The John Varley Reader

by John Varley

  Only after she had assured herself that she was not vulnerable to a depressurize command from the outside—a possibility she had not thought about before, but which she could negate by opening one of the four inner door latches, thus engaging the safety overrides—only then did she look around the inside of the lock.

  It was a five-person model, designed to pass work gangs. There was a toolbox on the floor, coils of nylon rope in one corner. And a closet built into the wall.

  She opened it and found the pressure suit.

  It was a large one, but Bach was a large woman. She struggled with adjustment straps until she had the middle let out enough to take both her and Joanna.

  Her mind worked furiously, fighting through the exhaustion.

  Why was the suit here?

  She couldn’t find an answer at first, then recalled that the man who had shot at her had not been wearing a suit, nor had the man on the catwalk. There were others chasing her that she hadn’t seen, and she was willing to bet they didn’t have suits on, either.

  So the posted sign she had passed was a safety regulation that was widely ignored. Everyone knew that air conservation and safety regs were many times more stringent than they had to be. The farm had a plastic dome which was the only surface separating it from vacuum, and that automatically classified it as a vacuum-hazard area. But in reality it was safe to enter it without a pressure suit.

  The suit was kept there for the rare occasions when it was necessary for someone to go outside. It was a large suit so it would fit anyone who happened to need it, with adjustment.

  Interesting.

  Joanna cried for the first time when Bach got the suit sealed. And no wonder. The child was held against her body, but there was no other support for her. She quickly got both tiny legs jammed down one of the suit legs, and that couldn’t have been too comfortable. Bach tried her best to ignore it, at the same time noting how hard it was to resist the impulse to try and touch her with her hands. She faced the lock controls.

  There was a manual evacuation valve. She turned it slowly, opening it a crack so the air would bleed off without making a racket the people inside would hear. Part of the inner door was beginning to glow now. She wasn’t too worried about it; hand lasers were not likely to burn through the metal. Someone would be going for heavy equipment by now. It would do them no good to go to adjacent air locks—which would probably have suits in them, too—because on the outside they couldn’t force the door against the air pressure, and they couldn’t force the lock to cycle as long as she was inside to override the command.

  Unless it occurred to them that she would be suiting up, and someone would be waiting outside as soon as the outer door opened . . .

  She spent a few bad minutes waiting for the air to leak to the outside. It didn’t help her state of mind when the Bellman began to speak to her.

  “Your situation is hopeless. I presume you know that.”

  She jumped, then realized he was speaking to her through the intercom, and it was being relayed to her suit radio. He didn’t know she was in the suit, then.

  “I don’t know anything of the kind,” she said. “The police will be here in a few minutes. You’d better get going while you’ve got the chance.”

  “Sorry. That won’t work. I know you got through, but I also know they didn’t trace you.”

  The air pressure dial read zero. Bach held the chain knife and pulled the door open. She stuck her head out. No one was waiting for her.

  She was fifty meters away across the gently rolling plain when she suddenly stopped.

  It was at least four kilometers to the nearest air lock that did not lead back into the plantation. She had plenty of air, but was not sure about her strength. The midwife mercifully spared her the pain she should have been going through, but her arms and legs felt like lead. Could they follow her faster than she could run? It seemed likely.

  Of course, there was another alternative.

  She thought about what they had planned for Joanna, then loped back to the dome. She moved like a skater, with her feet close to the ground.

  It took three jumps before she could grab the upper edge of the metal wall with one gauntlet, then she could not lift her weight with just the one arm. She realized she was a step away from total exhaustion. With both hands, she managed to clamber up to stand on a narrow ledge with her feet among the bolts which secured the hold-down cables to the top of the wall. She leaned down and looked through the transparent vacuplast. A group of five people stood around the inner lock door. One of them, who had been squatting with his elbows on his knees, stood up now and pressed a button beside the lock. She could only see the top of his head, which was protected by a blue cap.

  “You found the suit, didn’t you?” the Bellman said. His voice was quiet, unemotional. Bach said nothing. “Can you still hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” Bach said. She held the chain knife and squeezed the handle; a slight vibration in her glove was the only indication that it was working. She put the edge of the blade to the plastic film and began to trace the sides of a square, one meter wide.

  “I thought you could,” he said. “You’re on your way already. Of course, I wouldn’t have mentioned the suit, in case you hadn’t found it, until one of my own men reached the next lock and was on his way around the outside. Which he is.”

