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Star Science Fiction 3
Edited By Frederik Pohl
Proofed By MadMaxAU
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Table of Contents
It’s Such a Beautiful Day by Isaac Asimov
The Strawberry Window by Ray Bradbury
The Deep Range by Arthur C. Clarke
Alien by Lester del Rey
Foster, You’re Dead by Philip K. Dick
Whatever Happened to Corporal Cuckoo? by Gerald Kersh
Dance of the Dead by Richard Matheson
Any More at Home Like You? by Chad Oliver
The Devil on Salvation Bluff by Jack Vance
Guinevere for Everybody by Jack Williamson
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EDITOR’S NOTE
The pleasures of an anthologist are many and mostly immoral. It is, for instance, his undeserved privilege to receive the compliments that, in a well-ordered world, would go to the writers of the stories he prints. They, not he, cudgel their brains and pound their typewriters; they, not he, create wonderful things to say and contrive pleasurable ways of saying them. They make the book that bears his name out of blank white paper and talent; he is merely a screen, a sort of literary soot extractor, whose sole function is to keep out of print the stories which do not measure up to the mark, and transmit to the reader the stories which do.
The ten writers in this book need very little screening. Some are relatively new—Philip Dick and Richard Matheson and Jack Vance—and some, like Asimov and Williamson, have been with us for a long time. Some of them own reputations that rest on a broader base than any “category” of fiction: You need not be a science-fiction fan to recognize the name of Lester del Rey for his award-winning juveniles, or Arthur C. Clarke for his book-club nonfiction, or Ray Bradbury for the stories that have appeared in every one of the major “slicks,” or Gerald Kersh for best-selling novels like Night and the City. But even the newest is a star in his own right; and the stories they give us now rank with the best they have done.
All of these ten stories are science fiction. Perhaps you are an avid subscriber to Galaxy orAstounding; perhaps you have never before heard the term “science fiction” used. Either way, this selection is tailored for you. If you’re an ardent fan, here are ten new stories by your favorite writers, not one of which has ever appeared in print in America before. If this is your first venture, here are ten stories selected from the very top of what is, in your editor’s firm belief, the freshest and most hopeful area of writing in the world today.
—Frederik Pohl
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ISAAC ASIMOV
In the alphabet of science fiction, “A” is for Asimov by virtue of an order of precedence older than the Greeks. But the man who wrote Pebble in the Sky needs no accident of orthography to put him at the head of any list; the man who wrote I, Robot and the Foundation novels and The Caves of Steelmakes his own way in any company. If you haven’t read any of these books, you’ve missed some of the best science fiction in print; but it isn’t too late to repair the damage. In fact, you can start acquainting yourself with Asimov right now, with his newest story and one of his best, entitled—
It’s Such a Beautiful Day
On April 12, 2117, the field-modulator brake-valve in the Door belonging to Mrs. Richard Hanshaw depolarized for reasons unknown. As a result, Mrs. Hanshaw’s day was completely upset and her son, Richard, Jr., first developed his strange neurosis.
It was not the type of thing you would find listed as a neurosis in the usual textbooks and certainly young Richard behaved, in most respects, just as a well-brought-up twelve-year-old in prosperous circumstances ought to behave.
And yet from April 12 on, Richard Hanshaw, Jr., could only with regret ever persuade himself to go through a Door.
* * * *
Of all this, on April 12, Mrs. Hanshaw had no premonition. She woke in the morning (an ordinary morning) as her mekkano slithered gently into her room, with a cup of coffee on a small tray. Mrs. Hanshaw was planning a visit to New York in the afternoon and she had several things to do first that could not quite be trusted to a mekkano, so after one or two sips, she stepped out of bed.
The mekkano backed away, moving silently along the diamagnetic field that kept its oblong body half an inch above the floor, and moved back to the kitchen, where its simple computer was quite adequate to set the proper controls on the various kitchen appliances in order that an appropriate breakfast might be prepared.
Mrs. Hanshaw, having bestowed the usual sentimental glance upon the cubograph of her dead husband, passed through the stages of her morning ritual with a certain contentment. She could hear her son across the hall clattering through his, but she knew she need not interfere with him. The mekkano was well adjusted to see to it, as a matter of course, that he was showered, that he had on a change of clothing, and that he would eat a nourishing breakfast. The tergo-shower she had had installed the year before made the morning wash and dry so quick and pleasant that, really, she felt certain Dickie would wash even without supervision.
On a morning like this, when she was busy, it would certainly not be necessary for her to do more than deposit a casual peck on the boy’s cheek before he left. She heard the soft chime the mekkano sounded to indicate approaching school time and she floated down the force-lift to the lower floor (her hair-style for the day only sketchily designed, as yet) in order to perform that motherly duty.
