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New Writings in
SF: 25
Ed By Kenneth Bulmer
Proofed By MadMaxAU
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CONTENTS
Foreword by Kenneth Bulmer
Rice Brandy by Michael Stall
The Cat and the Coin by Keith Wells
The Debris of Recent Lives by Charles Partington
Talent Spotter by Sydney J. Bounds
The Black Hole of Negrav by Colin Kapp
A Little More Than Twelve Minutes by Wolfgang Jeschke
The Enemy Within by Donald Malcolm
The Halted Village by John Rackham
The Green Fuse by Martin I. Ricketts
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FOREWORD
Kenneth Bulmer
Contrary to the generally held belief of those who know little or nothing about sf, science fiction does not claim to foretell or predict the future.
That is, reputable sf writers do not make this claim for their work. One of the important functions of sf does lie in this area of prophecy; but it should be noted that the operative factor is just that, prophecy. An sf writer will spell out what might happen in the future, what could happen, and indicate options that might affect the course of events so that, for example, futures no one would wish for their children can be averted.
Over the last twenty years or so, bodies of professional men in a variety of causes have dedicated themselves to the task of accurately saying what will happen in the future, and many of their predictions have been parallels of the many future worlds of sf. Reality of course has an untidy habit of making sudden and world-shaking changes so that all these careful and businesslike and painstaking attempts at accurate, hard-and-fast, one future only, predictions are at a stroke rendered meaningless. This is scarcely likely to happen to the multi-valued and many-layered futures discussed within the sf field.
To turn to another aspect of the sf field, it is noticeable that there has come recently from the U.S. a spate of anthologies arranged around a single theme. Single theme anthologies, it is true to say, have become a major publishing gimmick. From the earliest days of New Writings in SF it was established that this collection should endeavour to present as wide and colourful a variety of sf themes as possible from volume to volume. Inevitably some volumes grouped themselves naturally around a central theme or themes, and so once again pioneered in the sf form. This will clearly occur again from time to time with future volumes; but it is manifestly the concern of New Writings in SF to deal with all those themes that have at heart the well-being of both this world and the worlds of the future.
It is with great pleasure that I present in this volume a new story by a German sf author. Science fiction in Germany has a long and honourable tradition and many issues of the first U.S. scientifiction magazine. Amazing Stories, carried translations of German stories. To a casual observer, the German scene today appears to be dominated by space opera; but as Wolfgang Jeschke’s story shows, other material is being produced. The manner of telling, too, comes in a refreshingly different style from those to which, perhaps, we English-speaking readers have become accustomed. Part of the introduction to the story was written by the author and the form this introduction takes follows from Herr Jeschke’s own method of presentation. The story has been translated by Peter Roberts, a young sf enthusiast well known in the amateur publishing field.
In normal circumstances to make planetfall a spaceship must battle her way down against gravity. Colin Kapp comes up with the intrepid spaceman who, to make planetfall, must climb up a rope to the planetary surface. In considering the problem that Sydney Bounds looked at in MONITOR in volume 22, Donald Malcolm comes up with a conclusion that will not please everybody.
Returning to this Earth, both John Rackham and Michael Stall present us with examples of illusionary spin off from attempts at reality manipulation. Sydney Bounds has a short way with those deluded souls who seek something for nothing in this or any other world.
Two writers whose first published sf work appeared in recent volumes of New Writings in SF return with stories that illuminate areas of the human spirit too often neglected by sf of the past. Martin Ricketts successfully combines a number of elements into a whole that initially may create a reaction of total rejection. Perhaps the best help I can offer is to suggest that while human nature is relatively plastic it does not change as fast as the eager among us would wish. Charles Partington is moving into a niche within the sf field that promises to be excitingly rewarding as this far from simple story herewith indicates.
Here are nine brand new science fiction stories that in a variety of ways not only stimulate but also entertain.
Kenneth Bulmer
Horsmonden,
December 1973.
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RICE BRANDY
Michael Stall
In the Western World, François Villon’s passionate though hopeless plea to change the world closer to his heart’s desire, finds strange Eastern echoes in this atmospheric story of a Khmer might-have-been. This is Michael Stall’s second story for New Writings in SF and is markedly different in tone from his ‘The Five Doors’ appearing in Volume #23. The peaceful, easy, happy world is a desire we all seek; but who is prepared to pay the blood sacrifice?
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One
As ever, the Thai were proving troublesome. If they were not checked, their depredations would prove the ruin of Khmer Civilisation, but how were they to be checked ? As ever, Jayavarman, King of the Khmers and Devaraja of Kambuja, could think of no solution. It was ironic that he, who could call an army of four millions to the field, could do nothing to halt the raids from the North. But his army was a paper army; the peasants of whom it was exclusively composed were ever anxious to return to their paddies, and began to discharge themselves after only a few weeks campaigning; how could he commit them to the jungle, to face the Thai, as sly and half as wild as the Moi and infinitely more terrible? Even his great namesake, the seventh of his name, could not have subdued the Thai as he had thrashed the Chams. The Devaraja had gazed on his ancestor’s face, magnified and multiplied in stone and gold at the Bayon, and prayed for guidance. In vain.
