Again, Dangerous Visions

by edited by Harlan Ellison

  Ah, man. Ever the wishful thinker.

  Still talking.

  Sam had tried. He was human; he made the gesture.

  There was a small plaque still visible on the outside of the silent ship that had brought them here. It was traditional in spaceflights, but Sam had done it anyhow.

  It could not be read, of course.

  It could not be deciphered, ever.

  But it was there.

  It said the only words that had seemed appropriate to Sam:

  Good luck, old friends.

  Afterword

  I won't write an editorial. I have already cheerfully sinned: there is a message in my story. If you didn't receive it, look out your window. Or pry open the lid on your coffin.

  What triggers a story? Harlan triggered this one. If he had not asked for it, I probably would not have written it, at least not now. So he is to blame.

  But why this particular story? I can't explain, of course. No writer can. You might be interested in a few personal notes:

  It is early in September, 1969. I've just come back from a month in the mountains of Colorado. I consider myself a trout fisherman, dry flies only. (I don't keep many of them; I return them to the streams. Cheers.) I walked a lot, through country that was almost deserted twenty years ago. I can testify that there are few streams so remote that someone has not tossed a beer can into them. Trailers are everywhere, a pox on the land. Kleenex hangs from the bushes, the final mark of man. Beaver dams are ripped apart for sport. Trees are slashed with initials. There are even, so help me, Development Schemes. Ain't nature keen?

  When I was in Kenya a few years ago, I did a little demographic work with just one tribe. Back in 1850, the first explorer in the area (a missionary type named Krapf) estimated that there were about 70,000 Kamba. A bit later, in 1911, the British took a kind of a census. There were 230,000 Kamba. As of right now, the figure is pushing 900,000. This, mind you, is on the same land area. You should see it.

  I saw the pictures from Mars. You did too. It does not look one hell of a lot like Barsoom.

  The summer is ending and soon the cold winds will blow. When fall comes, we feed the raccoons on our porch. They have to eat a fair amount before winter. They look at me and I look at them. There will be fewer of them this year, and more of them will be hurt and dragging shattered feet. Bulldozers have torn their environment apart. Old men set traps and the kids blaze away with popguns.

  This morning, driving to work and trailing exhaust fumes, I saw raw sewage from an overflow line dumped into the lake.

  Had enough?

  Me too.

  I hope someone reads my story, and doesn't like it.

  Introduction to

  THE 10:00 REPORT IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY . . .

  As I sit down to write this introduction to Ed Bryant and his story, he lies sleeping in the blue bedroom with the enormous bird kite hanging from the ceiling, in the "west wing" of my home here in Los Angeles. About half an hour ago he took home his date, a gorgeous lady named Roz, who had too much cheap wine to drink and got kittenish as hell.

  It ain't easy to write about Bryant. He has become one of my very closest friends, and all the things I'd like to tell about him, like the morning I'd lost touch with reality and desperately needed to know what day it was, and he told me with grave seriousness that it was "National Mackerel Commemorative Day," won't mean a thing to you. You'd have to know Bryant and his warped, utterly black sense of guillotine humor to know what a trauma that was.

  For openers, he is a rare delight as a human being; a genuinely good man with the kind of sensible morality and ethic that Jim Sutherland says is holding the frangible world together. For seconds, he is a joy to the heart of any writer who takes another writer "under his wing" and hopes the acolyte will break away and develop his own voice, his own successful career. On that point, in short, Bryant is getting it on. In one year he's sold twenty-five very good, very professional stories and articles. And he's getting laid regularly now. For a WASP from Wyoming, that's enormous forward-striding.

  Yet Bryant is peculiar, and it is this peculiarity that makes him something that should be on display in the Smithsonian. Today, for instance, I said to him, "Ed, you're getting weirder and weirder. I can't put my finger on it, man, but you seem to be getting more surreal." He looked at me from above his ginger-colored mustache with the odd unfocused stare of a Polynesian water bird, and mumbled, "You mean I'm not relating to everyday objects." Yes, I agreed, that was it. "Start relating, Ed. Talk to your rug, listen to your hand, get chummy with a coffee pot and the doorknobs. Make friends." He stared at me.

  "I can't talk to my rug," he said sadly, "it's too self-involved. It has piles."

  I walked away.

  Born 27 August 1945 in White Plains, New York, Edward Winslow Bryant, Jr. moved at the age of six months with his family to southern Wyoming, where the elders took up cattle ranching. He attended a one-room country school for the first four grades and spent the rest of his secondary education in Wheatland, Wyoming (population 2350). Thus far his life parallels that of Lincoln. He attended college at the University of Wyoming, treading water for a year as an embryo aerospace engineer then, recognizing the error of his ways, switched to liberal arts. He received his B.A. in English in 1967 and an M.A. in the same field a year later. In his "official" biography, Bryant lays down all the preceding dull information, neglecting to mention the one truly important act of his otherwise pedestrian life. He noticed, picked up and bought the August 1957 issue of Amazing Stories and became a—shhhh!—science fiction fan. Somehow, he managed to keep it a secret from all of those in the literary world who've seen him burst on the scene these last couple of years, who envision him as being untainted by the fannish life, a pure creature of Mainstream Literary Origins. Nonsense. He was a fan, a grubby, scrofulous fan who published an illiterate fanmagazine called Ad Astra.