She found Richard standing at the door, with his text-reels and pocket projecter dangling by their strap and a frown on his face.
“Say, Mom,” he said, looking up, “I dialed the school’s co-ords but nothing happens.”
She said, almost automatically, “Nonsense, Dickie. I never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, you try.”
Mrs. Hanshaw tried a number of times. Strange, the school door was always set for general reception. She tried other co-ordinates. Her friends’ Doors might not be set for reception, but there would be a signal at least, and then she could explain.
But nothing happened at all. The Door remained an inactive gray barrier despite all her manipulations. It was obvious that the Door was out of order—and only five months after its annual fall inspection by the company.
She was quite angry about it.
It would happen on a day when she had much planned. She thought petulantly of the fact that a month earlier she had decided against installing a subsidiary Door on the ground that it was an unnecessary expense. How was she to know that Doors were getting to be so shoddy?
She stepped to the visiphone while the anger still burned in her and said to Richard, “You just go down the road, Dickie, and use the Williamsons’ Door.”
Ironically, in view of later developments, Richard balked. “Aw, gee, Mom, I’ll get dirty. Can’t I stay home till the Door is fixed?”
And, as ironically, Mrs. Hanshaw insisted. With her finger on the combination board of the phone, she said, “You won’t get dirty if you put flexies on your shoes, and don’t forget to brush yourself well before you go into their house.”
“But, golly—”
“No back-talk, Dickie. You’ve got to be in school. Just let me see you walk out of here. And quickly, or you’ll be late.”
The mekkano, an advanced model and very responsive, was already standing before Richard with flexies in one appendage.
Richard pulled the transparent plastic shields over his shoes and moved down the hall with visible reluctance. “I don’t even know how to work this thing, Mom.”
“You just push that button,” Mrs. Hanshaw called. “The red button. Where it says ‘For Emergency Use.’ And don�
�t dawdle. Do you want the mekkano to go along with you?”
“Gosh, no,” he called back, morosely, “what do you think I am? A baby? Gosh!” His muttering was cut off by a slam.
With flying fingers, Mrs. Hanshaw punched the appropriate combination on the phone board and thought of the things she intended saying to the company about this.
Joe Bloom, a reasonably young man, who had gone through technology school with added training in force-field mechanics, was at the Hanshaw residence in less than half an hour. He was really quite competent, though Mrs. Hanshaw regarded his youth with deep suspicion.
She opened the movable house-panel when he first signaled and her sight of him was as he stood there, brushing at himself vigorously to remove the dust of the open air. He took off his flexies and dropped them where he stood. Mrs. Hanshaw closed the house-panel against the flash of raw sunlight that had entered. She found herself irrationally hoping that the step-by-step trip from the public Door had been an unpleasant one. Or perhaps that the public Door itself had been out of order and the youth had had to lug his tools even farther than the necessary two hundred yards. She wanted the Company, or its representative at least, to suffer a bit. It would teach them what broken Doors meant.
But he seemed cheerful and unperturbed as he said, “Good morning, ma’am. I came to see about your Door.”
“I’m glad someone did,” said Mrs. Hanshaw, ungraciously. “My day is quite ruined.”
“Sorry, ma’am. What seems to be the trouble?”
“It just won’t work. Nothing at all happens when you adjust co-ords,” said Mrs. Hanshaw. “There was no warning at all. I had to send my son out to the neighbors through that—that thing.”
She pointed to the entrance through which the repair man had come.
He smiled and spoke out of the conscious wisdom of his own specialized training in Doors. “That’s a door, too, ma’am. You don’t give that kind a capital letter when you write it. It’s a hand-door, sort of. It used to be the only kind once.”
“Well, at least it works. My boy’s had to go out in the dirt and germs.”
“It’s not bad outside today, ma’am,” he said, with the connoisseur-like air of one whose profession forced him into the open nearly every day. “Sometimes it is real unpleasant. But I guess you want I should fix this here Door, ma’am, so I’ll get on with it.”
He sat down on the floor, opened the large tool case he had brought in with him and in half a minute, by use of a point-demagnetizer, he had the control panel removed and a set of intricate vitals exposed.
He whistled to himself as he placed the fine electrodes of the field-analyzer on numerous points, studying the shifting needles on the dials. Mrs. Hanshaw watched him, arms folded.
Finally, he said, “Well, here’s something,” and with a deft twist, he disengaged the brake-valve.
He tapped it with a fingernail and said, “This here brake-valve is depolarized, ma’am. There’s your whole trouble.” He ran his finger along the little pigeonholes in his tool case and lifted out a duplicate of the object he had taken from the door mechanism. “These things just go all of a sudden. Can’t predict it.”
He put the control panel back and stood up. “It’ll work now, ma’am.”
