Far From This Earth

by Chad Oliver

  FAR FROM THIS EARTH

  Chad Oliver

  www.sfgateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

  Welcome to the SF Gateway.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Chad Oliver: Opener of Doors (Priscilla Olson)

  Stardust

  Let Me Live in a House

  Field Expedient

  Transformer

  If Now You Grieve a Little

  Anachronism

  North Wind

  Pilgrimage

  The Wind Blows Free

  Of Course

  Rite of Passage

  Didn’t He Ramble?

  Second Nature

  Ghost Town

  End of the Line

  Just Like a Man

  Far From This Earth

  King of the Hill

  Meanwhile, Back on the Reservation

  A Lake of Summer

  Website

  Also by Chad Oliver

  Acknowledgments

  First Appearances

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAD OLIVER: OPENER OF DOORS

  A funny thing happened on the way to the printer….

  This double-volume set was originally going to be only one book.

  I carefully took word counts, and made agonized decisions about which stories to put in and which to leave out. After much obsessive behavior and advice from many corners, I decided upon 34 stories, that should just fill 640 pages (that’s twenty 32-page signatures, if you’re interested)—since I decided that anything larger than that would be physically uncomfortable to read.

  After type setting all those stories, I counted up and they came to 706 pages. Too big! Arrgh!!

  And I just couldn’t bear to cut anything more out….

  So, I got onto the trusty computer to ask advice of fellow NESFAns.

  Much gnashing of teeth, apologizing, agonizing. No, we agree … shouldn’t cut anything out … this man can really write … I want more.

  So, we added back six stories that many of us has been sorry to see go in the first place, and split the collection in two, and we’re all happy about it. I hope you are, too.

  You might be curious about how we choose which author to collect when putting together these NESFA’s Choice books.

  Memories.

  Recommendations, too. But the memories are more important.

  I remember reading Chad Oliver stories through college, and loving them. (I took a lot of anthropology courses then; I expect there’s a connection.) When George Zebrowski recommended Oliver as a good candidate for collection, it seemed like a great idea to me. As George pointed out, Chad Oliver has been “rediscovered” by at least three generations of readers, in the ’70s, in the ’80s, and now in the new century.

  Based on suggestions from George and others, I started re-reading Oliver—and realized I had previously read only a fraction of his work (which was just as good as I remembered). And all those “new” stories—some really new; they hadn’t even been written before I was out of school—were just plain terrific.

  In his introduction to the first volume of these stories, Howard Waldrop writes, “If you haven’t made these word-journeys before, I, as the usual phrase goes, envy you. But I really do.” He’s right on the money there; what a delight to go back to a favorite author and find that he’s even better than you remember!

  (And—just wait till you see the novels!)

  O.K., what makes them so good?

  I think it’s because they’re about people.

  Sometimes set against a background of small-town life, sometimes in a spaceship, and sometimes on an alien planet, the stories ask questions:

  What defines culture?

  What defines civilization?

  What defines man?

  Man—the imperfect machine (as Oliver sometimes referred to him)—takes center stage in almost all of these stories. And, though some of them, especially those “anthropological” tales of cultural manipulation and lost cultural patterns, seem superficially similar, dig a bit deeper and you’ll find subtle twists that illuminate yet more facets of the very nature of humanity, and its relationship to the greater universe. They are moving stories of lifeways—human and alien, and sometimes both.

  A hero is described in “The Gift” as “a dreamer, a doer, a man of impulse … a bringer of fire, a slayer of dragons, an opener of the way.” Chad Oliver’s stories explore the familiar and the hypothetical, the humorous and the elegiac. Mostly, they investigate mankind: in the present, the past, and the future. They look at where we are, where we’ve been, and where we might be going. They help us understand who we are—and why we are that way.

  They open doors.

  —Priscilla Olson

  Framingham, Massachusetts

  June 2003

  STARDUST

  Collins floated through the jet blackness with every sense alert. He heard the low hum of voices welling up out of the emptiness ahead of him and the oxygen in the still air tasted sweet to him as he drank it into his lungs. The cold smell of metal was all around him, hemming him in, and he shivered involuntarily in the darkness.

  At precisely the right instant, he extended his hand forward, made contact with an invisible brace that felt rough and dead to his tingling fingers, and changed direction with a light, delicate shove. The new tunnel was almost as dark as the one he had left behind him, but he could see a faint luminous haze in the distance. His pulses quickened as tiny warmth currents touched his skin and he caught the smell of men in the abyss ahead of him.

