The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

  ‘I’m for peace!’ she cried.

  ‘Then kill the bear!’

  ‘I’m for peace, not killing!’

  She rocked back and forth. When she staggered into a wall, it shook; dust spread in the old room. The Mentor’s fury was terrible to feel.

  ‘Get out quickly!’ Dandi called to the bear.

  Hesitating, it stared at her. Then it turned and made for the window. For a moment it hung with its shaggy shabby hind­quarters in the room. Momentarily she saw it for what it was, an old animal in an old world, without direction. It jumped. It was gone. Goats blared confusion on its retreat.

  ‘Bitch!’ screamed the Mentor. Insane with frustration, he hurled Dandi against the doorway with all the force of his mind.

  Wood cracked and splintered. The lintel came crashing down. Brick and stone shifted, grumbled, fell. Powdered filth billowed up. With a great roar, one wall collapsed. Dandi struggled to get free. Her house was tumbling about her. It had never been intended to carry so much weight, so many centuries.

  She reached the balcony and jumped clumsily to safety, just as the building avalanched in on itself, sending a great cloud of plaster and powdered mortar into the overhanging trees.

  For a horribly long while the world was full of dust, goat bleats, and panic-stricken parakeets.

  Heavily astride her baluchitherium once more, Dandi Lashadusa headed back to the empty region called Ghinomon. She fought her bitterness, trying to urge herself towards resigna­tion.

  All she had was destroyed—not that she set store by posses­sions: that was man trait. Much more terrible was the know­ledge that her Mentor had left her for ever; she had trans­gressed too badly to be forgiven this time.

  Suddenly she was lonely for his pernickety voice in her head, for the wisdom he fed her, for the scraps of dead know­ledge he tossed her—yes, even for the love he gave her. She had never seen him, never could: yet no two beings could have been more intimate.

  She missed too those other wards of his she would glimpse no more: the mole creature tunneling in Earth’s depths, the seal family that barked with laughter on a desolate coast, a senile gorilla that endlessly collected and classified spiders, an aurochs—seen only once, but then unforgettably—that lived with smaller creatures in an Arctic city it had helped build in the ice.

  She was excommunicated.

  Well, it was time for her to change, to disintegrate, to transsubstantiate into a pattern not of flesh but music. That disci­pline at least the Mentor had taught and could not take away.

  ‘This will do, Lass,’ she said.

  Her gigantic mount stopped obediently. Lovingly she patted its neck. It was young; it would be free.

  Following the dusty trail, she went ahead, alone. Some­where far off one bird called. Coming to a mound of boulders, Dandi squatted among gorse, the points of which could not prick through her thick old coat.

  Already her selected music poured through her head, already it seemed to loosen the chemical bonds of her being.

  Why should she not choose an old hymn tune? She was an antiquarian. Things that were gone solaced her for things that were to come.

  In her dim way, she had always stood out against her Mentor’s absolute hatred of men. The thing to hate was hatred. Men in their finer moments had risen above hate. Her death psalm was an instance of that—a multiple instance, for it had been fingered and changed over the ages, as the Mentor him­self insisted, by men of a variety of races, all with their minds directed to worship rather than hate.

  Locking herself into thought disciplines, Dandi began to dissolve. Man had needed machines to help him to do it, to fit into the Involutes. She was a lesser animal: she could unbutton herself into the humbler shape of a musicolumn. It was just a matter of rearranging—and without pain she formed into a pattern that was not a shaggy megatherium body ... but an indigo column, hardly visible. . . .

  * * * *

  Lass for a long while cropped thistle and cacti. Then she ambled forward to seek the hairy creature she fondly—and a little condescendingly—regarded as her equal. But of the sloth there was no sign.

  Almost the only landmark was a faint violet-blue dye in the air. As the baluchitherium mare approached, a sweet old music grew in volume from the dye. It was a music almost as old as the landscape itself and certainly as much travelled, a tune once known to men as The Old Hundredth. And there were voices singing: ‘All creatures that on Earth do dwell. . . .’

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  * * * *

  BLUES AND BALLAD

  by Theodore R. Cogswell and Gordon R. Dickson

  Whether or not s-f did (before Punch-parodies) lack humor, it is certainly true that its best boffs have seldom seen print. (Or I should have said, type,) Fan magazines are usually mimeographed, and only the official programs of the annual fan conventions are ordinarily transcribed.

  These Labor Day weekends are virtually Impossible to describe (without, at least, technicolor). But for spontaneous humor, song, skit, verse, quick-trigger emceeing, and sufficiency of the bon (mot or vivant), they would be hard to equal. In their songs, particularly—whether at national, international, or purely neighborly gatherings—s-f-ers in general antedated the recent return to roll-your-own, home-made music. Oddly, the music-story did not appear until recently, but s-f music (both in parody and in original) has been on-scene (behind the scenes) for years.

  Herewith, a distinctive part of the tradition of the special world inside Science Fiction....

