Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  "After that: chaos," said Orne. "So we let the Nathians continue ... with two minor alterations."

  "We alter nothing," said Polly. "It occurs to me, Lewis, that you don't have a leg to stand on. You have me, but you'll get nothing out of me. The rest of the organization can go on without me. You don't dare expose us. We hold the whip hand!"

  * * * * *

  "The I-A could have ninety per cent of your organization in custody inside of ten days," said Orne.

  "You couldn't find them!" snapped Polly.

  "How?" asked Stetson.

  "Nomads," said Orne. "This house is a glorified tent. Men on the outside, women on the inside. Look for inner courtyard construction. It's instinctive with Nathian blood. Add to that, an inclination for odd musical instruments--the kaithra, the tambour, the oboe--all nomad instruments. Add to that, female dominance of the family--an odd twist on the nomad heritage, but not completely unique. Check for predominance of female offspring. Dig into political background. We'll miss damn few!"

  Polly just stared at him, mouth open.

  Spencer said: "Things are moving too fast for me. I know just one thing: I'm dedicated to preventing another Rim War. If I have to jail every last one of--"

  "An hour after this conspiracy became known, you wouldn't be in a position to jail anyone," said Orne. "The husband of a Nathian! You'd be in jail yourself or more likely dead at the hands of a mob!"

  Spencer paled.

  "What's your suggestion for compromise?" asked Polly.

  "Number one: the I-A gets veto power on any candidate you put up," said Orne. "Number two: you can never hold more than two thirds of the top offices."

  "Who in the I-A vetoes our candidates?" asked Polly.

  "Admiral Spencer, Stet, myself ... anyone else we deem trustworthy," said Orne.

  "You think you're a god or something?" demanded Polly.

  "No more than you do," said Orne. "This is what's known as a check and balance system. You cut the pie. We get first choice on which pieces to take."

  There was a protracted silence; then Spencer said: "It doesn't seem right just to--"

  "No political compromise is ever totally right," said Polly. "You keep patching up things that always have flaws in them. That's how government is." She chuckled, looked up at Orne. "All right, Lewis. We accept." She glanced at Spencer, who shrugged, nodded glumly. Polly looked back at Orne. "Just answer me one question: How'd you know I was boss lady?"

  "Easy," said Orne. "The records we found said the ... Nathian (he'd almost said 'traitor') family on Marak was coded as 'The Head.' Your name, Polly, contains the ancient word 'Poll' which means head."

  Polly looked at Stetson. "Is he always that sharp?"

  "Every time," said Stetson.

  "If you want to go into politics, Lewis," said Polly, "I'd be delighted to--"

  "I'm already in politics as far as I want to be," growled Orne. "What I really want is to settle down with Di, catch up on some of the living I've missed."

  Diana stiffened. "I never want to see, hear from or hear of Mr. Lewis Orne ever again!" she said. "That is final, emphatically final!"

  Orne's shoulders drooped. He turned away, stumbled, and abruptly collapsed full length on the thick carpets. There was a collective gasp behind him.

  Stetson barked: "Call a doctor! They warned me at the hospital he was still hanging on a thin thread!"

  There was the sound of Polly's heavy footsteps running toward the hall.

  "Lew!" It was Diana's voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, soft hands fumbling at his neck, his head.

  "Turn him over and loosen his collar!" snapped Spencer. "Give him air!"

  Gently, they turned Orne onto his back. He looked pale, Diana loosed his collar, buried her face against his neck. "Oh, Lew, I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I didn't mean it! Please, Lew ... please don't die! Please!"

  Orne opened his eyes, looked up at Spencer and Stetson. There was the sound of Polly's voice talking rapidly on the phone in the hall. He could feel Diana's cheek warm against his neck, the dampness of her tears. Slowly, deliberately, Orne winked at the two men.

  * * *

  Contents

  TEXAS WEEK

  by Albert Hernhunter

  Meeting the little man who isn't there is rated an horrendous experience. But discovery that the man is there may be even worse.

  The slick black car sped along the wide and straight street. It came to a smooth stop in front of a clean white house. A man got out of the car and walked briskly to the door. Reaching out with a pink hand, he pressed the doorbell with one well-manicured finger.

  The door was answered by a housewife. She was wearing a white blouse, a green skirt and a green apron trimmed with white. Her feet were tucked into orange slippers, her blonde hair was done up in a neat bun. She was dressed as the government had ordered for that week.

  The man said, "You are Mrs. Christopher Nest?"

  There was a trace of anxiety in her voice as she answered. "Yes. And you are...?"

  "My name is Maxwell Hanstark. As you may already know, I am the official psychiatrist for this district. My appointment will last until the end of this year."

  Mrs. Nest invited him in. They stepped into a clean living-room. At one end was the television set, at the other end were several chairs. There was nothing between the set and the chairs except a large grey rug which stretched from wall to wall. They walked to the chairs and sat down.

