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Martian Honeymoon and Beyond the Darkness
by Stuart J. Byrne
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Science Fiction
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Renaissance E Books
www.renebooks.com
Copyright ©
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MARTIAN HONEYMOON
&
BEYOND THE DARKNESS
Two Classic Novellas from the Golden Age of the SF Pulps
By
STUART J. BYRNE
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-58873-854-X
All rights reserved
Copyright 1952, 2006 by Stuart J. Byrne
Reprinted by arrangement with the author
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information:
[email protected]
PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Science Fiction
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INTRODUCTION
THE BEYOND THEME HAS ITS TWISTS
Here in my 93rd year as I skirt the dark woods of oblivion by the river of Lethe, while doing a precarious arabesque around the quicksands of old Alzheimers’ bog, what falls to my lot but the challenge of writing introductions to stories written half a century ago. It would be daunting enough to recall just one of those thought-variant brainstorms spawned in the pioneering days of science-fiction and fantasy, but to take them all on in the smothering flood of a total anthology is, at least to my mind, kaleidoscopic. All those wild concepts and varied plots and characters, through millions of typed and printed words, tend to present to the retrospective eye an incongruous mélange of ideas and unbridled imaginings, beyond which it would seem impossible to open any new horizons of ideation. Yet it was always that challenging characteristic of the genre which has led many a daring freebooter in fiction and fantasy to ever break through to the new and untried. This may explain why both the following novellas are intrepid attempts to go one step beyond.
In the first story, Martian Honeymoon (published under the editor's title, “Potential Zero,” in Science Stories, December 1954), one single extension of an old concept breaks through to a new reader experience. The familiar idea of benevolent ETs visiting Earth is easily enhanced by the usual crunch between star wisdom and human ignorance where angels bearing gifts are suspected of ulterior motives. This theme, however, was a vehicle for capitalizing on another favorite tool of the writer's trade, which is known as the surprise twist. The unwritten law concerning the surprise part is that you must never “cheat” the reader by bringing something in from “left field,” so to speak, without providing the “story plant"—that is, hints to the reader of what the surprise might be. Then, the twist at the end can be a bell ringer, if the muses are benevolent enough to tap the author's noggin with an intuitive thought-variant [a term used in the early 1930s to indicate sf with a new take on an old idea.—the Editor]. This is a phenomenon which is well known to the fiction prospectors who dig through the hard-scrabble gulches of ideation in search of those elusive nuggets. That winning twist evolves in the process of the story writing. Whereas the developing story appears, in the writer's mind, to be properly structured with story plants which point to what he is planning, the intuitive twist is that which surprises the author first—that kind of jolt that startles him out of sleep in the middle of the night and makes him stare at the ceiling, transfixed by a spontaneous idea—a thought that hasn't been thought. In Martian Honeymoon, if you don't cheat by over-leaping the story plants, you may also experience the jolt of that extra twist...
In the second story, Beyond the Darkness (Other Worlds, July 1951), the idea of an ark for human survival, of course, has been around since Noah, but the challenge was to really extend the idea to its maximum potential. Consider hundreds of mighty arks carrying human civilization across the true immensities of the Cosmos, over centuries of time, during which the passengers, born within the arks, would know no other world—until? Ah, but take it from there! The extrapolations could be endless. And that's the way these things develop.
There is more that could be said about Beyond the Darkness. In a 2nd semester of astronomy at UCLA, my instructor wanted to take back my straight A's when he discovered that I was addicted to science fiction, which he considered to be anathema. Yet there are issues in cosmology that he might never have considered. In Beyond the Darkness I take the Doppler effect idea to the extreme. Go fast enough and an approaching light source will shift beyond the visual spectrum (ultra-violet and beyond). Light sources behind, if receding fast enough, would be lost beyond a red shift into infra realms, etc. At such trans-light velocities, the Cosmos seen laterally could well be an incomprehensible gray blur. I have never seen this extreme extension of the Doppler laws mentioned in either science fiction or in astrophysical texts, so I guess the theory is unique to Beyond the Darkness.
Another experience of writers who have a long string of works stretched over a few decades is to either unconsciously or deliberately make re-use or expansion of old good ideas and concepts. The dark nebula depicted in Beyond the Darkness may be recognized decades later, in expanded form, by readers of my Star Man series. See the Third Star Man Omnibus containing the complete Star Man novels: #7 Lost In the Milky Way, and #8 Time Trap, which introduce the Nebula Series.
STUART J. BYRNE
2006
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MARTIAN HONEYMOON
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CHAPTER I
“YOU rise up to accuse me of being traitor to my kind, who merely sought to save the life of one immortal creature. I, who lived in the Vanyan city and knew those golden, benevolent god people, knew the untranslatable intricacies and stimulating ideation patterns of their language and understood the inimitable design of their architecture, the purpose of their way of life and the vital magnitude and scope of their philosophy it is I who stand before the world accused of treason, to be judged by you who used the gift of gods to turn upon your benefactors and destroy them without warning, like so many superstitious savages, like raving witchburners and blood-thirsty assassins-murderers of Angels, destroyers of Utopia, desecrator's of justice, enemies of Mercy, traitors to Gratitude!