  * * * *

  RADIATION BLUES

  Words by Theodore R. Cogswell—Music: “John Henry” variation

  I’ve been drinking since last Wednesday

  And I should be getting high,

  But the dehydration’s got me

  And all I am is dry.

  Can’t get no edge on—got radiation blues.

  When the sun went down last evening,

  I went walking in the park.

  Didn’t mind those busted street lights,

  I was glowing in the dark,

  Just call me glow-worm—got radiation blues.

  Had a wake for Jake the barber,

  One long drink and one short prayer.

  Went and shot himself this morning,

  ‘Cause the whole town lost it’s hair.

  Came out in handfuls—’got radiation blues.

  Ain’t no use in going no place,

  Whole damn world is just like here.

  Boss men really fixed us this time,

  Think I’ll have another beer.

  Ain’t no use singing those radiation blues.

  * * * *

  BLOWUP BLUES

  Words and music by Theodore R. Cogswell

  II

  “What you gonna do when the gas go off,

  And the cook stove don’t work, baby?

  What you gonna do when the gas go off,

  When there ain’t no gas no more?”

  “Why I’ll send me a letter by the postal man,

  For my love to take me dining.

  Never cared ‘bout cooking for myself nohow,

  I’ll just lock that kitchen door.”

  III

  “What you gonna do when the water go off?

  What you gonna drink then, baby?

  What you gonna do when tie water go off,

  And you start a-getting dry?”

  “Why I got me a bottle of champagne wine

  My true love gave me Sunday.

  And when that bottle am all drunk up—

  Just set me down and cry.”

  IV

  “What you gonna do when the rockets come,

  And the whole town blow up, baby?

  What you gonna do when the rockets come,

  And that trumpet start to blow?”

  “Why I’ll put on my party dress,

  And watch the sky a-falling,

  ‘Cause the Lord’s a-waiting for to raise me up,

  When it comes my time to go
.”

  * * * *

  BALLAD OF THE SHOSHONU

  by Gordon R. Dickson—Music by Gordon R. Dickson

  I got paid off on Lyra one. I left that deep space boat.

  I went downtown to the barrooms there, just to wet my throat.

  The Shoshonu were all around, and one sat down with me.

  Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?

  And what’ll she do with me?

  She hadn’t moulted her humanoid form; she was pretty as could be.

  She turned her big eyes up to mine, and smiled soulfully.

  But she slipped a mickey in my drink, when she got home with me.

  Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?

  And what’ll she do with me?

  When I woke up the wedding was on, and I was saying, “Yes—”

  The High Shoshonu’s six-foot fangs two inches from my vest.

  The relatives were all around, they swarmed all over me.

  Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?

  And what’ll she do with me?

  Her father gave us a ton of gold; her mother gave us jewels.

  The rest of the tribe pitched in on a house, complete with swimming pools.

  They said, “Take care of our little girl—she’s about to moult, you see.”

  Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?

  And what’ll she do with me?

  So I’m sitting here with a drink in my hand, as worried as I can be.

  When a Shoshonu moults, she turns into a dragon, rough-el-ly.

  It’s our wedding night. She’s moulting now. And it makes them hung-ger-ry.

  Oh, what’ll I do with my Shoshonu?

  And what’ll—she—do—with—me?

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  * * * *

  HOW TO THINK A SCIENCE FICTION STORY

  by G. Harry Stine

  In August, 1957, I doubt there were a hundred men and women alive who rationally expected to see a man land on the Moon in their own lifetimes. There were, I should say, a couple of thousand, out of Earth’s billions, who honestly believed such a development to be technologically possible, or historically plausible. By January of 1958, the swiftest intellectual revolution in history had occurred. But even then, our best hopes were slower than our best performance.

  Dr. I. M. Levitt, director of the famous Fels Planetarium, was one of the few men already accustomed to thinking in terms of the challenge of space. Shortly after Sputnik, in an article in The New York Times, he predicted a manned rocket into space by 1968; a station in space by 1980; and a manned trip to the Moon about the year 2000.

  Look magazine, in a “Space Timetable” at the start of 1958, did not anticipate the first manned satellite till between 1970 and 1980 (on the basis of pooled scientific opinions); but lowered Dr. Levitt’s estimate for the Moon trip, placing it “in the last decade of this century.”

  G. Harry Stine, a rocket engineer who had been working at While Sands until S (for Sputnik)-Day, when he voiced his opinion of the U.S. space program (“Fat, dumb, and happy,” was part of it), was rather more optimistic. He said 1967 for a man in orbit, 1970 for a manned space station.

  Two years later—January, 1960—Look magazine printed a new timetable, agreeing with Stine’s old guess on the space station, but making him look like a stodgy conservative otherwise: men in orbit by the end of 1961, they said, and the first man to the Moon between 1967 and 1969. But they also said 1963 for the Echo satellite which was launched eight months after the article appeared; and they figured the Soviet Venus probe (January, 1961) for early 1962. Once again these estimates were derived from a composite of best-informed sources.

