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New Writings in
SF: 10
Ed By John Carnell
Proofed By MadMaxAU
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CONTENTS
Foreword by John Carnell
The Imagination Trap by Colin Kapp
Apple by John Baxter
Robot’s Dozen by G. L. Lack
Birth Of A Butterfly by Joseph L. Green
The Affluence of Edwin Lollard by Thomas M. Disch
A Taste For Dostoevsky by Brian W. Aldiss
Image Of Destruction by John Rankine
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FOREWORD
John Carnell
This tenth volume of New Writings In S-F sees the series firmly established as one of the most popular yet devised and a major share of the credit given to it by book reviewers round the world must go primarily to the authors who made it possible. Some of them have been new names to the genre, others already well established; all of them have had stories to tell and this is part of the basic requirement in each volume.
This present volume, for instance, is a cross-section of varied themes as reasonably well balanced as possible at the time of going to press. It opens with what must be considered Colin Kapp’s most ambitious science-fiction story to date, outranking his ‘The Pen And The Dark” in No. 8 —a story which brought forth considerable favourable comment from readers and reviewers alike. Colin, a technical assistant on electro-chemical work in a leading electronics laboratory, has been writing S-F short stories since 1958 and already has one outstanding novel to his name —The Dark Mind (titled The Transfinite Man in U.S.A.).
In direct contrast, John Baxter’s story “Apple” will long be remembered for its macabre background, a penchant he freely admits to liking. This young Australian, who lives in Sydney, recently turned to full-time professional writing and we can expect to see many more fascinating themes from him soon. Notwithstanding the out-of-context setting of his current story, it is no harder to accept than faster-than-light travel.
Joseph L. Green, who likes to analyse the alienness of aliens, has worked in and around American missile bases for several years and now has one of those dream jobs most S-F writers would give much to have—actually working on the U.S. moon shot programmes at Cape Kennedy. He says that now he is really living science fiction.
Another new American writer to be presented for the first time in this series is Thomas M. Disch, at present footloose in Europe and writing full-time. With two novels and many short stories already to his credit, he is probably one of the most promising of the young Americans who have recently entered the S-F field.
It is nice to welcome back Brian W. Aldiss after such a long absence (since the first volume) with one of the most unusual time-travelling stories we have yet read. Literary editor of the Oxford Mail, he is now one of Britain’s leading S-F writers. At the World S-F Convention in 1959 he was voted the most promising new writer of 1958—and in 1966 his latest trophy was the Science Fiction Writers of America “Nebula Award” for one of the best short novels of 1965, The Saliva Tree.
Finally, John Rankine, headmaster of a junior school in the North of England, whose “Dag Fletcher” character has already appeared in two novels and a collection of short stories. One of his more serious S-F stories, “Six Cubed Plus One”, which appeared in New Writings In S-F 7, has already been made into a 50-minute B.B.C. television play (retitled “Six Squared Plus One” to reduce the number of extras required in the cast).
Add G. L. Lack’s humorous exchange of letters regarding the hiring of a house robot in “Robot’s Dozen”, and we have another entertaining selection of new stories for your reading pleasure. We are sure that you will enjoy them.
John Carnell
October 1966
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THE IMAGINATION TRAP
Colin Kapp
Tau-space was an inter-atom paradox where conditions existing in normal space were physically and psychologically incongruent—yet it was probably the only route to the stars. If Man could master it!
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ONE
Professor Carl Diepenstrom, Director of Tau Research Corporation, switched off the intercom.
“Well, at least he’s come to see us, Paul.”
Paul Porter nodded. “I thought he would. Eric Brevis can’t resist the lure of curiosity any more than we can. In fact, if we can score with him, it will be on that very point.”
“I see.” Diepenstrom raised his large and greying head and studied Porter seriously for a moment or two. “And you still think it vitally necessary that we go through with this project, Paul?”
“You know it is. It’s the only chance we have. We can’t continue with the present research line. It isn’t humanitarian, and it isn’t giving us a glimpse of a coherent pattern. Besides which, you know how the Government’s attitude is hardening.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Diepenstrom gravely. “And that’s the reason I’ve backed you as far as I have. I can’t see any practical alternative. But I’d be happier if it didn’t have to be you who went out there. Tau Research can’t afford to lose you, Paul.”
“There won’t be any Tau Research if this project folds. Anyway, I don’t think the risk will be too great—not if we can persuade Eric Brevis to join the team.”
“You think a great deal of Dr Brevis, don’t you?”
“I do. He has an intuitive understanding of the irrational, and that can be a prime factor for survival under extreme Tau conditions. With him on the team we have a very real chance of making a breakthrough.”
