The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 7 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

  They were just outside the Tunnel. Jeannie had put her knitting down; she was looking intently ahead, but as though she were listening rather than looking. In spite of his own arguments, Tom felt his fingers thudding on the dashboard. On the TV screen, Malenkovsky triumphantly moved a king.

  They had reached the Tunnel entrance. Jeannie was silent. She glanced at her watch, irrationally. Tom pressed the tranquillizer button and the drawer shot out, but Jeannie shook her head.

  “I hate this, Tom. I think it’s an absolutely lousy idea.”

  Her voice sounded almost savage, for Jeannie, and Tom felt a little shocked.

  “It’s the fairest thing,” he argued. “You know it perfectly well.”

  Jeannie’s mouth had set in a stubborn line. “I don’t care. There must be another way.”

  “This is the only fair way,” Tom said again. “We take our chances along with everybody else.”

  His own heart was pounding, now, and his hands felt cold. It was the feeling he always had on entering the Tunnel, and he had never decided whether it was dread or elation, or both. He was no longer bored. He glanced at the children on the back seat. David was watching television again and gnawing on a fingernail; the three little ones were still asleep, sitting up as they had been taught to do, hands folded properly in their laps. Three blind mice.

  The Tunnel was echoing and cold. White light slipped off the white tile walls that were clean and polished and air-tight. Wind rushed past, sounding as though the car were moving faster than it actually was. The Italian family was still behind them, following at a constant speed. Huge fans were set into the Tunnel ceiling; their roar reverberated over the roar of the giant invisible air-conditioning units, over the slow wind of the moving cars.

  Jeannie had put her head down on the seat back as though she were asleep. The cars stopped for an instant, started again. Tom wondered if Jeannie felt the same vivid thrill that he felt. Then he looked at the line of her mouth and saw the fear.

  The Tunnel was 8500 feet long. Each car took up seven feet bumper to bumper. Allow five feet between cars. About seven hundred cars in the tunnel, then: more than three thousand people. It would take each car about fifteen minutes to go through. Their car was halfway through now.

  They were three-quarters of the way through. Automatic signal lights were flashing at them from the catwalk under the Tunnel roof. Tom’s foot moved to the gas pedal before he remembered the car was set on Automatic. It was an atavistic gesture: his hands and feet wanted a job to do. His body, for a minute, wanted to control the direction of its plunge. It was the way he always felt, in the Tunnel.

  They were almost through. His scalp felt as though tiny ants were running along the hairs. He moved his toes, feeling the scratch of sand on the nerves between them. He could see the far end of the Tunnel. Maybe two minutes more. A minute.

  They stopped again. A car, somewhere ahead, had swerved out of line to search for the right exit. Once out of the Tunnel it was legal to switch back to Manual Drive, since it was necessary to pick the right exit out of ten, and all too easy to find yourself carried to the top level of Manhattan Unit before finding a place to turn off.

  Tom’s hand drummed at the wheel. The maverick ahead had edged back into line. They started movement again. They picked up speed. They were out of the Tunnel.

  Jeannie picked up her knitting and shook it, sharply. Then she dropped it as though it had bitten her fingers. A bell was clanging over their heads, not too loud, but clear. Just behind their rear bumper, a gate swung smoothly into place.

  Jeannie turned to look back at the space behind them where the Italian family in the bright blue car, and others, had been. There were no cars there now. She turned back, to stare whitely through the windshield.

  Tom was figuring. Two minutes for the ceiling sprays to work. Then the seven hundred cars in the Tunnel would be hauled out and emptied. Ten minutes for that, say. He wondered how long it was supposed to take for the giant fans to blow the cyanide gas away.

  “Depopulation without Discrimination,” they called it at election time. Nobody would ever admit voting for it, but almost everybody did. Aloud, you had to rationalize: it was the fairest way to do a necessary thing. But in the unadmitted places of your mind you knew it was more than that A gamble, the one unpredictable element in the long, dreary process of survival. A game. Russian Roulette. A game you played to win? Or, maybe, to lose? The answer didn’t matter, because the Tunnel was excitement. The only excitement left.

  Tom felt, suddenly, remarkably wide awake. He switched to Manual Drive and angled the round nose of the Topolino over to the Fourth Level exit.

  He began to whistle between his teeth. “Beach again next weekend, sweetie, huh?”

  Jeannie’s eyes were on his face. Defensively, he added, “Good for all of us, get out of the city, get a little fresh air once in a while.”

  He nudged her and pulled a pigtail gently, with affection.

