Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  "We can't just ignore this!" barked Spencer. He stiffened, glared at Orne.

  "We can and we will," said Orne. "No choice."

  Polly looked up, studied Orne's face. Diana looked confused.

  "Once a Nathian, always a Nathian, eh?" snarled Spencer.

  "There's no such thing," said Orne. "Five hundred years' cross-breeding with other races saw to that. There's merely a secret society of astute political scientists." He smiled wryly at Polly, glanced back at Spencer. "Think of your own wife, sir. In all honesty, would you be ComGO today if she hadn't guided your career?"

  Spencer's face darkened. He drew in his chin, tried to stare Orne down, failed. Presently, he chuckled wryly.

  "Sobie is beginning to come to his senses," said Polly. "You're about through, son."

  "Don't underestimate your future son-in-law," said Orne.

  "Hah!" barked Diana. "I hate you, Lewis Orne!"

  "You'll get over that," said Orne mildly.

  "Ohhhhhh!" Diana quivered with fury.

  "My major point is this," said Orne. "Government is a dubious glory. You pay for your power and wealth by balancing on the sharp edge of the blade. That great amorphous thing out there--the people--has turned and swallowed many governments. The only way you can stay in power is by giving good government. Otherwise--sooner on later--your turn comes. I can remember my mother making that point. It's one of the things that stuck with me." He frowned. "My objection to politics is the compromises you have to make to get elected!"

  Stetson moved out from the wall. "It's pretty clear," he said. Heads turned toward him. "To stay in power, the Nathians had to give us a fairly good government. On the other hand, if we expose them, we give a bunch of political amateurs--every fanatic and power-hungry demagogue in the galaxy--just the weapon they need to sweep them into office."

  "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.

  THE END

  ISAAC ASIMOV

  1920 - 1992

  For 50 years, Isaac Asimov's tone of voice as a writer was the one that all the other voices of science fiction either obeyed or shifted from — sometimes with an eloquence he could not have achieved.

  Asimov began writing while in his late teens, and by 1940 had already embarked upon his three most famous works: "Strange Playfellow" (1940), the first story in the Robot series, during the course of which he articulated the "Three Laws of Robotics"; "Nightfall" (1941), probably the most famous American science fiction story of all time; and "Foundation," the first installment of the celebrated series of the same name. Originally conceived as a single extended tale, the Foundation series established the Galactic Empire as a template for almost every future history generated in the field from 1940 onwards. It was recognized in 1965 with a Hugo award for Best All-Time Series.

  From 1958 onwards, however, Asimov's work was primarily non-fiction, including a popular-science column in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. The column appeared continuously for 399 unbroken issues, winning Asimov a special Hugo award in 1963 for "adding science to science fiction." Though his presence in the science fiction world would remain intermittent, his reputation continued to grow, and in 1977 he helped found the first successful new American science fiction magazine since 1950, Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. The publication soon became — and remains — one of the two or three dominant journals in the field.

  In the 1980s, Asimov returned to science fiction, publishing a series of novels that bridged the Robot and Foundation sequences, creating one overarching series. In total, he eventually published over 400 books on subjects ranging from science to the Bible, winning every major award in the science fiction genre, including a Nebula Grand Master Award in 1986. Next to Robert Heinlein, he was the most influential American science fiction writer of his era.

  Nightfall, by Issac Asimov

  The writing of “Nightfall” was a watershed in my professional care
er. When I wrote it, I had just turned twenty-one. I had been writing professionally (in the sense that I was submitting my stories to magazines and occasionally selling them) for two and a half years, but had created no tidal wave. I had published about a dozen stories and had failed to sell a dozen others.

  Then John W. Campbell, Jr., the editor of Astounding Science Fiction, showed me the Emerson quotation that starts “Nightfall.” We discussed it; then I went home and, over the course of the next few weeks, wrote the story.

  Now let’s get something straight. I didn’t write that story any differently from the way I had written my earlier stories--or, for that matter, from the way I wrote my later stories. As far as writing is concerned, I am a complete and utter primitive. I have no formal training at all and to this very day I don’t know How To Write.

  I just write any old way it comes into my mind to write and just as fast as it comes into my mind.

  And that’s the way I wrote “Nightfall.”

  Mr. Campbell never sends letters of acceptance. He sends checks, instead, and very promptly, and that is an excellent way of handling the matter. I always found it thrilling. I received a check for “Nightfall” but my initial pang of delight was almost instantly snuffed out by the fact that Mr. Campbell had made a mistake.

  Standard payment at that time was a munificent 1 cent a word. (No complaints, folks; I was glad to get it.) The story was 12,000 words long and therefore I expected $120.00, but the check was for $15.00.

  I groaned. It would be so simple to cash the check and ask no questions, but the Ten Commandments, as preached to me by my stern and rockbound father, made it absolutely necessary to call Mr. Campbell at once and make arrangements for a new and smaller check.

  It turned out there was no mistake. The story seemed so good to Mr. Campbell that he gave me a bonus of ¼ cent a word.

  I had never, till then, received so huge a payment for any story, and that was just the beginning.

  When the story appeared, it was given the lead position and the cover.

  What’s more, I was suddenly taken seriously and the world of science fiction became aware that I existed. As the years passed, in fact, it became evident that I had written a “classic.” It has appeared in ten anthologies that I know of--including one British, one Dutch, one German, one Italian, and one Russian.

  I must say, though, that as time passed, I began to feel some irritation at being told, over and over again, that “Nightfall” was my best story. It seemed to me, after all, that although I know no more about Writing now than I knew then, sheer practice should have made me more proficient, technically, with each year.

  The thing has preyed on my mind, in fact, until the idea of this book came to me.

