Star Science Fiction 1 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Frederik Pohl

  If she told him, he’d stay too. He’d stay at home, and go out to stand in the yard on starry nights. He’d stare at the sky, smoking his pipe, the way he always did—the way he always had—but it would be different. He would stand alone, and his hand would not touch her arm, nor would she be with him. And when he came back into the house, his eyes would avoid her, and he would hate.

  You’re going, Will, she promised in her heart when she understood that much. It’s the thirst of your soul, and I shall see that you drink, though it drains me!

  Well, she was entitled to a little melodrama in her private thoughts, and the phrase gave her strength to act.

  Next day she checked with the medics. “Calcified node.” Just a little hardened-over spot that would never give her any trouble on Earth—but could kill her on Mars.

  “I don’t care,” she told them, pleading.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barth. You understand we can’t use passenger space on the rocket for anyone who isn’t as fit as possible to survive the rigors of colonization ...”

  They were kindly, sympathetic, understanding—but firm.

  By that night, she had the duplicate slip ready—the one that wasn’t good enough to get her on the ship, but looked enough like Will’s to convince him if he didn’t question it. She showed him both, and they went out for dinner and got a little tight together,celebrating!

  After he was asleep, she crept out of bed and went outside to stare at the sky herself. She sat on the soft grass and cried; and when he woke up too, and found her missing, and came out looking for her, he thought he understood. He carried her back inside, and was gay and tender and funny and strong. They made cocoa in the kitchen while he talked about the dangers they would face together, making a joke of them, reassuring her, promising all his strength and support to help her through.

  That was the last time she cried. After that she schooled herself, night and day, to feel nothing but her love for Will, to do nothing, say nothing, be nothing but a perfect living lie designed to give him what he wanted if it killed them both!

  And now at last it was safe to tell him. Safe because it was too late for him to change his mind. He wouldn’t stay back now.

  But now he didn’t want to hear. And maybe—

  Maybe it was better that way.

  Where is he? Why didn’t he come back? Hesaid he would . . . For the first time she thought: I may never see him again! The words had no meaning in her mind, but she doubled over as though she’d been hit in the middle.

  It’s better this way, she told herself, straightening up painfully. Better for him ... “Will! Here I am!”

  He’d almost walked right past her. “Will...”

  “Oh...hi!”

  Casual. Just like that. As if it was any night, and he’d gone for a walk. As if there was still a tomorrow.

  For him, there was. I gave it to you, Will. Give me credit for that at least . . . And immediately, she was ashamed of the thought. What difference did blame or credit make now?

  “I guess we might as well say goodbye.” His face was a cold stone carving in the dark. “No sense in you hanging around till dawn,” he said. “You told them, didn’t you?” he asked. “I mean, I take it I’m the last to know?”

  All right, he was mad. She didn’t have to fight back. “I’d rather stay,” she said, forcing the words through the dryness of her mouth. “But we can say goodbye now if you’d rather.”

  “I would.”

  He grinned, a tightstretching of lips across teeth that gave away the bravado of his nonchalance completely. “So long, Sue,” he said, and one corner of his mouth quirked up. “It’s been nice to know you.”

  He put his hands lightly on her shoulders, leaned forward and kissed her once, chastely, on the forehead.

  Oh, no! Not this way, Will! Oh, no! Her own hurt, anger, sorrow faded to vanishing beside what she now understood of his. “Will, please,” she said steadily. “Listen to me a minute. I want to tell you ...”

  “Maybe you better not, Sue.”

  She swallowed slowly, moistened the caked dryness of her lips, blinked back the burning in her eyes, and started again.

  “I think it’s better if I do, I’m ... I was dis . . .”

  “Maybe I don’t want to hear it!” he exploded; and she saw his face tighten, his jaw tremble; felt his fingers bite into her shoulders as he struggled to maintain a semblance of calm.

  Silence again. Frozen silence while the narrowed slits of his blue eyes locked with her wide brown ones.

  “I ...” She opened her mouth, but it was no longer possible to make the words come out. At last she managed a sort of croaking parody of speech: “Will, I . . .”

  “Skip it!” he said, and then with sudden gentleness: “It’s all right, Baby. I understand.” A spasm of bitterness twisted his mouth, belying his words; and he said again fiercely, “Just skip it, that’s all!” Then the hands on her shoulders slid down her back, and his aching hunger crushed her too close for a breath to pass between them. For a moment, too close even for her own breath to leave or enter. But what need of breath, with his mouth covering hers, and the passion of a lost lifetime compressed into one everlasting moment?

  He understands! For the little spell of the embrace she believed it, wanted to believe it. But as his arms released her, some cooler portion of her mind stood back in helpless laughter, mocking the kiss, the passion, her will to believe, and his stubborn refusal to listen, all at once. He understands! What did he think he understood? He had no way to know the truth. His anger proved he didn’t know it.