“Very well,” said Diepenstrom. “If you want Dr Brevis, you shall have him. But you’d better leave the interview to me. It may just be that he isn’t very willing to offer his life for somebody else’s cause. In which case he will have to be . . . ah! . . . persuaded.”
As the psychologist entered the room, Diepenstrom rose in greeting.
“Dr Brevis, thank you for coming.”
Brevis seated himself carefully and took a cigar from the offered box. “Being in receipt of such an intriguing communication, I could scarcely have refused.”
Diepenstrom repressed a mischievous smile. “That was, shall we say, contrived. Curiosity is a force far more potent than most people allow.”
Brevis studied the Director’s face carefully for a moment. “True,” he said. “Though I don’t think you asked me here just to discuss the psychology of curiosity.”
“Indeed not. I wanted to discuss the possibility of death.”
“Whose death—yours or mine?”
“Yours.”
Brevis exhaled sharply. “I suppose there’s some sense in this cryptic nonsense?”
“There is indeed, my dear Doctor, and shortly I’ll tell you what it is. But first let me enquire how much you know about Tau?”
“Not very much. I know it’s a system in which solid bodies are resonated in such a way that their atoms can pass through the spaces in the atomic structure of other solid bodies. I know you use the method for transport, bringing the big Tau ships to resonance and then driving them through the earth by the shortest mean path to their destination.”
“Go on,” said Diepenstrom.
“I know also that in its resonant state such a ship passes into an inter-atom domain called Tau-space which is incongruent both physically and psychologically with conditions existing in normal space.”
“That will do for the moment,” said Diepenstrom. “I recall that you were concerned with Paul Porter on the epic voyage of the old Lambda I Tau raft. I also recall that the impact of some of the things you discovered on that journey caus
ed a radical re-thinking of some major portions of the Tau concept. I put it to you, Dr Brevis, that this is a remarkable record for one who claims very little knowledge of Tau techniques.”
“Suppose we come to the point,” said Brevis abruptly.
“I was just going to,” said Diepenstrom. “Does the phrase deep-Tau mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Deep-Tau is the Tau-space analogue of conventional deep space. We are actively researching into the possibility of achieving interstellar spaceflight by travelling in the Tau-space analogue.”
“I don’t see . . .” said Brevis.
“Let me finish first, please. Now, deep-Tau as an alternative to conventional spaceflight promises some remarkable advantages in simplified technique. Indeed, it may be the only technique to make star travel possible. Superficially, deep-Tau travel would appear to be easier than terrestrial Tau work. Unfortunately there are a number of impossible and irrational reasons why this is not so.”
“I fail to see,” said Brevis, “what all this has to do with me.”
“A great deal. The present pattern of Tau research consists of sending manned telemetry probes into deep-Tau. We’ve sent some twenty-four to date. Some have returned and some haven’t, but each has piled paradox on paradox—and each has cost the life of the probe pilot. Now we’re approaching our last chance. If we fail, the Government will probably close down our activities completely. Such an action would be a setback to this research from which it might never recover.”
“So?”
“Paul Porter wants to take a four-man vessel fitted out as a laboratory into deep-Tau, and he wants you to go with him. It’s my job to persuade you to go, while at the same time leaving you in no doubt that to do so is tantamount to committing suicide.”
“So that’s it! I refuse, of course. I still have the scars to show from the last time Paul Porter took me into Tau.”
“I have a contract here on which you can write your own price for one successful deep-Tau vector.”
“No, Professor. If Paul wants to seek an anguished grave in the corner of some dark and twisted hypothetical continuum, that is his own affair. I’ve no such ambition.”
“A fair statement, Dr Brevis. I appreciate your position. Faced with the same situation, I should probably adopt a similar standpoint. Let me thank you again for coming, and apologize for wasting your time.”
Brevis watched him narrowly for a moment. “What are you up to, you old fox? You aren’t a man to accept defeat that easily.”
Diepenstrom raised his ponderous head. His smile was a mere ghost haunting the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, yes! There was something else. I’m glad you reminded me. While you’re here I wonder if you’d care to see some of our deep-Tau exhibits.”
“Seeing the whole point of this interview seems to turn on this apparent afterthought, I have no objection. But I warn you that nothing you can show me will make me change my mind.”
“Perish the thought, my dear Doctor. I merely wish to show you our little museum of paradoxes. I think you’ll find them rather fascinating. Would you care to step this way?”
The vaults beneath Tau Research were olive-drab and vast in extent, and the footsteps of the two men echoed hollowly down the steel and concrete corridors. Brevis had previously had no idea that Government influence extended to the point of including armed servicemen alongside Tau Corporation’s own formidable security force. The two men were checked and counter-checked at each level and intersection with a meticulous care which placed a sinister stamp on the ultimate importance of the project.
