Star Science Fiction 1 - [Anthology] Read online

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  Star Science Fiction 01

  Edited By Frederik Pohl

  Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  Table of Contents

  Country Doctor by William Morrison

  Dominoes by C. M. Kornbluth

  Idealist by Lester del Rey

  The Night He Cried by Fritz Leiber

  Contraption by Clifford D. Simak

  The Chronoclasm by John Wyndham

  The Deserter by William Tenn

  The Man with English by H. L. Gold

  So Proudly We Hail by Judith Merril

  A Scent of Sarsaparilla by Ray Bradbury

  “Nobody Here But-” by Isaac Asimov

  The Last Weapon by Robert Sheckley

  A Wild Surmise by Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore

  The Journey by Murray Leinster

  The Nine Billion Names of God by Arthur C. Clarke

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  Editor’s Note

  More than three decades ago a large magazine, printed on a sort of compressed blotting paper, appeared in a secondhand store at a time when I happened to have ten cents. It contained the first installment of a story by a man named Jack Williamson (then as now one of the best writers in the science-fiction field), a story called The Stone from the Green Star which so enraptured me that I scraped together a quarter to buy the next installment first-hand, hot off the newsstand. That was the moment of decision. The drug had been tasted and the addiction formed; thirty years haven’t broken the habit.

  For science fiction is a hard habit to break. You may come to it because of the brilliant satire of Brave New World or of 1984; you may grow into it through Captain Video or the science-fiction comic strips like Beyond Mars; you may find your way into it by picking up a collection of science-fiction stories like this one. Once you acquire the taste, you’re unlikely to lose it, for it’s a limitless field, as spacious as space itself. Publishers, critics and a good many readers have a tendency to think of science fiction as one of the “categories” of publishing, in the specific sense of the term; like detective stories and Westerns. But unless you can think of The Big Sky as a Western orHamlet as a whodunit, you can hardly class in a tight little group so widely variant an assortment of stories as justly fit under the common label of science fiction. One can get tired of cowboys or corpses; it’s hard to tire of a field that can take you anywhere in space, time or the dimensions.

  Just as science fiction can give one reader as wide a choice of stories as any one can ask, so can science fiction give any number of readers, however diverse their backgrounds or inclinations, a full measure of enjoyment. I had always thought this to be true; years ago I had it proved to me. With C. M. Kornbluth I committed a novel which ran serially in Galaxy Science Fiction. A trade paper called Advertising Age gave the novel a lengthy and laudatory write-up; within a matter of weeks thereafter it got an equally laudatory and still longer press notice in the pages of the Industrial Worker, official organ of the I.W.W. I do not think that in all of America you will find two publications further apart in viewpoint or objectives. But both were enthusiastic; and what is more important, the editors of both were revealed as science-fiction fans.

  Of course, you need be neither huckster nor Wobbly to enjoy science fiction—as I trust you will prove to yourself in the stories that follow. Some of the brightest stars in the science-fiction firmament have done their best for you in these tales. To all of them, my thanks and—I hope—yours.

  Frederik Pohl

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  WILLIAM MORRISON

  There are few persons better qualified to put the “science” in science fiction than William Morrison, possessor of a doctor’s degree in chemistry, translator of scores of obscure and enormously technical scientific papers—and an author of such astonishing versatility as to have written a successful television show for children, a book (with his wife, and under his real name of Joseph Samachson) on the art of the ballet, and several score popular science-fiction stories. With his background, Morrison never needs to fudge on the authenticity of his scientific lore—and that he never allows the accurate science to interfere with sheer story-telling pleasure is adequately attested by . . .

  Country Doctor

  He had long resigned himself to thinking that opportunity had passed him by for life. Now, when it struck so unex­pectedly and so belatedly, he wasn’t sure that it was wel­come.

  He had gone to sleep early, after an unusually hectic day. As if the need for immunizing against the threat of an epidemic hadn’t been enough, he had also had to treat the usual aches and pains, and to deliver one baby, plus two premature Marsopolis calves. Even as he pulled the covers over himself, the phone was ringing, but he let Maida answer it. Nothing short of a genuine first-class emergency was going to drag him out of the house again before morning if he could help it. Evidently the call wasn’t that important, for Maida hadn’t come in to bother him about it, and his last feeling, before dropping off to sleep, was one of gratitude for her common sense.

