New Writings in SF 25 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  * * * *

  Ragnarok came to town in a cloud of dust. Yellow dust that sprayed outwards and upwards in twin arcs from the jets of his hovervan. The town was a small one on the edge of the desert; houses and shops and inns snug round a market square.

  He headed straight for the square and settled his van to the ground in empty cattle pens, switched off the engine and threw back the hatch. Idlers watched him climb out, tall and greybearded, wrapped in a cloak starred with astrological symbols. He adjusted a conical hat on his head and methodically began moving the fences back to gain more space.

  A stout man carrying a tankard crossed to him. ‘What d’you think you’re up to?’

  Ragnarok removed his hat in a sweeping bow. ‘Temporary. Purely temporary. All will be set right again. An evening performance only.’ Deftly he strung a banner across the square from roof to roof. It showed, in ornate lettering:

  THE GREAT RAGNAROK—MAGIC SHOW

  As the sun sank redly over the desert, warm light spilled from tavern windows and a crowd gathered about the cattle pens in the square. There were youngsters, of course; the show always drew them. Ragnarok’s gaze raked the crowd again, spotting trouble. It was there, in the shadows at the back, waiting; a hard knot of jato boys, reefing it up.

  He slid an arm inside the hovervan and started a tape. The music began quietly. He raised both hands and sparks trailed green and red and violet from hand to hand as he intoned:

  ‘The Great Ragnarok thanks you for your attention. There is nothing to fear, this magic is for entertainment only. Step closer and watch the magic that deceives the eye.’

  He brought a clutch of coloured globes from beneath his cloak, expertly juggled them. Then he withdrew his hands. The globes danced on their own, up and down, round and round in a continuing loop, faster and faster. They slowed to the beat of music and he caught them one by one and stowed them away.

  ‘Looks easy, doesn’t it?’ he asked in a confidential tone. ‘Magic always looks easy—something for nothing. Now, may I have a volunteer? Just one, anyone will do.’

  He looked into the crowd, closer now, noticed the jato boys edging forward. Not long now.

  A girl moved out of the crowd, half-pushed, giggling. Male cheers informed she was well-known and so not likely to be accused of being his accomplice.

  Ragnarok bowed, appreciating the low cut of her blouse. ‘Thank you, my dear. It helps if you relax.’ He made vague passes with his hands, chanting monotonously. ‘Relax ... stay relaxed now ...’

  Gradually, the girl’s feet left the ground. She drifted upward. A gasp sighed from the crowd and they pressed closer to see better. She floated higher as the music tinkled, her flared skirt billowing, the men looking up the full reach of her legs.

  ‘Enough,’ Ragnarok said, and clapped his hands. Gently, the girl settled to the ground.

  The jato boys pushed forward, elbowing the crowd aside, menacing in glossy black uniforms.

  ‘You can’t make a show of our Queenie,’ their youthful leader said, and unsheathed a knife from his belt. ‘Let’s see how good your magic really is—let’s see it stop us cutting you.’

  Ragnarok stood alone as the crowd moved back. His calm voice lifted. ‘Don’t leave, friends. This interruption will be dealt with promptly.’

  He stared intently at the jato leader, pointed a finger in a dramatic gesture.

  The leader wriggled uncomfortably, went red in the face and loosened his collar. He dropped his knife as though it had become red-hot. His uniform began to smoulder and he tore off his clothes as they burst into flames. Naked, he fled as the crowd laughed.

  The rest of the jato boys paused, looking uncertainly at Ragnarok. Then they too turned and ran as a wave of heat engulfed them.

  ‘It’s simple when you know how,’ Ragnarok said, winking. ‘And I know how.’ He floated above the ground. ‘Watch closely, folks.’

  To the fascinated audience it seemed that he vanished in mid-air.

  ‘Here!’

  Heads turned. Ragnarok floated above and behind them, vanished again. Heads swivelled this way and that, looking for him. Ragnarok appeared briefly over his hovervan; disappeared, revealed himself perched on a sloping roof, smiling down.

  Then he was back in the pens, standing, bowing. ‘That’s all. Show’s over and I hope you enjoyed the fun.’

  As the crowd began to disperse, he was among them, inverted cap held out. Coins clinked. Ragnarok thought: better than usual, much better for having taking the jato boys down a peg. That was often appreciated.

  He tipped the coins into a pouch, removed his banner and began putting the fences back in place, not hurrying.

  Two boys, each about fourteen, waited by his van, eyeing each other and him. One was spindle-thin and sharp-featured; the other thickset and dull of face. Both wore work clothes that marked them off as coming from the poorer section of the community.

  ‘Well, boys, what can I do for you?’

  They hesitated, and Moonface spoke first, slowly: ‘I was wondering if you ever take-’

  ‘An apprentice,’ the other finished quickly.

  ‘It has been know.’ Ragnarok looked at Moonface. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘And what will your parents say, Bruno?’

  A baffled expression struggled across the dull face. ‘I dunno.’

