing in the rules,’ Hardacre snapped, ‘pay up!’

  So, Summers paid up, and Julian Ferrier Birthwhistle, for all his learning, never knew the why of it all. He had seen, he had recorded, and that was sufficient fame for a lifetime. No-one ever told him how Pithecanthropus became Erectus.

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  * * * *

  THE SQUARE ROOT OF MC

  Laurence James

  The problems we face in this modern world—overpopulation, pollution, racism, religious intolerance and many more similar horrors—must be tackled with all the tools available. Not least in our armoury is the printed word, in various guises including reasoned polemic, vicious attack and allegory. Or as herein presented where speculation and mystery combine in an unusual way.

  * * * *

  ‘Your Holiness, Your Royal Highness, Honoured Premier, Mister President, Right Honourable Prime Ministers, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen! I beg you now to pray silence for the much-respected and well-loved Ambassador from the Planet Poseidon.’

  (Prolonged Applause, culminating in a standing ovation.)

  Thank you. Thank you all. My friends—and I call you ‘my friends’ rather than repeat that somewhat tedious list of mainly honorary titles (laughter)—my friends, today is, indeed, a day
of much happiness for us all. In case you need reminding of what today is, but I cannot think many of you will have forgotten, (more laughter)—it is November 14th, 2172—just two hundred years to the very day since I first came among you.

  It was only a little while before, that you were even ignorant of the very existence of my world. I believe that I am right when I say that it was a young boy from United Britain who first deduced that there might be a tenth planet. I need hardly remind you of the dreadful furore that followed when we finally made our planet Visible to you. Astronomers from all over your world rushed to claim it for their own. And the naming of it! Oh, oh! (Polite laughter.) It was with great difficulty, Sir, (bowing to the leader of the Eastern Bloc) that we were able to prevent it being named after one of your most illustrious predecessors. (Louder laughter.)