  I hate you! she thought, as she shifted her weight to regain her balance. I hate your wonderful guts for wanting to go so much!

  “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll skip it,” and she smiled for a last time. This was a good way to say goodbye. The best she could have hoped for. No need to add anything now. He knew, hehad to know after that kiss, that whatever her reason was, she loved him still and always. She watched him whirl around and stride away, and realized that she was going too; a part of her at least would be with him forever, wherever he went.

  Six angry steps away, he turned back long enough to say: “And tell him for me, he better be worth it!”

  * * * *

  Line up here. Get your papers stamped. Shots. Another line. Over here now. Final phys. ex.: no communicable diseases. Line up here now. Got your slips? Strip again. Standard issue coveralls. Clothing to be deposited in these containers, will be returned to next of kin. Shots. Another paper stamped. Final psych, ex.:

  “You see, it’s a bit unusual, Mr. Barth, for a husband or wife to decide to go ahead when the other’s been disqualified.”

  Smile. No, that’s not right. Just act the way the man expects you to. Think it out later. Line up here. Stamp that paper! Hold that line!...disqualified!”

  They were all through now, and an hour to go before take-off. Someone came around with coffee and some pills. Sedative? Stimulant? He didn’t know. He swallowed the pills, gulped the coffee.

  Disqualified?

  But she never said . . . she didn’t . . . she had a white slip just like his.

  He stood up, to go find someone who would know, and remembered the psychofficer’s words and doubtful attitude. If he asked any questions now, if they found out he hadn’t known...

  But he had to know.

  Disqualified? What for? There was nothing wrong with her. Wrong . . . something wrong . . . what was it?

  There must be someone around who’d know. He couldn’t go if . . . couldn’t go? But if she needed him ... ?

  You, you stupid little fool! he thought. What did you think you were doing?

  “I love you, Will,” she’d said. And he’d snarled back at her.

  Maybe he could see her now. Maybe she’d stayed over after all. Maybe—somebody around here would know.

  * * * *

  ... whose broad stripes and bright stars...

  The hands of the clock were stripes, and the
numbers were stars, and so she couldn’t tell the time, and didn’t have to know how long she had yet to wait. She edged over to her side on the narrow cot, trying not to make it squeak, not wanting to disturb the women on the other cots in the big room.

  Are they asleep? she wondered. Or were they, too, turning over soundlessly, staring out the window at the clock on the Ad Building next door.

  It was nineteen minutes after four. She must have slept a while after all. She remembered now, the roman candles and flaring sky-rockets of her dream, and right after that remembered his words again: . . tell him from me . . .”

  She couldn’t lie still any longer. She got up, walked the length of the room on tiptoe, barefoot, carrying her clothes. There was a bathroom at the other end. She went in, and closed the door, locking herself in with the sink and mirror and the blinding overhead light. She got into her clothes, rumpled and wrinkled from lying on the floor where she’d dropped them in the dark, a few hours ago.

  Cold water on her face, and she was used to the light by then. The mirror was shock enough to wake her up. She fished in her bag for the compact, and felt the pink slip under it, and what difference did it make? She wouldn’t see him, not to talk to. He wouldn’t see her at all.

  But if she went out now, and got there first, she could stand right near the gate. She knew which one they’d use. She’d almost be able to touch him as he went past.

  Almost an hour till dawn. Probably other people had the same idea, though. She went out quickly, walked past the cafeteria where the light was on again, and people were drinking coffee, eating quick breakfasts.

  It wasn’t too late. She found a place with the other early-waiters, near the gate, and edged forward every time she saw an opening. By the time the band showed up and began tuning instruments, she was right next to the gate itself. When they started to play, she had to check the beginnings of hysteria. Everybody else started singing, so she sang too:

  “Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light . . .”

  Only it wasn’t dawn yet. Not quite. When it was, the monstrous ship would be gone. It would be full of people, then, and Will would be one of them. Part of the human sacrifice that would slake the dragon’s thirst, and make it go away ...

  The priests were coming now, herding the sacrifice along. Priests in business suits: presidents and professors and newspapermen.

  Right behind them came the captives, all alike, five hundred heads, five hundred sets of arms and legs, all in the same white uniform, marching unmanacled, willingly, to their doom.

  They marched past her, right under her nose, and some of them were smiling. Some were cowards, and they cried. She felt most sympathetic to the ones who just walked deadpan straight ahead.

  A few of them looked at her, or right through her, as if they sought some other face or figure in the crowd that pressed behind her. One of them opened his mouth when he walked by. He seemed to speak, or try to speak.

  His name was Will. He had seen her; he had said something. He...

  He doesn’t know! He hates me! He thinks ...