Brevis smiled wryly. “If I have as much trouble getting into Heaven as we’ve had getting into here, I don’t think I’ll bother.”
“Don’t worry,” said Diepenstrom. “The qualifications for entry are somewhat different—one might almost say mutually exclusive.”
“That’s a rare piece of cynicism.”
“Wait,” said the Director, “until you’ve seen what we have to show you. There are more things in Heaven and on Earth than are dreamed of in your psychology.”
They reached the appointed door, and Diepenstrom withdrew the bolts with a heavy clatter and stood aside for the psychologist to enter.
“This is one of the ten or so probe vessels which we have been able to recover. It came back to us on an automatic-recall vector from deep-Tau, and it’s not the least of our curiosities.”
Brevis entered the room and walked around the exhibit, his face registering a melange of fear and fascination.
“What sort of trick is this?”
“No trick, Doctor. Simply one of those things that we at Tau Research have had to learn to live with.”
“And the pilot?” Brevis asked at last the question he had been avoiding.
“He came back alive but died in hospital. He was completely to scale with the craft. He was desperately mad and measured exactly one and a quarter inches tall. Do you want to see any more?”
“Not just now. One has to learn to re-adjust.”
“You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
“No. I was just thinking what a remarkable character your pilot must have been.”
“You’ve got beyond me there,” said Diepenstrom, with sudden interest. “What did you have in mind, Doctor?”
“I was reflecting that you sent him into a complex so vast that it doesn’t include the limiting concept ‘universe’. The wonder to me is not that he came back minute, but that he didn’t come back microscopic.”
A trace of light flickered across Diepenstrom’s brow.
“I think you’re on to something, Dr Brevis. Paul Porter was right. You do have an intuitive understanding of the irrational. Won’t you have second thoughts about joining our team?”
“Damn you, Diepenstrom! You’ve pushed the ball right into my court.”
“I merely showed you the ball. You did the pushing.”
“But you knew which way it would roll.”
“Certainly. With the pitch inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees in the right direction, I could scarcely miss. It’s what I call an imagination trap. Give an expert an outstanding problem in his own field, and you have one of the most infallible mousetraps ever devised. Now suppose we go upstairs and sign that contract?”
“I still haven’t said I agree,” Brevis said.
“No, but you will. You see, if you walk out now you’ll always be haunted by the vision of the Tau probe vessel which came back only twenty-two inches long and with a pilot not as big as your thumb. I don’t think a man with your imagination could live with himself with that problem unresolved.”
“It would appear,” said Brevis, “that I am now working for Tau Corporation until death do us part—unless I misread the small print at the bottom of the contract. Although, if I have your intentions divined aright, that mayn’t be a very long-term prospect.”
Porter turned with a smile from the drafting machine. “I take it that you have just concluded an interview with Diepenstrom. He tends to induce that depressive attitude in interviews. Anyway, glad to have you join the team, Eric. On the type of project we’re planning we’re going to need all the expertise we can get.”
“Even in psychology?”
“Especially in psychology—and your own understanding of the irrational. Eric, we’re going into a complex which doesn’t begin until a point way beyond where our physics ends—out into a region from which nothing vaguely rational has ever been recovered. What happens to things out in deep-Tau is completely beyond our experience. That’s why I feel a sight happier to know you’re going to be alongside.”
“I’m with you, Paul . . . although just now I’m damned if I can think of a convincing reason why. What’s the big attraction about going into deep-Tau anyway?”
“Because it’s there, I guess. Man isn’t built to live happily on the edge of the unknown. And if we’re ever to get to the stars, then deep-Tau is the only possible ro
ute.”
“Not spaceflight?”
Porter was slightly amused. “Hardly. Unless there are some very radical changes in our concept of normal physics, we don’t have either the engines or the power sources necessary to make such a journey in man’s lifetime. And we probably never will have. Mass-energy relationships alone rule that out quite firmly.”
“You’ve just shattered my dream of the space age,” said Brevis.
“Except for a ruinously expensive exploration of the Solar system, it never was more than a dream,” said Porter.
“But doesn’t that apply to deep-Tau travel also?”
“Not completely. In Tau-space there are no gravitational gradients to overcome, and mass-energy relationships and some aspects of Relativity don’t hold strictly true. Don’t ask me to show you the maths, because we’re still trying to understand it ourselves, but Tau-space provides us with a potential medium in which we can circumvent a lot of the physical absolutes which make conventional interstellar spaceflight an impossibility. Even the speed of light is no longer a limiting velocity.”
New Writings in SF 10 - [Anthology] Page 1