In the Beginning: Tales From the Pulp Era

by Robert Silverberg

  It was a nightmare. The city was totally gripped by the android kill. How many of the inoffensive synthetic men were dead already I had no way of knowing—but I was sure Armistead and his men would not rest until every red-starred forehead had felt the boot.

  And why me? Why had Armistead suddenly decided I was an android, and made me the object of hatred along with the true synthetics? For a dizzy moment I nearly began to feel like an android myself.

  There had been other android kills before, on other planets, in other cities. I had read about them; I had sympathized with the persecuted underdogs, had felt gratitude that it wasn’t happening here, to me and my family.

  But now it had happened here—and it was happening to me. I was one of the hunted now, and a chill gripped me as I tried not to think of Laura’s probable fate.

  Blind, unreasoning hatred was on the loose in Rigel City. And there was nothing I could do but run.

  I reached my home about an hour later—or rather, what had been my home.

  In the slanting late-afternoon shadows, it was a sight that nearly made me cry. I had bought an inexpensive but attractive bubble-home six years before, when Laura and I were married. It hadn’t been much, but it had been ours. It had been.

  Now, it looked as if it had been in the path of a juggernaut. The door was smashed in, the interior charred and seared, the furnishings torn, books and drapes and chairs floating in puddles of dirty water. I moved from room to room, numb, too numb to cry.

  Chalked on the wall of the room that had been my study was a simple, crude message:

  ANDROIDS DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS

  —C.A.

  C.A.—Clay Armistead! And again the accusation of android.

  My home destroyed, my wife kidnapped or dead, I walked dazedly down the steps to the street and slouched at the edge of the curb. Night was coming now, and the four moons glittered coldly above, shining without sympathy. There was no sympathy in the world, I thought—only hatred.

  I had lost everything I loved within eight days. In the distance, I heard the sound of shouting and killing. It was quiet here, in the residential district of Rigel City, but I could imagine what it must have been like the day they did this to my home.

  As I sat slouched there, a voice from above me said, “It’s a tough break, Preston.”

  I spun to my feet instantly and turned to face the speaker. It was Ken Carpenter, my next-door neighbor, who stood above me. I reached out and grabbed him by the throat.

  “Go ahead, Carpenter—call me an android too! Pull out a gun and kill me! You can’t take anything else from me!”

  “Whoa!” Carpenter said, in a choked voice. “Easy, Cleve. I had nothing to do with this.”

  Suspiciously, I released my grip. He rubbed his throat for a moment or two. “You’re pretty quick on the trigger, aren’t you?”

  “I have to be,” I said. “In the last couple of hours I’ve learned it’s the only way to stay alive.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Carpenter said. “I don’t blame you for wanting to kill, either.” He shook his head sadly. “I watched the whole thing, Cleve. It was awful.”

  His face was red, and he couldn’t meet my eyes. “You helped, didn’t you?” I asked. I wasn’t even angry.

  He said nothing, but words weren’t necessary. I could see the guilt unconcealed on his face.

  After a pause he spoke. “I had to,” he said hoarsely. “They—they came here. Armistead asked me to help.” He lowered his head. “They would have done the same thing to my house if I refused. I—I had to, Cleve.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You’ve got a wife and family too. I won’t hold any grudge.” It was the truth. I probably would have done the same thing. If Carpenter had made any move to save my house, he would only have brought destruction needlessly on his own head.

  I moistened dry lips. “Tell me where Laura is,” I said.

  “Armistead took her away,” Carpenter said quietly.

  “Took her away? Where?”

  “Just before they burned your house,” said Carpenter. “Armistead went in himself and came out with your wife. They put her in a car and drove away with her.”

  “They didn’t hurt her?”

  Carpenter shook his head. “She gave them quite a fight, but I didn’t see them hurt her. They just took her away.”