  Ex-rocketman Stine is now working for a research and development company in New York City, where he is closely associated with Col. William O. Davis, former chief of the USAF Office of Scientific Research. (Stine’s “Time for Tom Swift,” in Analog, January, 1961, some of Davis’s ideas on space flight, based on the notion that any practical system of transport must be “suitable for an aged grandmother visiting her grandchildren. . . .”) The article that follows is excerpted from a longer essay, “Science Fiction Is Too Conservative.”

  * * * *

  My full-time legitimate business involves the promotion of scientific innovation, management of scientific research, and synthesis. I don’t run a laboratory; I sit with a pencil and paper, I read constantly, and I travel to find out what Dr. Knowsall happens to be doing in a remote corner of his lab. In order to find out what is likely to be significant to my company in the future, I must identify a new area of science or technology early ... preferably before it becomes a real new area and before everyone else knows about it, too. If a new area makes sense in a number of ways, and if everybody else thinks that you are stark raving mad to consider it, it is exactly what the doctor ordered. It’s not an easy job; just when you think you have things well under control, the program planned nicely, and the future well in hand, through the door walks someone with something new. And you have to start all over again.

  Old training as an s-f writer taught me the value of future trend curves. In order to write a story about the future, one had to have some notion of what the future held in store and in what approximate time period it was likely to take place. This sort of crystal ball gazing is quite useful in research management, particularly when you must sell a screwball concept to management.

  Trend curves were probably first considered as a serious aid to research management by the Air Force Office of Scientific Research in 1953. A trend curve is a simple thing to plot. It isn’t hard to construct one. It is difficult to do the necessary research to begin with and to interpret the results when you are finished. For a better understanding of this matter of trend extrapolation, let us consider one of the simplest and most obvious of trend curves: speed.

  If we plot the time in years on the abcissa while plotting the speed achieved by manned devices (and/or unmanned devices, too) on the ordinate, we get the simplest and purest sort of trend curve. In 30,000 B.C., a man could make 4 mph walking and about 10 mph running. Plot the point. In about 2000 B.C., he rides a horse at about 30 mph maximum; another point. Get the idea? Then come ships, starting at zero mph for simple rafts in umpteen-hundred B.C. and progressing to about 40 mph in 1800. Then comes the train, starting with the 10 mph of Stevenson’s locomotive in 1830 and rising to the 128 mph achieved by the Pennsylvania Special in 1905.

  There is already something of interest that the trend curve can tell us at this point: each time a new concept of transportation showed up, the speed curve for that device rose sharply and finally leveled off as the practical limit for that device was reached. But, at the same time, each new quantum jump in speed was produced by a new device based on a new concept. This, then, gives the integrated curve a continually increasing slope.

  Back to our buttons: The airplane shows up in 1903 flying at a graceful 30 mph. From that point on, speed begins to increase with great rapidity: 200 mph in the 1920’s, 500 mph in the late 1930’s, Mach 1 in 1947; Mach 2 in 1952. But there the speed of the airplane begins to flatten out. But along comes the ballistic vehicle!

  At this point, the curves for unmanned and manned vehicles begins to split. At this time, unmanned vehicles have not only achieved orbital velocity, but escape velocity as well. Manned vehicles should achieve orbital velocity in 1961. Shortly thereafter, much sooner than anyone believes possible, manned vehicles will achieve escape velocity.

  The speed trend curve was drawn up by members of the Air Force Office of Scientific Research in 1953 to convince people that space flight was indeed becoming a reality and that the Air Force should get moving. With this curve, USAF officers were able to predict, in 1953, that orbital velocity would be achieved late in 1957 and escape velocity shortly thereafter. Obviously, they were crazy... or were they?

  Now having a typical trend curve to play with, let’s analyze it. Note the shape of the curve. By using linear scales on both the speed and time axis, th
e curve would appear to be practically flat until a few years ago; and the curve would appear to be exponential. Okay, this means we must transfer it to semi-log paper, graph paper with a linear time scale but a logarithmic speed scale; on this type of graph paper, a true exponential function becomes a straight line. But a trend curve on semi-log paper is still an upward-turning exponential! So we must therefore transfer it to a curve with a log scale on speed and a reverse-log scale for time. Even at that, the trend curve still turns upward in an exponential fashion!

  What does this mean? Just that things are happening much faster than we believe. Most laymen are content to predict the future in terms of a trend curve that levels off from the present ever onward. Scientists, on the other hand, are a bit more radical; they tend to predict the future trend with a curve of constant slope from now on.

  A layman can’t really predict the future at all; he has no understanding of the forces that are in motion because of accumulated knowledge. Scientists will grudgingly try to predict the future using an extremely conservative estimate —one that has always been wrong. Using a linear trend curve, scientists in 1930 were predicting a controlled nuclear reaction not before 2,000 a.d. Obviously too conservative, because a controlled nuclear reaction was achieved ten years later.