The sun was low in the sky. Surely his vigil was almost over. Spending every evening in this way, waiting for the Snake Queen who never came, was unspeakably tedious, but custom demanded it. Han, his favourite, would inform him when he might decently leave. He sighed. Sometimes he found himself doubting the existence of the Gods, and the validity of the religion initiated by Gautama with which they co-existed. He agreed with the Court Brahmans that the version of Buddhism being spread by missionary bonzes among the peasants, the Hinayana, held the seeds of abhorrent egalitarianism, but he was also powerless to change that.
There was a tap on the door. ‘You can leave now, sire,’ Han said, opening it and prostrating himself.
‘For the sake of the Gods, get up. I get more than enough of that in public to desire it in private, but you know that. You thought that I might be in a bad mood? Get up, I can’t jump over you.’ Jayavarman paused. ‘You’re right, I am. But tell me if you have heard anything more about the latest incursion of the Thai? And I would welcome any advice about what I should do, exclusive of prayers and hecatombs.’
‘There’s nothing new to relate, sire,’ Han said, smiling. ‘And my advice is to forget about it.’
‘What?’
‘We can’t afford to go to war with them, and there’d be little plunder if we did. We couldn’t even catch them in the jungle. Such pinpricks as they can manage should be ignored. If a war cost the peasants a harvest then,
charisma or not, there’d be a—a tricky situation.’
‘I ought to have you flayed alive,’ Jayavarman said good-naturedly, ‘but you’re quite right. And yet the Thai must be stopped.’
Han shrugged. ‘It’ll be a long time before they can really hurt us. Not in our time. And who knows, we might ally with the Chinese.’
‘They’d gain nothing from it, why should they bother ? I suppose we could always arm slaves.’
‘The Lolos and the Moi ? They’d slaughter us and return to the jungle.’
The Devaraja nodded. ‘So I should build a few wats, improve my lingam sanctuary, and hope for the best.’
‘ “Place your trust in the Gods” is, I believe, the conventional phrase.’
‘Blasphemy; I think I really should introduce Buddhism; even my priests are sceptics,’ Jayavarman laughed.
‘That also is for the future,’ Han smiled.
* * * *
Two—Phnom Penh, 23rd October, 1962
I picked my way carefully through the crowded streets, almost oblivious of the curious glances the Khmers bestowed on a farang, an alien. In three years excavating around Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, I had grown used to them. It must have been the rush hour; I remember being thankful that my comparative excess of height allowed me to avoid the squalls of youths who, with energy and exaggerated purpose, cut a swath through the apparently random motion of their elders. It was all very different from Bangkok, which seemed quite modern in comparison. Western clothes were the exception, the rule being a Cambodian version of the sarong topped by a kind of tunic coat. There were even a few saffron-robed bonzes in evidence, protecting their shaven heads with over-large umbrellas. The streets were satisfyingly empty of brash and incongruous American cars; I saw only a few old Citroens and a smattering of cycle-pousses.
I caught myself listening, trying to decipher the fast, tonal rattle of Khmer, using the simple expedient of considering it Siamese. Both members of the Sino-Tibetan group, there were enough cognates to allow me to construct shaky edifices, insufficient to prevent them clattering down to a rubble of nonsense syllables. I had learnt enough Khmer on the plane from Bangkok to Phnom Penh to allow me to accept or refuse any proposition made me, unfortunately in complete ignorance of its nature, but I was secure in the knowledge that I could always fall back on French, a variant of which, using the infinitive of the verb on all occasions, is almost universal.
At last I reached the turning and saw the tenement. Madame Quo lived on the third floor. I had the sudden desire to turn and see if anyone was watching me, but resisted. There was something ridiculous, even shameful in visiting a soothsayer, even in Phnom Penh, and this would be the second visit of the day. I had been in the morning with Jean Beranger who had elected himself my guide and mentor in things Cambodian for the two weeks of my vacation.
‘The first thing we must do, is have your fortune told,’ he had said, meeting me that morning in the foyer of the Hôtel du Cambodge. He had greeted me at the airport the night before; at his behest I had begun my vacation by getting drunk on sake in a newly-opened Japanese restaurant while comparing the respective lots of Swedish archaeologists and French journalists. I had vague memories of the journey back to the hotel perched precariously in the front of a swaying cycle-pousse.