  “You know they’re calling me an android, don’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Armistead started spreading that around yesterday afternoon. There was a big gang outside your house and they took Laura away. I went outside to find out what was happening, and Armistead said they were going to burn your place because you’re an android.” He looked at me suspiciously for a second. “It’s not true, is it? I mean—”

  “No, it’s not true!” I said angrily. “How did all this start? This riot, I mean.”

  “Well, you know how it’s been between humans and androids here—sort of an uneasy truce for years. And you know how Armistead feels about equal rights for them. Well, two days ago an android murdered Mary Cartwright.”

  “What?”

  Mary was another neighbor of ours, a young housewife from down the block. She was a good friend of Laura’s; they spent a lot of time together.

  “But Mary was in favor of android equality,” I said in confusion. “Why would—”

  Carpenter shrugged. “It happened, that’s all. It was a particularly vicious murder. As soon as word got around, Armistead got up and said it was time we got rid of the androids in Rigel City, before they killed the rest of us.”

  I was stunned. The androids were peaceful, likable folk, who kept to themselves and were well aware of the consequences of an act such as this. “How do they know it was an android?” I asked. “Are they sure?”

  “Positive. The android was caught in the act.”

  “By whom?”

  “Armistead. He—”

  “That’s enough,” I said in sudden disgust. The whole crude plot was painfully obvious now. Armistead had had Mary Cartwright murdered by his own henchmen, and had framed an android. He had then used this “evidence” as provocation to touch off an android kill—and the reign of terror was still going on. The municipal authorities were probably paralyzed; the police force was pitifully inadequate, and in all likelihood half of them had joined the rioters anyway.

  Anti-android hatred was an easy thing to stir up. The synthetic men and women were too handsome, too intelligent, too perfect—too easy to envy and to hate. The three centuries since their development had been marked by a steady history of riots such as this one.

  Only now it was here, right here, and I was caught up in the middle of it.

  And Laura? Where was she?

  Suddenly I felt the desire to wring Clay Armistead’s thick neck.

  I started to walk, without knowing where I was going. I just felt that I had to get moving, to walk off the overpowering frustration and fear and hate I was feeling.

  Half an hour later, I found myself in a part of Rigel City I had never been in before—the oldest part of town, almost a slum. Here things were quiet. There was no sign of the rioters. Maybe the riot was dying down finally; maybe all the androids were dead or in hiding.

  It was now night. The air was becoming chilly, and I felt cold and alone.

  A figure moved in front of me. Someone was lurking in the shadows. Instantly, I went on guard.

  The prowler was circling toward me in the dimness, and I saw the gleam of a knife suddenly against the dull black of the night. I poised myself and waited for the attack. I was becoming accustomed to violence as the normal activity of life.

  Curiously, the man in the shadows remained there. We froze, boxing each other in uneasily, each waiting for the other to spring. Finally he stepped forward, knife upraised.

  I moved forward to meet him, and as the knife descended my hand shot up to intercept the other’s arm. I clamped my hand around his wrist and held him there. We stared into each other’s f
aces.

  In the flickering light of the four moons I could see him plainly. His features were even and regular, and he would have been handsome but for the raw, jagged gash across one cheek. Imprinted in the center of his forehead was a neat, five-pointed red star.

  He was an android.

  “You’re Cleve Preston, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “You can let go of me, then. I won’t stab you.” There was something in his voice that made me trust him, and I let go. He sheathed the knife and looked curiously at me. “So you’re one of us! I heard Armistead shouting it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re wrong. I’m no more of an android than Armistead is. He’s just framing me for some motive of his own.”

  “But—”

  As the knife started to raise again, I quickly said, “But I’m on your side! I’m being hunted like an android, and so I’m fighting like one. I’m with you, whoever you are.”

  “George Huntley,” the android said. “I thought you were a human—I mean, one of the rioters. I couldn’t take any chances. I’ve been hiding in the back alleys here ever since the thing started.”

  “I understand.”

  “They took your wife, didn’t they?” he asked suddenly.

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw them,” he said. “She’s in Armistead’s headquarters. His supermarket. That’s the headquarters for the whole thing, you know.”