  Ragnarok stroked his beard idly. Slow thinking; likely the parents would be the same. ‘Any brother or sisters?’

  ‘Five.’

  So Bruno wouldn’t be missed overmuch; one less mouth to feed. ‘All right, Bruno, I’ll consider your application.’ Ragnarok turned to Spindle-shanks. ‘And your name?’

  ‘Call me Spider.’ The voice was shrill and confident. ‘I left home to set up on my own—they don’t want me back.’

  ‘I see.’ And Ragnarok had seen; a thin fist, lightning swift, dipping pockets in the crowd while he entertained.

  ‘Let me explain something first. Magic, most people think, is getting something for nothing. A wave of the hand and what you wish for appears—without any hard work to get it. If only it were like that!’ Ragnarok sighed wryly. ‘It isn’t, of course. You have to learn to make magic and that is work, a long and weary business it is, too, with little enough reward along the way. A talent has to be developed and that can take years. Years, I say! Well?’

  Both faces glowed with eagerness. ‘Yes, sir, I—we—want to learn magic.’

  ‘All right then.’ Ragnarok’s voice was suddenly abrupt. ‘You’ll come with me.’

  He removed his hat and stowed it away, climbed into the hovervan. The boys crowded in behind.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Ragnarok started the engine, lifted and headed out of town across the desert. He navigated by moonlight, keeping away from the caravan routes and camping sites. Bruno stared fascinated at the plumes of sand thrown up on each side. Spider—obviously—had travelled by air cushion before.

  Ragnarok stopped in an isolated gully between rocky crags. ‘You’ll sleep inside tonight. There’s food and milk on these shelves. Don’t touch anything else.’

  He stepped outside, and vanished.

  * * * *

  Ragnarok sighed contentedly as he settled back on a foam couch in Sanctuary. He sipped a white wine while he waited for the autochef to grill his steak and mushrooms. Here, he was beyond danger and could let his guard down, relax completely. Even with his proven abilities he felt vulnerable sometimes. A sign of age? And it didn’t help to be alone so much.

  He ate leisurely, finished his wine, and turned the pages of a book till he felt sleep steal over him.

  Sanctuary, computer-controlled, continued silently in orbit.

  * * * *

  He rapped on the side of the hovervan. ‘Come on out. The sun’s up and there’s work to do.’

  Bruno climbed out, rubbing sleepy eyes. Spider eyed Ragnarok warily. Been through every little thing, he thought; wonder what’s missing this time?

&nbs
p; The boys washed and ate breakfast.

  ‘First, mental exercises. Remember, magic is all in your mind. I have to wake an unused part of your brain, then you can begin to do what I can do. After that, it’s just practice, years and years of practice. These exercises are designed to wake the sleeping talent inside you.’

  ‘Now make your mind blank. If it helps, think of a night sky, a sky without a moon or stars, a darkness without even a pinpoint of light, smooth as velvet.

  Two young faces contorted in agony.

  ‘Relax! Relax and try again. Stay relaxed.’

  Ragnarok kept them at it, watching closely. There was no telling how long it might take. Some made a quick breakthrough; others never achieved anything.

  Spider, he acknowledged, had a razor-sharp mind, and was good with his hands—possibly too bright for his own good. It seemed unlikely that Bruno would ever be more than a plodder, slow and steady. But where the talent was concerned, anything could happen.

  After a break at mid-day-

  ‘You must keep trying. It’ll come. All you need is perseverance. We’ll try something different this time. I want you to think of a switch, a simple on-off switch. The switch is in your head and it’s in the “off” position. When you move the switch to “on”, you can make things happen, all sorts of things. Imagine the switch, now move it...’

  Bruno, sweating under the desert sun, screwed up his face in desperate effort. At least he had tenacity.

  Spider looked sullen. Losing patience, he jerked a thumb at Bruno. ‘Why him anyway ? He’s so stupid—isn’t there a quicker way? Do we have to stay out here in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘There are no short cuts,’ Ragnarok said gently. ‘You have to take the first step yourself. Keep trying.’

  Again and again, Ragnarok took them through the loosening-up exercises, but after the second day only Bruno still had his heart in it. Spider, looking for immediate gain and not finding it, was no longer trying.

  ‘Years of this ?’ he asked in disgust. ‘So what happened to your other apprentices?’

  ‘After they made the breakthrough—those that succeeded—they went on to training school. Relax and try again. Keep at it.’

  And, each night, Ragnarok vanished.

  * * * *

  On the third day, there was an interruption. Spider, his mind wandering, was the first to hear. He called: ‘We’ve got company.’

  Ragnarok turned to see black dots in the sky. A roving band of jato boys had found them.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he urged. ‘Use your talent—like this!’

  Ragnarok vanished, appeared again standing on a rock crag looking down at them.

  ‘Easy for him,’ Spider snarled as the putt-putt of jatos grew louder and the machines lowered from a burning sky. The glossy black uniforms of the riders looked infinitely menacing.