  (Incidentally, that August 1957 Amazing Stories included in its contents one of the classic tales of modern sf, "The Plague Bearers," which opened with these deathless lines:

  I came up behind the Screamie as he grabbed the girl, and shoved the bayonet into his neck. It was a rusty blade, and went in crookedly. I had to stick him again to finish the job. He fell, moaning and clutching at his streaming neck. I kicked him under some rubble.

  Modesty forbids me heaping the unstinting praise due the author of that now-classic tale of man's nobility, but it is easy to see where Bryant's deranged inspiration came from. Yechhh.)

  Because of this unnatural interest in Things God Never Intended Man to Screw Around With At Toward, he attended the first and second Clarion (Penna.) College Workshops in SF & Fantasy, 1968 and 1969, which is where I first encountered him. Bryant tells it like this:

  " . . .a traumatic experience which Changed My Life; I received the criticism, instruction and encouragement necessary to make me believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something in my writing worth sharing with the universe."

  In actuality, the pathetic quality of his attempts at writing so touched the hearts of all of us on the staff—Robin Scott Wilson, Damon Knight, Kate Wilhelm, Fritz Leiber, Fred Pohl and a lady anthologist whose name escapes me—that we labored harder with him than those who genuinely had talent. You know how it is: you always feel warmth for the retard in the group.

  Well, as it turned out, Bryant, this lame, who up till then had been making a precarious living in and around Wheatland, Wyoming as a deejay, shipping clerk in a stirrup buckle factory and as general layabout, fastened leechlike on your editor and the next thing I knew he was inhabiting (like some fetid troglodyte) the blue bedroom here at Ellison Wonderland. Like the man who came to dinner, he ventured out of Wyoming to attend the SFWA banquet, West Coast division, in early 1969, stayed awhile and went away till September of that year, when he returned, saying he was just "stopping by." Nine months later I was compelled to hire a young lady of great personal warmth and questionable morality, to lure him away to New York. I wante
d to change the linen and air out the blue bedroom. He returned here in March of 1971 and as of this writing he doesn't look like he's ever going to leave. The pile of gnawed bones is growing larger in the blue bedroom. The smell is something Lovecraft would have called "a stygian uncleanliness, foul beyond description, spoor of the pit and festooned with moist evil."

  Nonetheless, Bryant keeps working, his only saving grace. He's appeared in Quark, Orbit, National Lampoon, New Dimensions, the LA Free Press, Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Worlds of Tomorrow, If, New Worlds, Infinity, Nova, Universe, both Clarion anthologies and a host of men's magazines, such as the quality periodical Swingle, which refuses to run a photo of a woman unless she has 53D breasts.

  Appearances in these one-handed publications have so permanently warped Bryant's already twisted view of the universe that when I had a few dates with a young lady who is the current rage of the sexploitation films, he ran amuck and wound up at one of her film producers', and the next thing I knew he had a part in a class epic titled—are you ready for a consummate horror?—FLESH GORDON.

  Now he lurches about the house looking like a detail from one of the deranged etchings by the Marquis von Bayros, and tells me about Flesh, Dr. Jerkoff, Prince Precious and something called the giant Penisaurus, which is large and wormlike and slides in and out of a soft, pink, moist, undulating cave.

  It is very difficult retaining one's lunch in company of Edward Winslow Bryant, Jr.

  The story that follows, however, was his first sale. It was, in fact, the first story bought for this book. Which, because of the time it took to put this book together, makes it four years old. Many there may be among you who will contend this makes it unrepresentative of the advances in technique and tone that have informed Mr. Bryant's subsequent already-published works. Not so. He has made no advance in four years, and this is still the best thing he ever wrote.

  And finally, those out there who have heard unsavory rumors of a novel Bryant is writing, will have to wait a while longer for confirmation. Oh, the novel is almost finished, and he has several publishers nibbling (but then, let's not get into Bryant's sexual proclivities), but as I had written and sold a sensational short story titled "At the Mouse Circus," I felt it a bit crummy of him to title his novel, The Mouse Circus. We had quite a go-around about that. He steadfastly refused to change the title, told me, in fact, to fuckoff. So I "persuaded" him to change it. I waited till four in the ayem, when he was asleep in his cave, and sneaked in with a wet sponge. Sitting on his chest, I awakened him to face the possibility of clean water actually touching his body. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, the thought of water so terrified him, he acceded to my polite request, and as of this writing the novel is untitled. Until he comes up with a new one, he can't market the book.

  So if you like the story that follows, why not send some title suggestions to Bryant. Send them care of General Delivery, Wheatland, Wyoming, because I swear by the time this book is released, eight months from now, he ain't gonna be here!

  THE 10:00 REPORT IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY . . .

  Edward Bryant

  FADE IN:

  EXTERIOR SHOT—NIGHT

  They cornered her in the alley. The chase had been short and never in doubt; not to the three men who stalked, shadowed, between her and the flickering light of the street. The girl crouched among the garbage pails and tried to hold her breath. She had run too far; her lungs were too starved for oxygen. She attempted to hold back a gasp for air, and choked.