The court-martial that will decide my guilt or innocence in this matter is insignificant here in the light of eternal values-a dried leaf that must fall from the tree of Time and be lost in the dust under the feet of those myriad generations which must recover from the far greater crime which you have committed against them and the tarnished name of Man.
You ask me for my story. You condescend to give me the privilege of speaking my piece. And I say it is your guilt complex that bends you to this decision, an awareness of a basic meanness in the nature of Man with which you will have to live. Nor do I pity you for it. It is the law of retribution..."
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“Ye gods!” ejaculated the President, looking up from the manuscript. “This fellow should have written my campaign speeches!"
“You can see why it would be inadvisable to release his story to the Press,” commented his secretary.
“But what am I to do? People want his story before he is court-martialed. And there's the big problem. One man-the only man who really learned
the Vanyan's language and understood them-could turn the tables on us and the United Nations. If we allow his story to come out before the trial-and if he managed to throw world sympathy toward himself and the Vanyans-we could not convict him of treason and carry out the execution without becoming guilty of the crime he's screaming about..."
“And yet on the other hand, sir, if you court-martial him without letting him tell his story publicly you know what that will mean..."
The President supported his forehead in his hand, shook his head.
“Sir, do you think you have committed an historical blunder?"
The Chief Executive looked up, startled, suddenly on the defensive. “You mean-in having destroyed the Vanyans? Not a bit of it!” He looked beyond the secretary to make sure the door was closed. Then he smiled a secret and confidential smile. “Come on, Henry-where's your political think-cap? They arrived in an election year. What they pretended to stand for would have ruined the whole Party platform. Why, if we had played along with them the people would have been ready for World Federation in another year!"
The secretary sighed. “I suppose you're right. But you're getting a terrific reaction to this Ray Sanders situation.” He indicated a mountain of telegrams and urgent memos from congressmen and senators. “Something has to be done."
One of the President's phones rang and the secretary picked up the receiver. He said, “Yes, that's right.” Then he listened, and suddenly his haggard face lighted with enthusiasm. “That's marvelous!” he exclaimed into the phone. “Keep this under a lid till it's okayed for release..."
“What is it, Henry?” asked the President, hopefully curious.
“It's about Ray Sanders’ lady love you know who..."
“Oh, you mean the Vanyan woman. I wonder if Sanders is bitter about what we did to the Vanyans or what we did to her-what is that beauty's name?"
“Kria, sir."
“Kria-that's it. She's the only Vanyan left alive. What's the news? Is she finally going to die?"
“Not even the doctors are sure of that. Her blood looks like blood, but it isn't. Her pulse is not a pulse, merely a pressure. With all those bullets in her—"
“Well good God! Haven't they taken an X-ray yet! Ever since the Vanyans arrived it has been the major objective of our Secret Service to obtain an X-ray of a Vanyan. Now here we have this woman at our disposal—"
“That's just it sir. They have taken a complete set of X-rays...
The President tensed, impaling his secretary with a glare. “And?"
“She is strictly not human!"
“Not human! A gorgeous woman like that? But-if she's not human, what is she?"
The secretary smiled, shaking his head. “You might not believe me if I told you. Don't take my word for it. Call Rear Admiral Herndon in Navy Medicine and Surgery. But here's the point, sir—” The secretary interrupted the President as he was about to reach for the phone. “I think I've found my political think-cap, after all. This is the break you've been looking for. Don't tell Ray Sanders the truth about his extra-terrestrial wife. Release his story. Then bring the real truth up at the court-martial. She's inhuman. Let the Press take up the monster angle from there-and then see where world sympathy goes. It's basic human nature to distrust and fear the Unknown..."
The President compressed his lips in an expression of sudden decision. “Henry,” he said, picking up the phone, “if what you say is true..."
The secretary shrugged, indicating the phone, and the President Put in a personal call to the Navy hospital. His conversation with the rear admiral in charge of the Department of Medicine and Surgery consisted mostly of exclamations punctuating long periods of wide-eyed listening.
“But—” he almost spluttered, “that's more incredible than the Vanyan visitation, itself!” He stared, aghast, as he listened to the admiral. “If you told me she was a robot, it couldn't be more—What? Well of course that's a form of life, in a way. I danced with her at the first reception ball. I've shaken hands with many a Vanyan. I'd say they're vibrantly alive or were-but I didn't think of that kind of being alive ... How could a species like that ever evolve? In fact, how does that Vanyan woman-She doesn't! But I mean, how would she—She wouldn't! Well then how the hell—"
When he finally put down the receiver, he looked up at his secretary in open-mouthed amazement. “Where in ten thousand hells did such a race come from?” he asked. “And they looked exactly like humans-even more so!"