  Bruno, sweating fear, concentrated on levitating.

  The jatos landed, jets silenced. The riders swung out of their saddles and came swaggering over, armed with knives and knuckle-dusters.

  ‘What’ve we go here, then?’ their leader demanded. ‘This is our territory—you kids ready to acknowledge who’s boss?’

  Above, Ragnarok worried his beard, watching, calculating danger. Sometimes crisis was the prod needed to bring out talent.

  Spider made no attempt to use magic as the jato boys closed in. He moved fast, fists swinging, legs kicking out. He broke through the cordon and ran for the machines, grabbed a jato and took off in a cloud of dust.

  Curses followed him.

  ‘Let him go—we’ve got this one.’

  Bruno was submerged under a rush of uniformed bodies. He went down struggling.

  Ragnarok hesitated. How long could he wait, with Bruno already taking punishment?

  Then the fight in the gully changed character and he smiled.

  Bruno was off the ground, floating, rising higher through the air, out of reach. The crisis prod had worked.

  Ragnarok signalled the jato leader and they returned to their machines and moved off; one riding pillion. Even a manufactured crisis could work at times .. .

  He brought Bruno gently back to the ground.

  ‘Good, Bruno, good. We’ll make a magician of you yet. That’s a start, so keep practising. I don’t want you to give up simply because the danger’s gone. You’ve long years ahead of you at training school, but you’ll make it, never doubt that.’

  ‘I did it, didn’t I?’ Bruno said in a tone of wonder. ‘What about Spider?’

  ‘He won’t be back. That boy’ll go far on his own, but you’ll pass him in the end. In ten years you’ll be one of us.’

  And where will I be in ten years? Ragnarok wondered. Still talent spotting ?

  Bruno’s face creased as he struggled for the right words. ‘Spider, he was bright—why didn’t it work for him?’

  Ragnarok stroked his beard pensively. ‘You might say, he didn’t need magic.’

  <>

  * * * *

  THE BLACK HOLE OF NEGRAV

  Colin Kapp

  Having got away from Getawehi, Lt. Fritz van Noon now tangles with a stellar object the size of a marble. Only trouble is, this marble is hungry. Vertical thinkers often have trouble coping with sf concepts. Lateral—or divergent—thinking is basic to much sf and is a more positive approach to a problem even than keeping an open mind.

  * * * *

  ‘The basic philosophy behind the Unorthodox Engineers is simple,’ said Fritz van Noon. ‘As our penetration of deep space continues, so communications and supply lines grow longer, finally impossibly long. And the transport costs of even simple items become disproportionately high.

  ‘For instance, the price-penalties of space-freight are such that a simple spanner required on Aldebaran-seven costs sixteen times its weight of platinum on Terra. Assuming you can afford it, delivery time by hyper-ship can be anything up to three years.’

  He waited until the buzz of conversation in the audience had died again. Then he continued. At his side, he was aware of Colonel Belling’s dark scowl of disapproval; but decided to ignore it.

  ‘If we’re to take advantage of the new space-territories the hyper-ships are opening up to us, if we’re to build out on the Rim something men can use as the foundations of a colony, we need engineering—and we need plenty of it.

  ‘So who should we send? Mechanics who can’t obtain any steel? Engineers whose nearest machine shop is fifty light-years away? Or should we send the men who can make a plough out of a stick, a stone and a length of creeper? The answer’s obvious. You can send a few tools; but the thing that counts most at the edge of the galaxy is man’s own unchannelled ingenuity—the ability to use anything available to your own peculiar advantage.

  ‘And that, Gentlemen, is the function of unorthodox engineering. It’s the habit of breaking with the traditional disciplines and learning how to construct the nucleus of a functional civilisation out of bits of string and matchsticks, if necessary. To hell with what it says in the book. It may not even look like engineering—but if it works, it’s justified.’

  Shortly, the chairman brought the assembly back to order.

  ‘Well, now we’ve heard both sides of the argument— orthodoxy versus unorthodoxy in space engineering. I’m sure we’ve all been greatly enlightened, not to mention amused, by Lieutenant Van Noon’s account of railways built over small volcanoes, and the use of harps as electrical power generators. While van Noon’s approach may not seem as elegant as some of the precise and mathematical approaches we’ve heard this afternoon, it’s brought some very practical solutions to some very intractable problems. I therefore suggest we conclude this session with an opportunity for questions from the floor. Of particular interest would be a problem which orthodoxy has failed to solve.’

  At his side on the speakers’ platform van Noon felt Colonel Belling stiffen with anticipation, and knew that his worst fears were about to be confirmed. Belling’s consummate hatred of unortho
doxy was almost a legend, and a public showdown before such an influential audience was too good a chance for the Colonel to miss. The next question would be a loaded impossibility. Regardless of who delivered it, Belling would have had a hand in the draft.

  A young officer in the uniform of the Space Territories Administration rose to his feet. He was obviously one of the new breed of academic officers not long from space college. He began with his own introduction.