  <>

  * * * *

  EXTRATERRESTRIAL TRILOGUE ON TERRAN SELF-DESTRUCTION

  by Sheri S. Eberhart

  The ever-more-pressing probability of planetwide overpopulation is both more real and less remote than it may appear. Certainly, for the smog-breathers of the great centers of modem civilization, as for the emergent peoples of the world’s “underdeveloped” areas, the pressures of the new population explosion are daily more evident. And as the cities grow out, and the primitives grow up, the room in the middle grows steadily less. Each new medical discovery, every agricultural advance, every increment in social security, every headhunter converted to some gentler philosophy, each “international incident” settled however precariously without resort to all-out war—each one of these and a score of other proofs of our progress, adds measurably, if minutely, to the factor by which our fruitfulness constantly multiplies.

  The problem, of course, is new only in scope, and (through Malthus back to Moses, and no doubt before) in the more limited test cases, it has proved, drastically, self-regulating. Unless new land was found for the overflow, war, famine, and pestilence have always cut problem and population both down to size.

  The recent historical alternatives are especially familiar to Denver’s Regional CARE Director, Sheri Eberhart. An ex-saleswoman, -secretary, -draftswoman, and -pottery-painter, she also became an ex-short-story-writer when after two sales, and “enough rejections to paper a wall” her daughter advised her to quit because, “You don’t think like a grown-up.” Mrs. Eberhart promptly turned to children’s plays—including a handclapping version of the Pentateuch (The Beat Bible), which has made her the swing-ingest Sunday School teacher in town.

  * * * *

  Three creatures sat on the sands of Mars,

  and the first, to the ancient twiddling bars

  that the second played on a twalreg flute

  sang a canal lay most convolute,

  while the third, with his horn in the sand, sat mute,

  considering the stars.

  At last the second stilled his fife,

  and the third twonged out (his voice was rife

  with a hint of fear) “Do you know that there,

  where the third planet spins in its veil of air,

  I’m convinced there’s a spot, a jot, a hair,

  a widge, perhaps, of life.”

  The first began an amusement dance,

  while the second, fourth eyes crossed, askance,

  skibbed with extreme severity,

  “You ought to watch your tongues,” quoth he.

  “One should not affront the Deity

  by mentioning such chance.

  “For years our scientists have spent

  their time in the establishment

  of reasons why the life we know

  could not exist above, below,

  or any place but here! They show

  that fact self evident.”

  Just then their eyes were caught, aghast,

  for w
here the air-veiled planet passed

  a ball of fire had blossomed wide,

  and holocausts together vied

  to rip the ravened globe aside

  with nothing left at last.

  Murmured the first, “You will allow,

  by every old and sacred vow,

  this proves my point and proves it well.

  Those pyrotechnics must compel

  you to recant!” The third said, “Hell,

  it doesn’t matter now.”

  And they sat back down on the sands of Mars

  to hear the ancient, twiddling bars

  of a Martian dirge or the twalreg flute,

  in troches old and dissolute,

  while the third, with his horn in the sand, sat mute,

  considering the stars.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE COUNTDOWN

  by John Haase

  In the catalogue of natural wonders, along with such unlikely miracles as the existence of self-conscious intelligence, the fecundity of humanity, and the evolution of communication, we may now add this marvel: that, after two decades of possession of a means of destruction volatile enough to match our mob furies, we (the people, of the third planet) are still very much alive.

  The almost incredible indication is that we are—slowly, with utmost caution—approaching a real awareness of the irrevocability of the global interdependence our technology has created. Not only is it increasingly obvious that the worst they can do to us (from either viewpoint) is less terrible than what we-and-they can do to all-of-us; it is also becoming clear how much we-and-they might do, if we chose, for all of us; and further clear that the most we can do will be none too much, for if we avoid self-devastation, we may well be faced with self-suffocation.

  Mankind, united, will undoubtedly level mountains and plumb the ocean depths; but with the same strength, we can more readily perhaps find our new space out in space. The stories that follow this one are all based on the assumption that man can and will go out to other worlds. This one is still set on a near-future Earth, but it concerns a pioneer of the still-uncertain emigration. It is the first science fiction (to my knowledge) by an author best known for his novel. The Fun Couple (Simon & Schuster, 1961), from which the hit Broadway play was adapted.

  * * * *

  Carrying his duffelbag, Jack Bell climbed the stairs to Dan Oldfield’s office. The door was open, and through the outer office, now empty of secretaries, Bell could see Oldfield sitting at his desk, the phone in one hand, a toothpick in the other. Bell walked in without knocking, and waited for the other man to finish his conversation.

  Oldfield hung up the phone. “Well, old Sleepy Bell. I thought you’d crashed by now.”

  “Almost—not quite, though.”