  It was good to be going toward men, Collins thought. It was a good feeling. He kept to the exact center of the shaft, as far away from the cold metal taste as he could get. A man knew loneliness in the eternal night, alone with his thoughts. A man knew fear—

  He guided his body around another turn, and still another, and felt the sudden life shocks in front of him. He closed his eyes to narrow slits, letting them adjust. He could feel space and air on all sides, and the cold, unpleasant smell of metal receded into the distance. Warmth currents bathed his skin—and yet there was a
coolness even here, an icy coolness of hostility that mottled the warmth tides like a cancerous disease—

  Collins shook the feeling from his mind. Slowly, gradually, the chamber took shape around him, although he still could not look directly at the intolerable, flickering flame that hissed and sputtered atop the fire torch. Black shadows writhed in the gray halflight on the periphery of the fireglow and white bodies floated all around him, waiting.

  Collins took a deep breath. He could see again.

  “Class will come to order,” he said into the silence.

  The men—young men, all of them—hesitated and then moved into a circle around him. The circle was composed of three distinct layers, one even with Collins, one slightly above him, and another just below him. Each layer contained four men. Collins forced himself to look directly at the fire torch, even though the unaccustomed brightness lanced little needles of pain through his eyes and narrowed their pupils to tiny dots of black. It was not easy, but he kept his face expressionless.

  Men were made to live in light.

  “Before we start, do any of you have any questions about your work for today?” His voice was soft, patient. But it had a firm edge to it—sheathed now, but capable of cutting like a knife when the need arose.

  The young men looked at each other, faintly hostile, uncertain.

  “Speak up,” Collins said, smiling. “Asking questions is not a sign of ignorance, you know. It is only the stupid who never ask questions.”

  One of the men cleared his throat. It was Lanson, one of the most intelligent of them. Collins nodded encouragement.

  “We don’t understand our problem for today, sir,” he said, faintly accenting the sir to give it a slightly contemptuous ring. “We’ve talked it over among ourselves, but we can’t seem to get it.”

  “Be specific, Lanson. Exactly what is it that you do not understand?”

  Lanson shifted nervously in the still air. “It’s about this problem of falling bodies, sir,” he said. His voice was genuinely puzzled now; Lanson was interested almost in spite of himself. “You stated that, because of gravity, two bodies will fall through a vacuum at precisely the same rate of speed, regardless of weight—that is, if we get your meaning correctly, a heavy body will fall with the same speed as a light body, or, to use your example, a piece of paper and a chunk of metal will hit the floor together.”

  “O.K. so far, Lanson.” Collins braced himself, knowing what was coming. It was difficult.

  “Well, sir,” Lanson continued, choosing his words with care, “we sort of see what you’re driving at in the concepts heavy and light—but what is falling? What pushes the piece of paper and the chunk of metal down? Why don’t they float like we do?”

  “They do float,” a voice whispered loudly. “Everyone knows that.”

  Collins looked at the white bodies around him, pale and ghostly in the dancing fireglow. Beyond them, the great darkness hovered like a gigantic beast, shadow tentacles writhing, waiting to envelop them, pull them all into the black vault of the abyss. Collins shivered again as an icy chill crawled down his spine. They couldn’t go on like this forever, he knew. They weren’t trying the way they used to—it was very hard, and they weren’t trying. Every day, every hour, they lost ground. And below them, dancing around their great fires—

  He had to make them see.

  “You are right, in a sense,” he told them carefully. “I’m glad to see that you’re using your minds and not just accepting what I say without thought of your own. They do float, as you’ve seen—here. The point is that conditions here are unnatural, not normal, although they are the only ones we’ve ever known. I’ve tried to tell you about gravity—”

  “Him and his gravity,” someone snickered.

  “We’re not approaching the situation with the proper gravity,” someone else whispered. Several of the young men laughed aloud at the pun, staring at Collins with ill-concealed contempt.

  “Yes, but what is gravity?” Lanson persisted. “You say that in science we experiment, we measure, we deal with facts rather than wishful thinking. Very well—show us some gravity then.”

  Collins breathed deeply, feeling the doubt all around him. “I can show you no gravity that you can recognize as such,” he said slowly. “Nor can I show you the atoms of which matter is composed, much less the subatomic constituents of the atoms themselves. You must be patient, you must consider the situation in which we find ourselves. Even in science, gentlemen, there are times when we must go along on faith, do the best we can—”

  “We’re not trying to dispute your word, sir,” said Lanson, who was doing precisely that. “But it seems to us that even if all this stuff were true somewhere, sometime, we still have to live here and not there. Since we have to live here, why not confine ourselves to this world, to what can be of practical use to us, and just forget about—”

  “No!” Collins said sharply, the anger rising in him like a hot flood. “That will do, Lanson, unless you wish to be reported. We must not forget, or we are lost, we are animals, we are no longer men. One day you will see and understand. Until then—”

  He stopped, suddenly. The men shifted uncertainly in the air. Collins tensed, every sense alive, vibrant, questing. He probed the deep shadows. His skin tingled. Something was out there—those shadows were no longer empty. Something—

  “The other men,” he hissed. “Kill that torch.”

