Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction

by Leigh Grossman

  It was sort of funny realizing that the Partners who were so grim and mature out here in space were the same cute little animals that people had used as pets for thousands of years back on Earth. He had embarrassed himself more than once while on the ground saluting perfectly ordinary non-telepathic cats because he had forgotten for the moment that they were not Partners.

  He picked up the cup and shook out his stone dice.

  He was lucky—he drew the Lady May.

  * * * *

  The Lady May was the most thoughtful Partner he had ever met. In her, the finely bred pedigree mind of a Persian cat had reached one of its highest peaks of development. She was more complex than any human woman, but the complexity was all one of emotions, memory, hope and discriminated experience—experience sorted through without benefit of words.

  When he had first come into contact with her mind, he was astonished at its clarity. With her he remembered her kittenhood. He remembered every mating experience she had ever had. He saw in a half-recognizable gallery all the other pinlighters with whom she had been paired for the fight. And he saw himself radiant, cheerful and esirable.

  He even thought he caught the edge of a longing

  A very flattering and yearning thought: What a pity he is not a cat.

  Woodley picked up the last stone. He drew what he deserved—a sullen, scared old tomcat with none of the verve of Captain Wow. Woodley’s Partner was the most animal of all the cats on the ship, a low, brutish type with a dull mind. Even telepathy had not refined his character. His ears were half chewed off from the first fights in which he had engaged.

  He was a serviceable fighter, nothing more.

  Woodley grunted.

  Underhill glanced at him oddly. Didn’t Woodley ever do anything but grunt?

  Father Moontree looked at the other three. “You might as well get your Partners now. I’ll let the Scanner know we’re ready to go into the Up-and-Out.”

  THE DEAL

  Underhill spun the combination lock on the Lady May’s cage. He woke her gently and took her into his arms. She humped her back luxuriously, stretched her claws, started to purr, thought better of it, and licked him on the wrist instead. He did not have the pin-set on, so their minds were closed to each other, but in the angle of her mustache and in the movement of her ears, he caught some sense of gratification she experienced in finding him as her Partner.

  He talked to her in human speech, even though speech meant nothing to a cat when the pin-set was not on.

  “It’s a damn shame, sending a sweet little thing like you whirling around in the coldness of nothing to hunt for Rats that are bigger and deadlier than all of us put together. You didn’t ask for this kind of fight, did you?”

  For answer, she licked his hand, purred, tickled his cheek with her long fluffy tail, turned around and faced him, golden eyes shining.

  For a moment, they stared at each other, man squatting, cat standing erect on her hind legs, front claws digging into his knee. Human eyes and cat eyes looked across an immensity which no words could meet, but which affection spanned in a single glance.

  “Time to get in,” he said.

  She walked docilely into her spheroid carrier. She climbed in. He saw to it that her miniature pin-set rested firmly and comfortably against the base of her brain. He made sure that her claws were padded so that she could not tear herself in the excitement of battle.

  Softly he said to her, “Ready?”

  For answer, she preened her back as much as her harness would permit and purred softly within the confines of the frame that held her.

  He slapped down the lid and watched the sealant ooze around the seam. For a few hours, she was welded into her projectile until a workman with a short cutting arc would remove her after she had done her duty.

  * * * *

  He picked up the entire projectile and slipped it into the ejection tube. He closed the door of the tube, spun the lock, seated himself in his chair, and put his own pin-set on.

  Once again he flung the switch.

  He sat in a small room, small, small, warm, warm, the bodies of the other three people moving close around him, the tangible lights in the ceiling bright and heavy against his closed eyelids.

  As the pin-set warmed, the room fell away. The other people ceased to be people and became small glowing heaps of fire, embers, dark red fire, with the consciousness of life burning like old red coals in a country fireplace.

  As the pin-set warmed a little more, he felt Earth just below him, felt the ship slipping away, felt the turning Moon as it swung on the far side of the world, felt the planets and the hot, clear goodness of the Sun which kept the Dragons so far from mankind’s native ground.