  One of the three hunters laughed softly. "Takes your breath away, don't it, chick?" Softer, "Wait, baby, just wait."

  The girl cowered deeper into the narrow gap between two pails and the brick flank of a building, the side of her face pressing hard against corrugated chill. Her knees were insensitive to the rough pavement. The three men converged on the stack of pails, making no attempt at stealth. The girl tensed. On three sides of her refuge, leather scuffed on gravel and asphalt.

  She broke for the mouth of the alley. Four steps. An explosion of pain hurled her against the bricks. A hand jerked her violently to her feet. The man slapped her again. There was no pain now; only the dull sensation of something sticky trickling down her face. The man shoved her roughly and she sprawled on her side.

  Above her loomed three shapes, black on black. The girl whimpered and tried to crawl. The man on the left kicked her in the belly; not too hard, just enough to jackknife her body. Her eyes hazed and this time she felt pain because she could not breathe.

  "That's plenty," said the man on the right. "The chick's got to be able to enjoy this. Carl, you're first. Tico, you hold her shoulders."

  The girl struggled.

  A deer fights briefly before the wolf pack rends it.

  "Baby, this'll blow your mind," said Carl.

  In the darkness, a whir. Overhead, the scarlet Cyclops stare.

  DIRECT CUT TO:

  Barney Chandler stared intently at the television screen and tried to keep his attention on the program. Barney wanted out. Not yet, but he would. Or, to be more precise, his wife wanted out. Ella usually got what she wanted.

  "Barney," she said, "Hank's not going to keep that job open forever." Hank was Ella's brother; he owned the largest Chevy dealership in Burbank.

  A noncommittal grunt. Barney Chandler used his remote-control switch to turn the television set to Channel 34. He upped the volume. Barney picked up his beer and swore in annoyance when the napkin clung to the bottom of the bottle.

  "Barney! Will you turn down the set and listen to me? Hank's coming over for supper tomorrow. He's going to want an answer about that manager's job."

  "For Chrissake, Ella!" Barney slammed the edge of his hand down on the remote-control and the TV blinked off. "Can't I even watch the competition in peace without you bugging me?"

  Ella rolled her faded blue eyes heavenward. "Mister Chandler," she said. "This just happens to be the big chance of your life, and I'm not about to see you blow it." This was a practiced speech. Barney had heard it often enough the past week. "You're almost forty. You've been a millhand, a taxi driver, and a lousy insurance salesman. Now you're a news cameraman for a TV station. Barney, it's just not taking you anywhere. Now Hank's impressed with you. He really is. He thinks you'd make a fine assistant manager. And once you got into management, there'd be no telling where you could end up. Please, Barney, when Hank comes over tomorrow, tell him you'll take it." She turned away and walked into the kitchen.

  Barney looked at his beer and said nothing. He liked being a cameraman. He didn't particularly relish the idea of becoming the assistant manager in the largest Chevy dealership in Burbank. But Ella wanted him to take Hank's offer. Barney gulped and drained his bottle. He reached for the opener. Another few beers and he wouldn't feel so badly about telling Ella that he'd say yes to Hank.

  He sat back heavily in the chair and flicked the TV switch on. Barney turned the channel selector to 27. It was almost time for "Saga of the Sage." Barney enjoyed watching adventure series. He seldom watched other programs with the exception of newscasts; Barney liked viewing the clips he himself had filmed. Too, he enjoyed keeping up with the work of his competition at the other stations.

  In the hall the phone rang. Ella answered it.

  "Barney," she called. "It's for you. It's Parker down at the studio. He says it's important."

  DISSOLVE TO:

  How many forests did it take, Calvin Randall wondered, to panel all these offices? So much of the earth had gone into the making of the KNBS-TV Building; mahogany, polished stone, many metals. Randall glanced around the reception room as he had done so many times before. The decor was just a bit too flashy for his taste. He vaguely wished that the mahogany were back alive and growing in its original groves, that the polished granite was once again buried inside rough Colorado mountains.

  "Mr. Carmine will see you now, sir," dimpled the blonde receptionist.

  "Thank you," said Randall. He picked up his attache case and walked pa
st the prominent brass plaque that indicated the imminent presence of L. J. Carmine, Program Director, KNBS-TV. Randall grimaced at the 36-point tempo bold lettering. Ostentatious.

  There was someone new with Carmine today, someone Randall didn't know. Randall had a bad feeling. The stranger was short and pudgy, gray hair thinning above black-rimmed glasses. "Network" was stamped all over him. Trouble, Randall thought.

  "Cal, baby," said Carmine, enthusiastically clapping Randall on the shoulder. "Come in, boy, come in. Here, I want you to meet Arthur Hedley. Art's with the Public Events Department over at the Network." Randall shook hands with the chubby stranger. Carmine turned and addressed the Network man: "This is the boy I've been telling you about, Art. Cal's one of the bright young talents around here, and he's definitely the best news director this station's ever had."

  What's he building up to, the axe? Randall speculated.