* * * *
Three
Beranger drove us to Madame Quo’s in a dusty ‘59 Citroen. After a hazardous journey up three flights of rickety steps and a walk down the length of a corridor that sported, as well as cracked plaster, large spiders that I carefully avoided, we entered Madame Quo’s room. A small scarfaced man admitted us, closing the door softly behind us. Madame Quo sat in the far corner surrounded by burning joss sticks, her face hidden in shadow, the scanty light from the window playing on her tattooed arms which displayed poorly-executed seven-headed nagas, the design copied, Beranger explained later, from the ruined Temple of Preah Pulilay, famous for its multi-headed serpent gods. She muttered something to the scarfaced man who placed a lighted candle before her.
She was very old, how old I couldn’t guess, but separated from death more by months than years. Her tiny, withered body was encased in a long, dark blue gown, tied at the waist with a twist of saffron cloth; her head was almost hairless, greyish skin crinkling around dark, sunken eyes that glittered in the candlelight.
‘Sitting,’ the scarfaced man said in tortured French. We crouched on the floor and waited. I was bored; I had often wondered how an otherwise intelligent man such as Beranger could interest himself in such stuff. We had known each other for many years and throughout that time his interest in such phenomena had grown more and more passionate.
‘I can help you, gentlemen ?’ she asked slowly, in heavily accented but otherwise passable French.
‘Will you reveal my friend’s future?’ Beranger asked.
‘Is there anything you would like especially to know?’ she asked, looking directly at me.
‘My friend is an archaeologist: tell him which of the sites he is excavating will yield significant results,’ Beranger said when I failed to answer.
She turned her face to the floor and began chanting in a low voice, not in Khmer but in Sanskrit, the Latin of Indochina; she flexed the muscles of her scrawny forearms so that the nagas writhed. The scarfaced man moved the candle, plunging her body once again into shadow but leaving her face illuminated. Her chanting remained steady and rhythmical. I felt myself falling asleep; the air was heavy with the burning of joss sticks and the rhythm of her chanting drummed at my consciousness. I tried to resist, but the sensation grew stronger; the nagas on her half-obscured arms jerked spasmodically, and I was unconscious.
‘Mår du bra?’ Beranger was shaking me.
‘Jag mår bra—I’m all right,’ I replied in my native language, and continued in French. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
The chanting had stopped, the candle was out and I could only distinguish the outline of Madame Quo’s face.
‘Let’s be going,’ Beranger said. Then to the old woman; ‘How much?’
‘Is strange your future, Mssié,’ Madame Quo said, momentarily slipping into pidgin.
‘Another time,’ Beranger said brusquely, ‘how much?’
‘I have an answer for your question: the fourth letter of the alphabet.’
‘How much do we owe you ?’ I asked, speaking to her for the first time.
‘Nothing, you can pay when you return.’ Beranger shook his head and offered several coins to the scarfaced man who after exchanging glances with the old woman, turned away.
‘Come on,’ Beranger said, pocketing the money. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’
I followed, puzzled.
* * * *
Four
I was stopped before the tenement by a middle-aged Khmer who pushed a French-language newspaper at me. I read the headline. ‘Confrontation at U.N.—Secretary-General Appeals to Belligerents.’ The Khmer pulled the paper away and held out his hand. I paid him. It was the easiest way of getting rid of him and the headline had intrigued me; was the use of ‘belligerents’ merely a sample of Khmer directness, or had the situation really worsened? I learned from the angular French prose that it had. I discarded the paper and began the ascent.
Beranger had sown the seeds of the return visit while we were driving back to the hotel. ‘The fourth letter, D— wasn’t it at the site D that you found the Old Chinese inscription?’
‘Did I say that last night? I can’t remember, but that’s not surprising. Yes, it was found at site D.’ I recalled my excitement, which turned out to be a little premature, at the thought of shedding more light on the time when the Thai, driven south by the Mongol-ruled Chinese, finally destroyed the Empire of Kambuja, forcing the Khmers east into present-day Cambodia, sacking Angkor and carving out a country on the northern shores of the Gulf of Siam.
How had she known ? A guess ? From these doubts grew a strange compulsion to return, and when Beranger had to leave for Siem Reap,
near Angkor, I yielded to it.
When no one answered, I opened the door to find the room in darkness.
‘Madame Quo?’
A light flared in Madame Quo’s corner, and I could see her lighting the candle with a long, spindly yellow match.
‘Did I frighten you?’ she tittered, the nagas writhing as she spoke; they seemed so real that had they detached themselves and slithered to the floor I would have been frightened but not surprised.
‘I frightened you before. I told you the truth; that’s always frightening.’
She raised her arms and arched her fingers, which she had lengthened with some kind of silver appendage that glittered in the candlelight.
‘What do you wish to know?’
‘What are those things on your fingers?’
I could think of nothing else to ask; the compulsion had no specific purpose. She held out her hand towards me. Her fingers were capped in cones of silver paper. I was not surprised; lacquered imitations of pith helmets were common enough in Thailand.
New Writings in SF 25 - [Anthology] Page 1