  The supermarket was in the heart of town, about half an hour’s quick walk further on. “The place must be guarded,” I said. “Can we get in?”

  “They’ll kill you on sight!” Huntley said.

  “I have to get in there,” I told him. “My wife is in there. Do you understand that? My wife.”

  “Yes, but—all right, come on! You and me—we’ll go in there and get your wife!”

  It was a strange alliance—a human being everyone accused of being an android, and a genuine android whose life was forfeit if he got caught. I stood a chance—just a chance.

  We arrived at Armistead’s supermarket near midnight, approaching it cautiously from the rear. There was a crowd milling around outside, talking and strutting, probably busy telling each other about their day’s exploits in killing and looting. I shuddered as I saw them—complacent, proud of their day’s work.

  “How are we going to get inside?” I asked. “There must be a hundred of them.”

  He rubbed his forehead nervously, fingering the damning star. Unconsciously, he seemed to be rubbing some of the grime away so the mark of his non-humanity stood out more clearly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s a side window. You go in, and I’ll follow you.”

  “How about the alarm?”

  “You want your wife?” the android asked.

  “I want to stay alive,” I said.

  “You will,” Huntley said, and prodded me to keep heading forward. After a few minutes he said, “I’d like your wife to get free too.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  He looked at me squarely. “Androids have brothers,” he said. “Vat-mates, really, but we feel a pretty close affection. My brother was the android who supposedly murdered Mary Cartwright. Armistead’s butchers cut him down before he could deny it.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “You know something else? Your wife was the only witness to the murder of Mary Cartwright.”

  Suddenly I went stiff all over. The puzzle came clear now. Laura had seen the killing, had seen the android murdered too. Perhaps it had happened in our house, our backyard. No wonder Armistead had her put away for safe keeping—it was a miracle he hadn’t just killed her. That also explained why I was being hunted—to get me out of the way, to keep me from reaching her and exposing the truth.

  “Now you see?” the android asked.

  “I see,” I said. “If we can get Laura out, it’ll clear your brother’s name. It’ll—”

  “Stop talking,” he said. “It’s time for action.”

  We were practically at the back of the sprawling supermarket building now. We stood at the first-floor window for a second, and I looked back at Huntley.

  “Well?”

  “Smash the window and go in,” Huntley said. “I’ll take care of the alarm. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “How—”

  “Go on!”

  I grabbed a stone and smashed in the window. The bells began to ring. And then I saw how the android George Huntley had been planning to take care of the alarm.

  He gave me a shove that knocked me halfway through the window. I turned and saw him starting to run. For a second I felt betrayed—then horrified.

  He was running toward the front of the building, straight toward the crowd of android killers standing out there. And he was shouting, “Come get me! Catch me if you can!”

  He had deliberately sacrificed himself. I heard them yelling, heard the sound of footsteps as they started to pursue him, ignoring the alarm.

  I had no further time to waste. I leaped over the sill, found the alarm switch, threw it. The supermarket became still.

  I began to pick my way through the darkened storeroom, through the heaps of baskets and crates, toward Armistead’s office. I was confident that I would find Armistead there.

  I did.

  He was sitting with his back to the door, talking on the phone.

  “What’s that? Crazy android ran right past the store and they’re all chasing him? I was wondering about that. The alarm bell just went off here, and it must have been the same guy. Musta broke a window in back first.”

  He kept on talking. I stopped listening. I was looking at Laura.

  She sat tied up in one corner of the room, her eyes wide with astonishment at the sight of me. She seemed to be in pretty good shape. Her blouse was torn, her skirt was slashed to the thigh, and I could see bruises and scratches that made me wince. But they hadn’t hurt her. That was all that mattered. Home, books, furniture—as long as they hadn’t hurt Laura, what did the other things matter?

  “Hello, Armistead,” I said. I stepped inside and slammed the door. “I came to pay you a little visit.”

  He whirled, threw down the phone, and came toward me all in the same motion. He was a thick-bodied, ugly man, and there was strength in his arms and legs. He charged. I waited for him, and hit him in the face. Blood trickled out over his split lip, making him look even uglier.