  “Um-hmm.” Bach wanted him to keep talking. She was worried they would hear the sound of the knife as it slowly cut its way through the tough plastic.

  “What you might like to know is that he has an infrared detector with him. We used it to track you inside. It makes your footprints glow. Even your suit loses heat enough through the boots to make the machine useful. It’s a very good machine.”

  Bach hadn’t thought of that, and didn’t like it at all. It might have been best to take her chances trying to reach the next air lock. When the man arrived he would quickly see that she had doubled back.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” she asked. The square was now bordered with shallow grooves, but it was taking too long. She began to concentrate just on the lower edge, moving the knife back and forth.

  “Thinking out loud,” he said, with a self-conscious laugh. “This is an exhilarating game, don’t you agree? And you’re the most skilled quarry I’ve pursued in many years. Is there a secret to your success?”

  “I’m with the police,” Bach said. “Your people stumbled into a stakeout.”

  “Ah, that explains a lot,” he said, almost gratefully.

  “Who are you, anyway?” she asked.

  “Just call me the Bellman. When I heard you people had named me that, I took a fancy to it.”

  “Why babies? That’s the part I can’t understand.”

  “Why veal? Why baby lamb chops? How should I know? I don’t eat the stuff. I don’t know anything about meat, but I know a good racket, and a fertile market, when I see them. One of my customers wants babies, that’s what he gets. I can get any age.” He sighed again. “And it’s so easy, we grow sloppy. We get careless. The work is so routine. From now on we’ll kill quickly. If we’d killed you when you got out of the tube, we’d have avoided a lot of bother.”

  “A lot more than you expect, I hope.” Damn! Why wasn’t the knife through yet? She hadn’t thought it would take this long. “I don’t understand, frankly, why you let me live as long as you did. Why lock me up, then come to kill me hours later?”

  “Greed, I’m afraid,” the Bellman said. “You see, they were not coming to kill you. You overreacted. I was attempting to combine one business with another. There are uses for live pregnant women. I have many customers. Uses for live babies, too. We generally keep them for a few months.”

  Bach knew she should question him about that, as a good police officer. The department would want to know what he did. Instead, she bore down on the knife with all her strength and nearly bit through her lower lip.

  “I could use someone like you,” he said. “You don’t reall
y think you can get away, do you? Why don’t you think it over? We could make . . .”

  Peering down through the bubble, Bach saw the Bellman look up. He never finished his offer, whatever it was. She saw his face for an instant—a perfectly ordinary face that would not have seemed out of place on an accountant or a bank teller—and had the satisfaction of seeing him realize his mistake. He did not waste time in regrets. He instantly saw his only chance, abandoned the people working on the lock without warning them, and began to run at full speed back into the cornfield.

  The bottom edge of the square parted at that moment. Bach felt something tugging on her hand, and she moved along the narrow ledge away from the hole. There was no sound as the sides of the square peeled back, then the whole panel broke free and the material began to tear from each of the corners. The surface of the bubble began to undulate sluggishly.

  It was eerie; there was nothing to hear and little to see as the air rushed out of the gaping hole. Then suddenly storms of cornstalks, shorn of leaves and ears, erupted like flights of artillery rockets and flung themselves into the blackness. The stream turned white, and Bach could not figure out why that should be.

  The first body came through and sailed an amazing distance before it impacted in the gray dust.

  The place was a beehive of activity when Lisa Babcock arrived. A dozen police crawlers were parked outside the wall with dozens more on their way. The blue lights revolved silently. She heard nothing but her own breathing, the occasional terse comment on the emergency band, and the faint whirring of her legs.

  Five bodies were arranged just outside the wall, beside the large hole which had been cut to give vehicle access to the interior of the plantation. She looked down at them dispassionately. They looked about as one would expect a body to look which had been blown from a cannon and then quick-frozen.

  Bach was not among them.

  She stepped inside the dome for a moment, unable to tell what the writhing white coating of spongy material was until she picked up a handful. Popcorn. It was twenty centimeters deep inside, and still growing as raw sunlight and vacuum caused the kernels to dry and explode. If Bach was in there, it could take days to find her body. She went back outside and began to walk along the outer perimeter of the wall, away from where all the activity was concentrated.

  She found the body face down, in the shadow of the wall. It was hard to see; she had nearly tripped over it. What surprised her was the spacesuit. If she had a suit, why had she died? Pursing her lips, she grabbed one shoulder and rolled it over.