  The flame sputtered and died. The men drifted backward, united now against a common danger, fighting to adjust their eyes again to the absence of light. Collins felt his heart hammering in his throat and cold sweat in the palms of his hands. He drew his knife, waiting.

  In the dead silence, panic stalked on padded feet through the chamber of darkness.

  Ship’s Officer Mark Langston tossed off a few choice expletives and permitted them to explode harmlessly within the confines of his book-lined office. He flipped open a desk drawer, removed a well-worn flask, and treated himself to a short snifter of Scotch. Then he replaced the flask, banished the contemptuous expression from his face, and glued a patient smile to his mouth.

  “Come in,” he said, bracing himself.

  The office door opened with a calm precision that hinted at a hurricane just below the horizon. A tall, angular, hatchet-faced woman marched inexorably into the room with her teen-age daughter following meekly in her wake.

  “You are the Ship’s Officer?” inquired the woman in a voice like a file sawing on iron.

  “Right the first time,” said Mark Langston.

  “You’re not the same man I spoke to last time,” the woman stated suspiciously. “Where is Mr. Raleigh?”

  “He jumped overboard,” Mark Langston wanted to say.

  “Mr. Raleigh is not on duty at the moment,” Mark Langston said. “My name is Langston—may I be of service?”

  “Well, I should certainly hope so. I am Mrs. Simmons, and this is my daughter Laura.”

  Mark Langston nodded and glanced at the note that Raleigh had left on his desk. As a small token of my esteem, I have willed you Mrs. Simmons, the note read. May God have mercy on your soul.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Simmons?”

  Mrs. Simmons sighed deeply, giving an excellent imitation of a death rattle. “It’s this excruciating artificial gravity, Mr. Langston,” she said. “I simply cannot stand it another moment. I’m having terrible pains around my heart and my back aches. I’m a nervous wreck. You’ve got to do something, my man. And my darling Laura absolutely can’t sleep at night—she does need her sleep so, she’s such a delicate child. Aren’t you, Laura?”

  “Yes, mother,” said Laura in a delicate voice.

  “Well now, Mrs. Simmons,” Langston said carefully, struggling desperately to maintain the smile on his face, “I find this most difficult to understand. Do you have these symptoms back on Earth? You see, ship’s gravity is kept at all times at Earth normal—there’s no difference whatever, in effect, between artificial gravity an
d the gravity you have lived with all your life.”

  “My good man,” Mrs. Simmons said, drawing herself up haughtily, “are you accusing me of—”

  “Not at all, not at all,” Langston lied. He forced himself to remember Mr. Simmons and his power and influence with the Interstellar Board of Trade. “It’s quite possible that the machinery is out of adjustment or something. I’ll check into it at once, Mrs. Simmons. We will spare no effort in securing your comfort during your stay on our ship. In the meantime, won’t you check with Dr. Ford on Three Deck? I’m certain that he’ll be able to help you and your daughter.”

  Mrs. Simmons brightened visibly. “Oh, Mr. Langston!” she breathed. “Do you really think I require medical attention?”

  “It’s entirely possible, Mrs. Simmons,” Mark Langston said, and meant it. He neglected to mention what sort of medical attention he thought Mrs. Simmons needed, but that was a minor detail. “I’ll buzz Dr. Ford and he’ll be ready to take care of you instantly.”

  “Thank you so much,” Mrs. Simmons said happily. “Come, Laura—now watch your step, dear.”

  Mrs. Simmons and her offspring left the room and the door hissed shut behind them. Mark Langston maliciously neglected to warn Ford in advance; it was a dirty trick to play on the Doc, of course, but Ford was capable of handling the situation and would duly dispatch Mrs. Simmons and Laura to some other luckless official.

  Langston got up from his desk and limped over to the private screen against the outside wall. He flicked it on and an infinity of night reached coldly into his soul and pulled him out among a myriad of incredible stars—

  There it was, right in his office with him. Space, deep space, the endless darkness and the stars that had been his life, his very being. He lost himself in the ever-new immensities. This was space—the space that he had helped to conquer, the star trails that he had made his own. This was the strange world that he had chosen for a home. Out there, far beyond imagining, distant beyond belief, the men and the women that he had lived with, fought with, laughed with, flashed forever into the deeps of night. They carried the great adventure onward, always, and now—