  "Now, just what is the matter with your husband, Mrs. Nest?"

  Mrs. Nest reached into a large bowl and absently picked up a piece of stale popcorn. She daintily placed it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully before she answered.

  "I wish I knew. All he does all day long is sit in the backyard and stare at the grass. He insists that he is standing on top of a cliff."

  Hanstark took out a small pad and a short ball-point pen. He wrote something down before he spoke again. "Is he violent? Did he get angry when you told him there was no cliff?"

  Mrs. Nest was silent for a moment. A second piece of popcorn joined the first. Hanstark's pen was poised above the pad. "No. He didn't get violent."

  Hanstark wrote as he asked the next question. "Just what was his reaction?"

  "He said I must be crazy."

  "Were those his exact words?"

  "No. He said that I was"— She thought for a moment—"loco. Yes, that was the word."

  "Loco?"

  "Yes. He said it just like those cowboys on the television."

  Hanstark looked puzzled. "Perhaps you had better tell me more about this. When did he first start acting this way?"

  Mrs. Nest glanced up at the television set, then back at Hanstark. "It was right after Texas Week. You remember—they showed all of those old cowboy pictures."

  Hanstark nodded.

  "Well, he stayed up every night watching them. Some nights he didn't even go to sleep. Even after the set was off, he sat in one of the chairs, just staring at the screen. This morning, when I got up, he wasn't in the house. I looked all over but I couldn't find him. I was just about ready to phone the police when I glanced out the window into the backyard. And I saw him."

  "What was he doing?"

  "He was just sitting there in the middle of the yard, staring. I went out and tried to bring him into the house. He told me he had to watch for someone. When I asked him what he was talking about he told me that I was crazy. That was when I phoned you, Mr. Hanstark."

  "A very wise move, Mrs. Nest. And would you show me where your husband is right now?"

  She nodded her head and they both got up from the chairs. They walked through the dining-room and kitchen. On the back porch Hanstark came to a halt.

  "You'd better stay here, Mrs. Nest." He walked to the door and opened it.

  "Mr. Hanstark," Mrs. Nest called.

  Hanstark turned and saw her standing next to the automatic washing machine. "Yes?"

  "Please be careful."

  Hanstark smiled. "I shal
l be, Mrs. Nest."

  He walked out the door and down three concrete steps. Looking a little to his right, he saw a man squatted on his heels. He walked up to the man. "You are Mr. Christopher Nest?"

  The man looked up and stared for a moment at Hanstark. "Yep," he answered. Then he turned and stared at the grass again.

  "And may I ask you what you are doing?"

  Nest answered without looking up. "Guardin' the pass."

  Hanstark scribbled something in his notebook. "And why are you guarding the pass?"

  Nest rose to his feet and stared down at Hanstark. "Just what are you askin' all of these questions for, stranger?"

  Hanstark saw Nest was bigger than he and decided to play along for a while. After all, strategy ...

  "I'm just interested in your welfare, Mr. Nest."

  Nest shrugged his shoulders. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a sack of tobacco and some paper. Holding a piece of paper in one hand, he carefully poured a little tobacco onto it. In one quick movement he rolled the paper and tobacco into a perfect cylinder.

  He put the sack of tobacco and paper back into his pocket and took out a wooden kitchen match. He scraped it to life on the sole of his shoe and applied the flame to the tip of the cigarette. He puffed it into life and threw the match away. It burned for a few moments in the moist grass, then went out. A thin trail of smoke rose from it, and then was gone.

  "Why are you guarding the pass?" Hanstark asked again.

  Nest resumed his crouch on the grass. "News is around that Dirty Dan the cattle rustler is gonna try to steal some of my cattle." He patted an imaginary holster at his side. "And I aim to stop him."

  Hanstark thought for a moment. Strategy—he must use strategy ... "Mr. Nest." He waited until Nest had turned to him. "Mr. Nest. What would you say if I told you that there was no pass down there?"

  "Why shucks, pardner. I'd say you'd been chewin' some loco weed."

  "And if I could prove it?"

  Nest answered after a moment's pause. "Why then, I guess I'd be loco."

  Hanstark thought it was going to be easy. "Mr. Nest, it is a well known fact that no one can walk in mid-air. Is that not true?"

  Nest took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. "Shore."

  "Then if I were to walk out above your pass you'd have to admit there is no pass."

  "Reckon so."

  Hanstark began to walk in the direction of Nest's "cliff." Nest jumped to his feet and grabbed the official psychiatrist by the arm.

  "What're you tryin' to do," Nest said angrily, "kill yourself?"

  Hanstark shook free of his grasp. "Mr. Nest, I am not going to kill myself. I am merely going to walk in that direction." He pointed to where the cliff was supposed to be. "To you it will look as if I were walking in mid-air."

  Nest dropped his hands to his sides. "Shucks, I don't care if you kill yourself. It's just that it's liable to make the cattle nervous."