He punched a reference combination, blanked it, then punched another. Each time, the dull gray of the Door gave way to a deep, velvety blackness. He said, “Will you sign here, ma’am? and put down your charge number, too, please? Thank you, ma’am.”
He punched a new combination, that of his home factory, and with a polite touch of finger to forehead, he stepped through the Door. As his body entered the blackness, it cut off sharply. Less and less of him was visible and the tip of his tool case was the last thing that showed. A second after he had passed through completely, the Door turned back to dull gray.
Half an hour later, when Mrs. Hanshaw had finally completed her interrupted preparations and was fuming over the misfortune of the morning, the phone buzzed annoyingly and her real troubles began.
* * * *
Miss Elizabeth Robbins was distressed. Little Dick Hanshaw had always been a good pupil. She hated to report him like this. And yet, she told herself, his actions were certainly queer. And she would talk to his mother, not to the principal.
She slipped out to the phone during the morning study period, leaving a student in charge. She made her connection and found herself staring at Mrs. Hanshaw’s handsome and somewhat formidable head.
Miss Robbins quailed, but it was too late to turn back. She said, diffidently, “Mrs. Hanshaw, I’m Miss Robbins.” She ended on a rising note.
Mrs. Hanshaw looked blank, then said, “Richard’s teacher?” That, too, ended on a rising note.
“That’s right. I called you, Mrs. Hanshaw,” Miss Robbins plunged right into it, “to tell you that Dick was quite late to school this morning.”
“He was? But that couldn’t be. I saw him leave.”
Miss Robbins looked astonished. She said, “You mean you saw him use the Door?”
Mrs. Hanshaw said quickly, “Well, no. Our Door was temporarily out of order. I sent him to a neighbor and he used that Door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“No, no, Mrs. Hanshaw. I wasn’t implying that at all. I meant are you sure he found the way to the neighbor? He might have got lost.”
“Ridiculous. We have the proper maps, and I’m sure Richard knows the location of every house in District A-3.” Then, with the quiet pride of one who knows what is her due, she added, “Not that he ever needs to know, of course. The co-ords are all that are necessary at any time.”
Miss Robbins, who came from a family that had always had to economize rigidly on the use of its Doors (the price of power being what it was) and who had therefore run errands on foot until quite an advanced age, resented the pride. She said, quite clearly, “Well, I’m afraid, Mrs. Hanshaw, that Dick did not use the neighbor’s Door. He was over an hour late to school and the condition of his flexies made it quite obvious that he tramped cross-country. They were muddy.”
“Muddy?” Mrs. Hanshaw repeated the emphasis on the word. “What did he say? What was his excuse?”
Miss Robbins couldn’t help but feel a little glad at the discomfiture of the other woman. She said, “He wouldn’t talk about it. Frankly, Mrs. Hanshaw, he seems ill. That’s why I called you. Perhaps you might want to have a doctor look at him.”
“Is he running a temperature?” The mother’s voice went shrill.
“Oh, no. I don’t mean physically ill. It’s just his attitude and the look in his eyes.” She hesitated, then said with every attempt at delicacy, “I thought perhaps a routine checkup with a psychic probe—”
She didn’t finish. Mrs. Hanshaw, in a chilled voice and with what was as close to a snort as her breeding would permit, said, “Are you implying that Richard is neurotic?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Hanshaw, but—”
“It certainly sounded so. The idea! He has always been perfectly healthy. I’ll take this up with him when he gets home. I’m sure there’s a perfectly normal explanation which he’ll give tome.”
The connection broke abruptly, and Miss Robbins felt hurt and uncommonly foolish. After all she had only tried to help, to fulfill what she considered an obligation to her students.
She hurried back to the classroom with a glance at the metal face of the wall clock. The study period was drawing to an, end. English Composition next.
But her mind wasn’t completely on English Composition. Automatically, she called the students to have them read selections from their literary creations. And occasionally she punched one of those selections on tape and ran it through the small vocalizer to show the students how English should, be read.
The vocalizer’s mechanical voice, as always, dripped perfection, but, again as always, lacked character. Sometimes, she wondered if it was wise to try to train the students into a speec
h that was divorced from individuality and geared only to a mass-average accent and intonation.
Today, however, she had no thought for that. It was Richard Hanshaw she watched. He sat quietly in his seat, quite obviously indifferent to his surroundings. He was lost deep in himself and just not the same boy he had been. It was obvious to her that he had had some unusual experience that morning and, really, she was right to call his mother, although perhaps she ought not to have made the remark about the probe. Still it was quite the thing these days. All sorts of people got probed. There wasn’t any disgrace attached to it. Or there shouldn’t be, anyway.
She called on Richard, finally. She had to call twice, before he responded and rose to his feet.
Star Science Fiction 3 - [Anthology] Page 1