  She couldn’t remember what it was he thought. Something bad. Awful.

  There was something she had to tell him, explain to him, to make it all right. Something he said to me . . . what was it?

  What did he try to say when he walked past? She closed her eyes, remembered the face, the shape of the mouth, tried not to hear the sounds around her, or the band, or anything; just to hear what he’d been saying with his mouth that special shape.

  She knew the shape; knew each and every shape his mouth could make. The word was “Baby.” Another word was “love.” But that was wrong. She was putting the shapes together wrong, because he hated her now.

  Faint edge of light over the horizon, and the band was still, and one of the priests intoned a prayer.

  And a shrill siren screamed, and screeched again, and the air was full of thunder, and people shouting.

  “Stand back!”

  “Get back, there, you!”

  “Blastoff.. . zero ... Back!”

  They pulled at her arms and legs, and somebody grabbed at her middle too, but they couldn’t hold her. She was free now. Racing forward, running hard, before they could catch her.

  They weren’t following any more.

  They were afraid, she thought.Poor fools, afraid! They thought it was better to stay behind and live. They didn’t know. Maybe for them it was better, poor fools, poor dears, let them live.

  She had to let him know. Had to find out. What did he say, she say, could say, would say?

  Baby ... love ...

  “I love you, Will!” she whispered as the blast rent the air, and concrete shook under her feet with the final savagery of the dragon’s pouncing departure. Then flame washed through her, and she fell on the trembling ground, and lay still, watching, looking straight up to Will, who could see her, surely, through the flames on which he stood.

  The last thought she had was blessed awareness: they’ll tell him. He’ll find out.

  And the last thing she heard was the end of the song:

  “...of the free, and the home of the brave.”

  <>

  * * * *

  RAY BRADBURY

  Editors, like executioners, are properly faceless and anonymous shadows, most useful when they are least seen; but this editor begs the indulgence of the reader to be for the moment obtrusive and to reminisce. When we were all very much younger and the atom bomb was still in the science-fiction magazines where it belonged, a story came in to the science-fiction magazine which then employed me, from a young science-fiction fan in California. It was a good story, and we bought it; what none of us knew at the time was that it was the First Ray Bradbury Science-Fiction Story. There have been a great many since, and at least two first-rate books:The Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man. Which is only one of the reasons why I am proud to offer you...

  A Scent of Sarsaparilla

  Mr. William Finch stood quietly in the dark and blowing attic all morning and afternoon for three days. For three days in late November, he stood alone, feeling the soft white flakes of Time falling out of the infinite cold steel sky, silently, softly, feathering the roof and powdering the eaves. He stood, eyes shut. The attic, wallowed in seas of wind in the long sunless days, creaked every bone and shook down ancient dusts from its beams and warped timbers and lathings. It was a mass of sighs and torments that ached all about him where he stood sniffing its elegant dry perfumes and feeling of its ancient heritages. Ah. Ah.

  Listening, downstairs, his wife Cora could not hear him walk or shift or twitch. She imagined she could only hear him breathe, slowly out and in, like a dusty bellows, alone up there in the attic, high in the windy house.

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered.

  When he hurried down for lunch the third afternoon, he smiled at the bleak walls, the chipped plates, the scratched silverware, and even at his wife!

  “What’s all the excitement?” she demanded.

  “Good spirits is all. Wonderful spirits!” he laughed. He seemed almost hysterical with joy. He was seething in a great warm ferment which, obviously, he had trouble concealing. His wife frowned.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Smell, smell, smell?” He jerked his graying head back and forth.

  “Sarsaparilla.” She sniffed suspiciously. “That’s what it is!”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be!” His hysterical happiness stopped as quickly as if she’d switched him off. He seemed stunned, ill at ease, and suddenly very careful.

  “Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

  “You know I was cleaning the attic.”

  “Mooning over a lot of trash. I didn’t hear a sound. Thought maybe you weren’t in the attic at all. What’s that?” She pointed.

  “Well, now how did those get there?” he asked the world.

  He peered down at the pair of black spring-metal bicycle clips that bound his thin pants cuffs to
his bony ankles.

  “Found them in the attic,” he answered himself. “Remember when we got out on the gravel road in the early morning on our tandem bike, Cora, forty years ago, everything fresh and new?”

  “If you don’t finish that attic today, I’ll come up and toss everything out myself.”

  “Oh, no,” he cried. “I have everything the way I want it!”

  She looked at him coldly.

  “Cora,” he said, eating his lunch, relaxing, beginning to enthuse again, “you know what attics are? They’re Time Machines, in which old, dim-witted men like me can travel back forty years to a time when it was summer all year round and children raided ice wagons. Remember how it tasted? You held the ice in your handkerchief. It was like sucking the flavor of linen and snow at the same time.”