  “Goddamn android,” he muttered.

  I laughed. “You’re starting to believe your own lies, Armistead. And that’s bad.” I hit him again. His eyes blazed, and he struck out at me wildly. He was strong, but he wasn’t used to fighting. He was a talker. He let other people do his fighting for him.

  For a minute I felt that I really was an android—or, at least, that I was fighting for all the synthetic men who had died since the first one had left the laboratory three centuries ago. My fists ploughed into Armistead’s belly, and he rocked on his feet. His eyes started to look glassy.

  He got in one more punch, a solid one that closed my already-battered eye. And then I moved in on him.

  “That’s for Centaurus,” I said, and hit him. “That’s for Rigel. That’s for Procyon.” I went on, naming all the places where there had been anti-android rioting. By the time I was finished, Armistead lay in a huddled, sobbing heap on the floor.

  I untied Laura, kissed her, and trussed Armistead up against the chair.

  “It’s good to see you, honey,” I told her.

  “I thought you’d never come back,” she said.

  I turned to Armistead and snapped on the portable tape-recorder on his desk. “Okay, Armistead. I want a full confession of the way you provoked this riot. Begin with the way you had Mary Cartwright killed, and keep moving from there.” I hit him again, just by way of loosening his tongue.

  From somewhere in the front of the supermarket, I heard someone yell, “Hey, Armistead! We got another!�
�

  The “other” must have been Huntley. I clamped my lips together. Armistead was beginning to speak, slowly, unwillingly. The whole dirty story was going down on tape.

  Any minute, the townspeople would be in here to report the happy news to Armistead. But I was going to have a full confession by that time, and I was going to make them listen to every bit of it. I was going to make sure that George Huntley’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.

  THE HUNTERS OF CUTWOLD

  (1957)

  Harlan Ellison, who had been living next door to me in the summer of 1955 as my writing career suddenly and spectacularly took off, had a somewhat slower start himself, but by the middle of 1956 he, too, was selling stories about as fast as he could write them. Just as I had been, he was an avid science-fiction reader who longed to have his own stories published in the magazines he had read in his teens, and very quickly he joined Howard Browne’s team of staffers at Amazing and placed material with three or four other titles.

  But he had a knack for writing crime stories too—tales of juvenile-delinquent kid-gangs were a specialty of his—and in the summer of 1956 he struck up a relationship with two new magazines that published that sort of thing, Trapped and Guilty. They paid an extravagant two cents a word, twice as much as what most of the science-fiction magazines we were selling to then would pay, and their editor, one W. W. Scott, seemed willing to buy as many stories as Harlan could bring them. Harlan was good enough to let me in on this bonanza, and, busy as I was meeting my monthly quota at Amazing and Imagination, I started doing crime stories too. My records show the sale of “Get Out and Stay Out” to Guilty in June, 1956, and “Clinging Vine” to Trapped a couple of weeks later.

  And then W. W. Scott announced that he had been asked to edit a science-fiction magazine too, Super-Science Fiction, and Harlan and I suddenly had the inside track on a lucrative new market.

  Scott—“Scottie,” everybody called him, except a few who called him “Bill”—was a short, cheerfully cantankerous old guy who would have fit right into a 1930s Hollywood movie about newspapermen, which was what I think he had been before he drifted into magazine editing. His office was tiny and crammed with weary-looking manuscripts that such agents as Scott Meredith, delighted to find a possible new market for ancient stuff that had been rejected everywhere, sent over by the ton. His voice was a high-pitched cackle; he had a full set of top and bottom dentures, which he didn’t always bother to wear; and I never saw him without his green eyeshade, which evidently he regarded as an essential part of the editorial costume. To us—and we both were barely past 21—he looked to be seventy or eighty years old, but probably he was 55 or thereabouts. He freely admitted to us that he knew next to nothing about science fiction and cared even less, and invited us to bring him as much material as we could manage.