  Finally, he reached complete awareness.

  He was telepathically alive to a range of millions of miles. He felt the dust which he had noticed earlier high above the ecliptic. With a thrill of warmth and tenderness, he felt the consciousness of the Lady May pouring over into his own. Her consciousness was as gentle and clear and yet sharp to the taste of his mind as if it were scented oil. It felt relaxing and reassuring. He could sense her welcome of him. It was scarcely a thought, just a raw emotion of greeting.

  At last they were one again.

  In a tiny remote corner of his mind, as tiny as the smallest toy he had ever seen in his childhood, he was still aware of the room and the ship, and of Father Moontree picking up a telephone and speaking to a Scanner captain in charge of the ship.

  His telepathic mind caught the idea long before his ears could frame the words. The actual sound followed the idea the way that thunder on an ocean beach follows the lightning inward from far out over the seas.

  “The Fighting Room is ready. Clear to planoform, sir.”

  THE PLAY

  Underhill was always a little exasperated the way that Lady May experienced things before he did.

  He was braced for the quick vinegar thrill of planoforming, but he caught her report of it before his own nerves could register what happened.

  Earth had fallen so far away that he groped for several milliseconds before he found the Sun in the upper rear right-hand corner of his telepathic mind.

  That was a good jump, he thought. This way we’ll get there in four or five skips.

  A few hundred miles outside the ship, the Lady May thought back at him, “O warm, O generous, O gigantic man! O brave, O friendly, O tender and huge Partner! O wonderful with you, with you so good, good, good, warm, warm, now to fight, now to go, good with you.…”

  He knew that she was not thinking words, that his mind took the clear amiable babble of her cat intellect and translated it into images which his own thinking could record and understand.

  Neither one of them was absorbed in the game of mutual greetings. He reached out far beyond her range of perception to see if there was anything near the ship. It was funny how it was possible to do two things at once. He could scan space with his pin-set mind and yet at the same time catch a vagrant thought of hers, a lovely, affectionate thought about a son who had had a golden face and a chest covered with soft, incredibly downy white fur.

  While he was still searching, he caught the warning from her.

  We jump again!

  And so they had. The ship had moved to a second planoform. The stars were different. The Sun was immeasurably far behind. Even the nearest stars were barely in contact. This was good Dragon country, this open, nasty, hollow kind of space. He reached farther, faster, sensing and looking for danger, ready to fling the Lady May at danger wherever he found it.

  Terror blazed up in his mind, so sharp, so clear, that it came through as a physical wrench.

  The little girl named West had found something—something immense, long, black, sharp, greedy, horrific. She flung Captain Wow at it.

  Underhill tried to keep his own mind clear. “Watch out!” he shouted telepathically at the others, trying to move the Lady May around.

  At one corner of the battle, he felt the lust
ful rage of Captain Wow as the big Persian tomcat detonated lights while he approached the streak of dust which threatened the ship and the people within.

  The lights scored near-misses.

  The dust flattened itself, changing from the shape of a sting-ray into the shape of a spear.

  Not three milliseconds had elapsed.

  * * * *

  Father Moontree was talking human words and was saying in a voice that moved like cold molasses out of a heavy jar, “C-A-P-T-A-I-N.” Underhill knew that the sentence was going to be “Captain, move fast!”

  The battle would be fought and finished before Father Moontree got through talking.

  Now, fractions of a millisecond later, the Lady May was directly in line.

  Here was where the skill and speed of the Partners came in. She could react faster than he. She could see the threat as an immense Rat coming direct at her.

  She could fire the light-bombs with a discrimination which he might miss.

  He was connected with her mind, but he could not follow it.

  His consciousness absorbed the tearing wound inflicted by the alien enemy. It was like no wound on Earth—raw, crazy pain which started like a burn at his navel. He began to writhe in his chair.

  Actually he had not yet had time to move a muscle when the Lady May struck back at their enemy.