“Is that important now, sir? They've been destroyed."
“Do you suppose that Ray Sanders knows the truth-about his Vanyan wife-what she really is?” Despite himself, the secretary colored slightly about his ears. “Well-I understand she was a flawless facsimile-or still is. And she's no robot. She's a form of sentient life, with more personality than human women. How could any man tell? I know Sanders doesn't realize what she is. Would he have married her if he knew the truth? This is going to be news for him..."
“I wonder what purpose she had in deceiving him. After all, there could be no procreation—"
“Again, sir, what does that matter? This is an ace up your sleeve!” The Chief Executive's sleepless eyes and tired mouth crinkled into a brittle smile of triumph. He pointed at the thin manuscript before him. “This is just Ray Sanders’ preamble,” he said. “You tell the Secretary of Defense I am authorizing a full release of Sanders’ story-and confidentially, tell him why. We want Sanders to blab his heart out!"
The two men looked at each other and laughed. It was another political triumph for their side...
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CHAPTER II
RAY SANDERS heard the distant clamor in the streets outside his prison before he knew what had happened. He thought he heard newsboys shouting. Then he heard streetcars jangling their bells, and a persistent bedlam of automobile horns. He could not know at that moment that there were traffic jams all over the country caused by people stopping to buy extras and to read the papers right in the middle of the street. Or that business had come to a standstill to discuss him.
He merely sat on the edge of his bunk and looked through some of the letters that people had sent him. He had bundles of such letters beside him-unopened-and he did not intend to open them. The warden had mailsacks full of correspondence for him that he would never see.
Most of the letters started out like the one he had just read:
“Dear Mr. Sanders:
Our organization represents a world-wide affiliation of civic groups who are vitally interested in the Vanyan form of government. We must apologize for approaching you at this time, but we feel that now is the only time to hope to hear from you regarding your personal views and opinions on the subject."
Then there were the letters and telegrams from publishers and news syndicates:
“UNIVERSAL PRESS WILL PAY YOU TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR EXCLUSIVE SYNDICATE RIGHTS—"
Or from the people who really considered him to be a traitor:
“Sir:
The Patriotic League of Delbrook, Arkansas, wishes to go on record as being in full accord with the Government of the United States and the United Nations in relation to your indictment for treason against humanity—"
And then there was that other kind he was reading now, which disgusted him the most:
“Derest lover boy
Plese dont worry ul get out and wen you do I hope ul come and see me..."
Sanders got up and began to pace the floor of his cell. He noticed that he had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth and he threw it violently into a corner. Then he paused, listening to a sudden commotion in the corridor.
“Hey Sanders!” yelled a scrubby-bearded prisoner across from him. “Here comes your public!"
Sanders went to the bars, grasped the cold steel in his big hands, and glared at the crowd of people bearing down on him. There was Warden Baker, trying to keep ahead of them, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Next to him was some sort of government official, and on the other side
two men in Army brass. Behind came eager men and women waving notebooks and cameras. This, ostensibly, was the Press.
He tensed, angered. Now they were all so friendly and interested. He was a shining new martyr, the only ghost to represent those thousands, of benevolent Vanyans; who lay dead and dismembered in the rubble of their wonder city. These were the gibbering idiots who had permitted the United Nations to destroy the benefactors of Mankind. These people were behind the cold-blooded shooting of Kria.
They could all go straight to Hell!
“Sanders!” cried one reporter. “You can tell your story now!-not just to the authorities. You can tell it to the world!"
“You people will have to be quiet,” interrupted Warden Baker. “Sanders, this is Mister George Hackman. He represents the President of the United States. This gentleman is the Provost Marshal, and this is Colonel Bigsby, representing the Secretary of Defense, Public Relations. They want to talk to you."
“I guess I'll have to listen,” retorted Sanders. “I haven't any other place to go."
The President's special agent looked the prisoner over. He saw a tall, gaunt man with reddish brown hair and bushy, forward-jutting brows, underneath which were a pair of dark brown eyes that had become shadowed, somehow, by the things they had seen far beyond the skies of Earth. He also discerned a curious admixture of opposing types-a compromise between the rugged adventurer and the sensitive dreamer and scholar. Beneath a not too acquiline nose was a wide mouth that had tightened into an expression of contempt, bitterness, disillusionment, torment and hate.
“Sanders,” he said, “the President of the United States has authorized you to tell your story to the Press, as you see fit, before you are court-martialed. Do you wish to take advantage of this privilege ?"
Sanders sneered. “It's a great privilege, to be able to talk after the damage has been done! You can take your privilege and—"
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