  Oldfield watched Bell. He noticed the gray creeping in around the temples, the flaccid cheeks, the pushed-out face from too many rides in the centrifuge.

  “I need a blast,” Bell said.

  “Drink?” Oldfield asked.

  “No, thanks. Never touch it.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Oh, can it,” Bell said, sitting down without being asked, his duffelbag beside him.

  “How many blasts have you had this year?” Oldfield asked.

  “One. A Redstone. Suborbital.”

  “A liquid-fuel job, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bell looked around the office. There were dusty models of the Redstone, the Mercury capsule, the Minuteman, a few brownish photographs of pads at Vandenburg, at Cape Canaveral, and one picture, taken years before, in the infancy of space flight, of the seven original astronauts; a few framed newspaper clippings; a business license; a Lions Club plaque.

  “There aren’t many blasts around,” Oldfield said.

  “I’m still an astronaut, you know,” Bell said.

  “Sure,” Oldfield said, “and I’m still a space agent. Well, I can book you into a night space circus right here at the Cape. By the lake on the edge of town.”

  Bell looked at the agent. “I hate circuses. You know that.”

  “It’s all I’ve got. Still got your G-suit?”

  “Yeah. What about the real blasts here at the Cape? I hear they’re trying for a soft Mars landing.”

  “They are. It’s all Air Force stuff.”

  “How much for the circus?”

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  Bell sighed hard, then looked at Oldfield. “What time do they blast off?”

  “Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty,” Oldfield said. “Countdown begins at six-thirty. Be there, and sober. It’s a little circus. They’ve only got one missile.”

  Bell looked at Oldfield. “How about fifty on account?”

  “Sure,” Oldfield said, and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “This is only twenty.”

  “If you’re really on the wagon, that’s all the dough you’ll need till tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah,” Bell said. “I guess you’re right.” He took the twenty-dollar bill and, getting up, started to leave. “He shook my hand, you know,” Bell said.

  “Who?”

  “The President.”

  Oldfield looked at the astronaut, and a touch of compassion brushed his eyes. “Sure, Jack. Those were good days. Good for everybody.”

  Bell picked up his duffelbag, which held his G-suit, his helmet, his boots, and a few toilet articles, and left the office.

  “Oh, Bell!” Oldfield yelled.

  “Yeah?”

  “You got a dresser?”

  “I think so. I think Barney’s still in town. He’s the best.”

  “Well, that’s out of your cut.”

  “I know,” Bell said. “I know.”

  He left the building and walked along the broad boulevard. The warm breezes of the Cape ruffled his shirt slightly. He walked into the Hangar, a favorite bar of the astronauts, and put down his duffelbag in an empty booth.

  A waiter came over. “What’ll you have?”

  “Rye-on-the-rocks. Have you seen Barney?” Bell asked.

  “Sure. You know Barney?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You a space jockey?”

  Bell nodded.

  “You on the Mars shot?”

  “No.”

  “Circus?”

  “Just bring me the drink.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The waiter returned with the drink. Bell drank it, and sat there and waited, and ordered another drink, and then another, and then Barney came in.

  The two men had not seen each other for five years, maybe six, yet Barney walked right over, shook hands, and seemed not at all surprised to see Bell. He took a seat opposite Bell and ordered a drink.

  “Well, kid, how’s things?” Barney asked.

  “Up and down.”

  “Very funny,” Barney said. “You guys always had a crummy sense of humor.”

  “I guess we did. I got a favor to ask you, Barney.”

  “Yeah? What’s the favor?”

  “I need a dresser—the circus tomorrow night. You’re the best in the business.”

  “I was,” Barney said. “I was. But no more. No more dressing for me.”

  “I just thought I’d ask.”

  “Yeah,” Barney continued. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

  “What?”

  “I bought me a little bait shop. Right on the coast. Four days I sell bait. Three days I fish. What a life!” He patted his stomach.

  “Sounds good. Don’t need a partner?”

  “No. We’re overstaffed now. That was the smartest thing I ever did. You know, Jack, I’m right near the Cape. I see ‘em go off every day and I say to myself, ‘Thank God.’ ‘Yeah. That’s what I say. ‘Thank God it ain’t my worry if that damned suit leaks, or if the valves are stuck, or there’s spit caught in the poor slob’s throat.’ “ Barney drank deeply and looked accusingly at Bell. “You think you guys had all the sweat? Do you?” He didn�
�t wait for an answer. “Well, you didn’t. All you did was lie there. All the rest was up to the guys on the ground.”

  “I know,” Bell said. “I know. I just thought I’d ask.”

  “You’re not still blasting, are you, Jack?”

  “Sure. Why not?”