  Five evenly spaced photonuclear bombs blazed out across a hundred thousand miles.

  The pain in his mind and body vanished.

  He felt a moment of fierce, terrible, feral elation running through the mind of the Lady May as she finished her kill. It was always disappointing to the cats to find out that their enemies whom they sensed as gigantic space Rats disappeared at the moment of destruction.

  Then he felt her hurt, the pain and the fear that swept over both of them as the battle, quicker than the movement of an eyelid, had come and gone. In the same instant, there came the sharp and acid twinge of planoform.

  Once more the ship went skip.

  He could hear Woodley thinking at him. “You don’t have to bother much. This old son of a gun and I will take over for a while.”

  Twice again the twinge, the skip.

  He had no idea where he was until the lights of the Caledonia space board shone below.

  With a weariness that lay almost beyond the limits of thought, he threw his mind back into rapport with the pin-set, fixing the Lady May’s projectile gently and neatly in its launching tube.

  She was half dead with fatigue, but he could feel the beat of her heart, could listen to her panting, and he grasped the grateful edge of a thanks reaching from her mind to his.

  THE SCORE

  They put him in the hospital at Caledonia.

  The doctor was friendly but firm. “You actually got touched by that Dragon. That’s as close a shave as I’ve ever seen. It’s all so quick that it’ll be a long time before we know what happened scientifically, but I suppose you’d be ready for the insane asylum now if the contact had lasted several tenths of a millisecond longer. What kind of cat did you have out in front of you?”

  Underhill felt the words coming out of him slowly. Words were such a lot of trouble compared with the speed and the joy of thinking, fast and sharp and clear, mind to mind! But words were all that could reach ordinary people like this doctor.

  His mouth moved heavily as he articulated words, “Don’t call our Partners cats. The right thing to call them is Partners. They fight for us in a team. You ought to know we call them Partners, not cats. How is mine?”

  “I don’t know,” said the doctor contritely. “We’ll find out for you. Meanwhile, old man, you take it easy. There’s nothing but rest that can help you. Can you make yourself sleep, or would you like us to give you some kind of sedative?”

  “I can sleep,” said Underhill. “I just want to know about the Lady May.”

  The nurse joined in. She was a little antagonistic. “Don’t you want to know about the other people?”

  “They’re okay,” said Underhill. “I knew that before I came in here.”

  He stretched his arms and sighed and grinned at them. He could see they were relaxing and were beginning to treat him as a person instead of a patient.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Just let me know when I can go see my Partner.”

  A new thought struck him. He looked wildly at the doctor. “They didn’t send her off with the ship, did they?”

  “I’ll find out right away,” said the doctor. He gave Underhill a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and left the room.

  The nurse took a napkin off a goblet of chilled fruit juice.

  * * * *

  Underhill tried to smile at her. There seemed to be something wrong with the girl. He wished she would go away. First she had started to be friendly and now she was distant again. It’s a nuisance being telepathic, he thought. You keep trying to reach even when you are not making contact.

  Suddenly she swung around on him.

  “You pinlighters! You and your damn cats!”

  Just as she stamped out, he burst into her mind. He saw himself a radiant hero, clad in his smooth suede uniform, the pin-set crown shining like ancient royal jewels around his head. He saw his own face, handsome and masculine, shining out of her mind. He saw himself very far away and he saw himself as she hated him.

  She hated him in the secrecy of her own mind. She hated him because he was—she thought—proud, and strange, and rich, better and more beautiful than people like her.

  He cut off the sight of her mind and, as he buried his face in the pillow, he caught an image of the Lady May.

  “She is a cat,” he thought. “That’s all she is—a cat!”

  But that was not how his mind saw her—quick beyond all dreams of speed, sharp, clever, unbelievably graceful, beautiful, wordless and undemanding.

  Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her?

  * * * *

  Copyright © 1955 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.