  It was a man, looking down in considerable surprise at the hilt of a chain knife growing from his chest, surrounded by a black, broken flower of frozen blood. Babcock began to run.

  When she came to the lock she pounded on the metal door, then put her helmet to it. After a long pause, she heard the answering taps.

  It was another fifteen minutes before they could bring a rescue truck around and mate it to the door. Babcock was in the truck when the door swung open, and stepped through first by the simple expedient of elbowing a fellow cop with enough force to bruise ribs.

  At first she thought that, against all her hopes, Bach was dead. She sprawled loosely with her back propped against the wall, hugging the baby in her arms. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Mother and child were coated with dirt, and Bach’s legs were bloody. She seemed impossibly pale. Babcock went to her and reached for the baby.

  Bach jerked, showing surprising strength. Her sunken eyes slowly focused on Babcock’s face, then she looked down at Joanna and grinned foolishly.

  “Isn’t she the prettiest thing you ever saw?”

  AFTER WORD

  Finally, a word about editors.

  I can’t recall ever meeting an author who didn’t have a major or minor horror story about editors. John Brunner once told me that an editor took an entire major character out of one of his books. Just deleted all the sentences that referred to that character. The book made no sense at all. John didn’t discover this until the book was published.

  I said at the beginning that I feel I’ve been very lucky. One of the best things has been the editors I have worked with. I don’t have a single editor horror story to tell. (Oh, sure, they always need the galleys back yesterday, but that seems to be standard industry practice, nothing anybody can do about it.)

  When I was first getting started, Ed Ferman at F&SF, Jim Baen at Galaxy, and George Scithers and later Gardner Dozois at Asimov’s were always wonderful, as were Damon Knight, Terry Carr, and David Gerrold. Later, when I started writing novels, I started off with two of the best in the business, Don Bensen and Jim Frenkel, then moved on to an all-too-short association with David Hartwell and John Silbersack. For many years now my editor has been Susan Allison at Penguin /Putnam/Ace/Berkley/Halliburton/Mitsubishi, or whatever they’re calling the company these days. She is possibly the most patient editor in the world, and has never lost faith in me no matter how late I am turning in the manuscript. She edited the book you’re holding right now, and wouldn’t you know it, I finished these introductions a month late.

  John Varley

  January 2004

  Oceano, California

  COPYRIGHTS AND PERMISSIONS

  “Picnic on Nearside” copyright © 1974 by Mercury Press Inc. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (August 1974).

  “Overdrawn at the Memory Bank” copyright © 1976 by UPD Publishing Corp. Originally published in Galaxy (May 1976).

  “In the Hall of the Martian Kings” copyright © 1976 by Mercury Press Inc. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (February 1977).

  “Gotta Sing, Gotta Dance” copyright © 1976 by UPD Publishing Corp. Originally published in Galaxy (July 1976).

  “The Barbie Murders” copyright © 1978 by Davis Publications. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine (February 1978).

  “The Phantom of Kansas” copyright © 1976 by UPD Publishing Corp. Originally published in Galaxy (February 1976).

  “Beatnik Bayou” copyright © 1980 by John Varley. Originally published in New Voices, Vol. 3, Berkley Books: 1980.

  “Air Raid” copyright © 1977 by Davis Publications. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine (Spring 1977).

  “The Persistence of Vision” copyright © 1978 by Mercury Press Inc. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (March 1978).

  “PRESS ENTER ■” copyright © 1984 by Davis Publications. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine (May 1984).

  “The Pusher” copyright © 1981 by Mercury Press Inc. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (October 1981).

  “Tango Charlie and Foxtrot Romeo” copyright © 1986 by John Varley. Originally published in Blue Champagne, Dark Harvest Books: 1986.

  “Options” copyright © 1979 by Terry Carr. First appeared in Universe 9, Doubleday Books: 1979.

  “Just Another Perfect Day” copyright © 1989 by John Varley. First appeared in Twilight Zone (June 1989).

  “In Fading Suns and Dying Moons” copyright © 2003 by John Varley. First appeared in Stars: Original Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian, Daw Books: 2003.

  “The Flying Dutchman” copyright © 1998 by John Varley. First appeared in Lord of the Fantastic: Stories in Honor of Roger Zelazny, Avon Eos: 1998.

  “Good Intentions” copyright © 1992 by John Varley. First appeared in Playboy (November 1992).

  “The Bellman” copyright © 2004 by John Varley.

 

 

 
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