  I have never included “Nightfall” in any of my own collections of stories because it always seemed to me to have been so well anthologized that it must be familiar to all my readers. Yet perhaps that’s not so. Most of my readers weren’t even born when the story first appeared and perhaps many of them haven’t seen the anthologies.

  Besides, if it’s my best story, then I want it in one of my own collections. I can also include other stories of mine that have proven successful in one way or another but have not appeared in any of my own collections.

  So, with Doubleday’s kind permission, I have prepared Nightfall for this publication. Now you can see for yourself how my writing has developed (or has failed to develop) with the years. Then you can decide for yourself why (or if) “Nightfall” is better than the others.

  I don’t know enough about Writing to be able to tell.

  ***

  Nightfall

  If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God?” EMERSON

  Aton 77, director of Saro University, thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared at the young newspaperman in a hot fury.

  Theremon 762 took that fury in his stride. In his earlier days, when his now widely syndicated column was only a mad idea in a cub reporter’s mind, he had specialized in ‘impossible’ interviews. It had cost him bruises, black eyes, and broken bones; but it had given him an ample supply of coolness and self-confidence.

  So he lowered the outthrust hand that had been so pointedly ignored and calmly waited for the aged director to get over the worst. Astronomers were queer ducks, anyway, and if Aton’s actions of the last two months meant anything; this same Aton was the queer-duckiest of the lot.

  Aton 77 found his voice, and though it trembled with restrained emotion, the careful, somewhat pedantic phraseology, for which the famous astronomer was noted, did not abandon him.

  “Sir,” he said, “you display an infernal gall in coming to me with that impudent proposition of yours.”

  The husky telephotographer of the Observatory, Beenay 25, thrust a tongue’s tip across dry lips and interposed nervously, “Now, sir, after all-- “

  The director turned to him and lifted a white eyebrow. “Do not interfere, Beenay. I will credit you with good intentions in bringing this man here; but I will tolerate no insubordination now.” Theremon decided it was time to take a part. “Director Aton, if you’ll let me finish what I started saying, I think -- “

  “I don’t believe, young man,” retorted Aton, “that anything you could say now would count much as compared with your daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of myself and my colleagues to organize the world against the menace which it is now too late to avert. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule.”

  The director lifted a copy of the Saro City Chronicle from the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. “Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today’s events for his paper. Of all newsmen, you!” Aton dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back.

  “You may leave,” he snapped over his shoulder. He stared moodily out at the skyline where Gamma, the brightest of the planet’s six suns, was setting. It had already faded and yellowed into the horizon mists, and Aton knew he would never see it again as a sane man.

  He whirled. “No, wait, come here!” He gestured peremptorily. I’ll give you your story.” The newsman had made no motion to leave, and now he approached the old man slowly. Aton gestured outward. “Of the six suns, only Beta is left in the sky. Do you see it?” The question was rather unnecessary. Beta was almost at zenith, its ruddy light flooding the landscape to an unusual orange as the brilliant rays of setting Gamma died. Beta was at aphelion. It was small; smaller than Theremon had ever seen it before, and for the moment it was undisputed ruler of Lagash’s sky.

  Lagash’s own sun. Alpha, the one about which it revolved, was at the antipodes, as were the two distant companion pairs. The red dwarf Beta -- Alpha’s immediate companion -- was alone, grimly alone.

  Aton’s upturned face flushed redly in the sunlight. “In just under four hours,” he said, “civilization, as we know it, comes to an end. It will do so because, as you see. Beta is the only sun in the sky.” He smiled grimly. “Print that! There’ll be no one to read it.”

  “But if it turns out that four hours pass -- and another four -- and nothing happens?” asked Theremon softly.

  “Don’t let that worry you. Enough will happen.”

  “Granted! And still -- it nothing happens?”

  For a second time, Beenay 25 spoke. “Sir, I think you ought to listen to him.” Theremon said, “Put it to a vote, Director Aton.”

  There was a stir among the remaining five members of the Observatory staff, who till now had maintained an attitude of wary neutrality.

  “That,” stated Aton flatly, “is not necessary.” He drew out his pocket watch. “Since your good friend, Beenay, insists so urgently, I will give you five minutes. Talk
away.”

  “Good! Now, just what difference would it make if you allowed me to take down an eyewitness account of what’s to come? If your prediction comes true, my presence won’t hurt; for in that case my column would never be written. On the other hand, if nothing comes of it, you will just have to expect ridicule or worse. It would be wise to leave that ridicule to friendly hands.” Aton snorted. “Do you mean yours when you speak of friendly hands?”

  “Certainly!” Theremon sat down and crossed his legs. “My columns may have been a little rough, but I gave you people the benefit of the doubt every time. After all, this is not the century to preach “The end of the world is at hand” to Lagash. You have to understand that people don’t believe the Book of Revelations anymore, and it annoys them to have scientists turn about-face and tell us the Cultists are right after all-- “

  “No such thing, young man,” interrupted Aton. “While a great deal of our data has been supplied us by the Cult, our results contain none of the Cult’s mysticism. Facts are facts, and the Cult’s so-called mythology has certain facts behind it. We’ve exposed them and ripped away their mystery. I assure you that the Cult hates us now worse than you do.”

  “I don’t hate you. I’m just trying to tell you that the public is in an ugly humor. They’re angry.” Aton twisted his mouth in derision. “Let them be angry.”

  “Yes, but what about tomorrow?”

  “There’ll be no tomorrow!”

  “But if there is. Say that there is -- just to see what happens. That anger might take shape into something serious. After all, you know, business has taken a nosedive these last two months. Investors don’t really believe the world is coming to an end, but just the same they’re being cagy with their money until it’s all over. Johnny Public doesn’t believe you, either, but the new spring furniture might just as well wait a few months -- just to make sure.