  JACK VANCE

  (1916- )

  The first Jack Vance I came across was in The Hugo Winners anthology edited by Isaac Asimov. Vance had won for his novellas “The Dragon Masters” (1963) and “The Last Castle” (1967), and I had never read anything like them. The dialogue was over-the-top and the writing itself was baroque, like a piece of ornamental furniture. And somehow, he pulled it off. At its best Vance’s science fiction is amazing, although when I called him to ask about reprinting “The Dragon Masters” or “The Moon Moth” (1961), another favorite, he insisted that half the time he just threw the stories together. The ones he really wanted to see reprinted, he told me, were the stories he’d done in the 1964 collection Future Tense, which had rarely been reprinted. He especially liked “Sail 25,” in which he’d introduced the concept of the solar sail.

  Sailing actually appears as a motif in many Vance stories. Despite poor vision that disqualified him from active military service, he spent time in the Merchant Marine during World War II by memorizing an eye chart ahead of the exam. In later years he sailed frequently, often with fellow SF writers Frank Herbert and Poul Anderson. And a number of the unlikely adventures his characters encounter are drawn from his own unlikely experiences in the years before he was able to support himself by writing full-time: working as a bell-hop, in a cannery, on a gold dredge, as a shipyard electrician, etc. In college, he studied mining engineering, physics, journalism, and English over a six-year period.

  Beginning in the mid-1940s, Vance wrote more than sixty books, countless stories, and a few screenplays, split between science fiction, fantasy, and mysteries. Although he is now legally blind Vance has continued to write; in 2010 he won his third Hugo for his memoir, This is Me, Jack Vance! He won a World Fantasy Award in 1984 for life achievement, and in 1997 was named a SFWA Grand Master.

  Vance was married for more than sixty years to Norma Genevieve Ingold, his college sweetheart. She died in 2008.

  SAIL 25, by Jack Vance

&n
bsp; First published in Future Tense, 1964

  1

  Henry Belt came limping into the conference room, mounted the dais, and settled himself at the desk. He looked once around the room: a swift bright glance which, focusing nowhere, passed over the eight young men who faced him with an almost insulting disinterestedness. He reached in his pocket and brought forth a pencil and a flat red book, which he placed on the desk. The eight young men watched in absolute silence. They were much alike: healthy, clean, and smart, their expressions identically alert and wary. Each had heard legends of Henry Belt; each had formed his private plans and private determinations.

  Henry Belt seemed a man of a different species. His face was broad, flat, roped with cartilage and muscle; his skin, the color and texture of bacon rind. Coarse white grizzle covered his scalp. His eyes were crafty slits; his nose, a misshapen lump. His shoulders were massive; his legs, short and gnarled: as he sat before the eight young men he seemed like a horned toad among a group of dapper young frogs.

  “First of all,” said Henry Belt, with a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll make it clear that I don’t expect you to like me. If you do I’ll be surprised and displeased. It will mean that I haven’t pushed you hard enough.”

  He leaned back in his chair, surveying the silent group. “You’ve heard stories about me. Why haven’t they kicked me out of the service? Incorrigible, arrogant, dangerous Henry Belt. Drunken Henry Belt. This last, of course, is slander. Henry Belt has never been drunk in his life. Why do they tolerate me? For one simple reason: out of necessity. No one wants to take on this kind of job. Only a man like Henry Belt can stand up to it: year after year in space, with nothing to look at but a half-dozen round-faced young scrubs. He takes them out, he brings them back. Not all of them, and not all of those who come back are spacemen today. But they’ll all cross the street when they see him coming. Henry Belt? you say. They’ll turn pale or go red. None of them will smile. Some of them are high-placed now. They could kick me loose if they chose. Ask them why they don’t. Henry Belt is a terror, they’ll tell you. He’s wicked, he’s a tyrant. Cruel as an ax, fickle as a woman. But a voyage with Henry Belt blows the foam off the beer. He’s ruined many a man; he’s killed a few, but those that come out of it are proud to say: I trained with Henry Belt!