  Hanstark gave him a cold glare and began to walk. He took three paces and stopped. "You see, Mr. Nest. There is no cliff."

  Nest looked at him and laughed. "You just take one more step and you'll find there is a cliff!"

  Hanstark took another step—a long one. His face bore a surprised look as he disappeared beneath the grass. His screams could be heard for a moment before he landed on the rocks below.

  Nest walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the mangled body. He took off his hat in respect. "Little feller had a lotta guts." Then he added, "Poor little feller."

  He put his hat back on and looked down at the entrance to the valley. A horse and rider appeared from behind several rocks.

  "Dirty Dan!" Nest exclaimed. He reached down and picked up his rifle.

  * * *

  Contents

  THE SMILER

  By Albert Hernhunter

  "Your name?"

  "Cole. Martin Cole."

  "Your profession?"

  "A very important one. I am a literary agent specializing in science fiction. I sell the work of various authors to magazine and book publishers."

  The Coroner paused to study Cole; to ponder the thin, mirthless smile. The Coroner said, "Mr. Cole, this inquest has been called to look into the death of one Sanford Smith, who was found near your home with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his brain. The theory of suicide has been—"

  "—rather hard to rationalize?"

  The Coroner blinked. "You could put it that way."

  "I would put it even stronger. The theory is obviously ridiculous. It was a weak cover-up. The best I could do under the circumstances."

  "You are saying that you killed Sanford Smith?"

  "Of course."

  The Coroner glanced at his six-man jury, at the two police officers, at the scattering of spectators. They all seemed stunned. Even the reporter sent to cover the hearing made no move toward the telephone. The Coroner could think of only the obvious question: "Why did you kill him?"

  "He was dangerous to us."

  "Whom do you mean by us?"

  "We Martians, who plan to take over your world."

  The Coroner was disappointed. A lunatic. But a lunatic can murder. Best to proceed, the Coroner thought. "I was not aware that we have Martians to contend with."

  "If I'd had the right weapon to use on Smith, you wouldn't be aware of it now. We still exercise caution."

  The Coroner felt a certain pity. "Why did you kill Smith?"

  "We Martians have found science-fiction writers to be our greatest danger. Through the medium of imaginative fiction, such writers have more than once revealed our plans. If the public suddenly realized that—"

  The Coroner broke in. "You killed Smith because he revealed something in his writings?"

  "Yes. He refused to take my word that it was unsalable. He threatened to submit it direct. It was vital material."

  "But there are many other such writers. You can't control—"

  "We control ninety percent of the output. We have concentrated on the field and all of the science-fiction agencies are in our hands. This control was imperative."

  "I see." The Coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane. "Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the agents."

  "Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes, as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell."

  "The writers always agree?"

  "Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected."

  The Coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the Coroner's look, apparently ready to move on his order.

  The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Maniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time—try to quiet the madness within. The Coroner continued speaking. "You Martians have infiltrated other fields also?"

  "Oh, yes. We are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere. We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in the masses of ordinary, everyday people. It is from these sources that we will draw our shock troops when the time comes."

  "That time will be—?"

  "Soon, very soon."

  The Coroner could not forebear a smile. "You find the science-fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists?"

  "Oh, yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves." There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. "Science can easily prove we do not exist."

  "But the science-fiction writer?"

  "The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated."

  The Coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. "You said a moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to u
se on Smith—"

  Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a fountain pen. "This. It kills instantly and leaves no mark whatever. Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death."

  The Coroner felt better. Obviously, Cole was not armed. As the Coroner raised a hand to signal the officers, Cole said, "You understand, of course, that I can't let you live."

  "Take this man into custody."

  The police officers did not move. The Coroner turned on them sharply. They were smiling. Cole pointed the fountain pen. The Coroner felt a sharp chill on his flesh. He looked at the jury, at the newspaperman, the spectators. They were all smiling cold, thin, terrible smiles....

  A short time later, the newspaperman phoned in his story. The afternoon editions carried it:

  CORONER BELL DIES OF HEART ATTACK

  Shortly after this morning's inquest, which resulted in a jury verdict of suicide in the case of Sanford Smith, Coroner James Bell dropped dead of heart failure in the hearing room of the County building. Mr. Bell leaves a wife and—

  * * *

  Contents

  SPACEMEN NEVER DIE!

  By Morris Hershman

  Henry Weller stood facing a huge three-dimensional picture on the wall of his dining room.

  "Can't we get rid of it?" he asked, turning to his wife. "I mean, with all due respect, of course."

  No man enjoys coming into his dining room and having to sit at meals and look at a full-sized picture of his wife's first husband arriving on Venus. Fair's fair, but such a set-up is ridiculous.

  "No," Phoebe shook her blonde head. "Don Manton loved me and he was famous. I like to be reminded of the days when my picture was in all the telepapers and my face on so many telescreens."