  He wasn’t feeling grateful when the phone rang again. He awoke with a start. The dark of night still lay around the house, and from alongside him came the sound of his wife’s slow breathing. In the next room, one of the kids, he couldn’t tell which, said drowsily, “Turn off the alarm.” Evidently the sound of the ringing hadn’t produced com­plete wakefulness.

  While he lay there, feeling too heavy to move, Maida moaned slightly in her sleep, and he said to himself, “If that’s old Bender, calling about his constipation again, I’ll feed him dynamite pills.” Then he reached over to the night table and forced himself to pick up the phone. “Who is it?”

  “Doctor Meltzer?” He recognized the hoarse and excited tones of Tom Linton, the city peace officer. “You better get over here right away!”

  “What is it, Tom? And where am I supposed to get?”

  “Over at the space port. Ship out of control—almost ran into Phobos coming down—and it landed with a crash. They need you fast.”

  “I’m coming.”

  The sleep was out of his eyes now. He grabbed his emergency equipment, taking along a plentiful supply of antibiotics and adjustable bandages. There was no way of knowing how many men had been hurt, and he had better be ready to treat an entire crew.

  Outside the house, his bicar was waiting for him. He tossed in his equipment and hopped in after it. A throw of the switch brought in full broadcast power, and a fraction of a second later he had begun to skim over the smooth path that led over the farmland reclaimed from the desert.

  The space port was less than twenty miles away, and it took him no more than ten minutes to get there. As he approached, the light blinked green at an intersection. Ah, he thought, one advantage of being a country doctor with a privileged road is that you always have the right of way. Are there any other advantages? None that you can think of offhand. You go through college with a brilliant record, you dream of helping humanity, of doing research in medicine, of making discoveries that will lengthen human life and lend it a little added happiness. And then, somehow, you find yourself trapped. The frontier outpost that’s supposed to be the steppingstone to bigger things turns out to be a lifetime job. You find that your most important patients are not people, but food-animals. On Mars there are plenty of men and women, but few cows and sheep. Learn to treat them, and you really amount to something. Save a cow, and the news gets around faster than if you saved a man. And so, gradually, the animals begin to take more and more of your time, and you become known and liked in the community. You marry, you have children, you slip into a routine that dulls the meaning of the fast-hurrying days. You
reach fifty—and you realize suddenly that life has passed you by. Half your alloted hundred years are gone, you can’t tell where. The opportunities that once beckoned so brightly have faded in the distance.

  What do you have to show for what the years have taken? One wife, one boy, one girl—

  A surge of braking-power caught him from the direction of the space port. The sudden deceleration brought him out of his musings to realize that the entire area was brightly lit up. A huge ship lay across the middle of the field. Its length was at least a thousand feet, and he knew that there must be more than two dozen men in its crew. He hoped that none had been killed.

  “Doc!”

  Tom was rushing over to him. “How many hurt, Tom?”

  “Our injuries are all minor, Doctor,” said a sharp voice. “Nothing that I can’t handle well enough myself.”

  As he stared at the man in the gold-trimmed uniform who was standing alongside Tom, he had a feeling of disappointment. If there were no serious injuries, what was the rush all about? Why hadn’t they telephoned him while he was riding over, told him there was no need of him, let him get back to bed?

  “I thought there was a serious crash.”

  “The crash was nothing, Doctor. Linton, here, was excited by our near-miss of Phobos. But we’ve no time to waste discussing that fact. I understand, Doctor Meltzer, that you’re a first-class vet.”

  He flushed. “I hope you didn’t drag me out of bed to treat a sick dog. I’m not sentimental about ship’s pets—”

  “This is no pet. Come along, and I’ll show you.”

  He followed silently as the Captain led the way up the ramp and into the ship. Inside the vessel, there were no indications of any disorder caused by the crash. One or two of the men were bandaged around the head, but they seemed perfectly capable of getting around and doing their work.

  He and the Captain were on a moving walkway now, and for three hundred feet they rode swiftly along it to­gether, toward the back of the ship. Then the Captain stepped off, and Dr. Meltzer followed suit. When he caught sight of the thing that was waiting for him, he jaw dropped.

  Almost the entire stern of the ship, about one third its length, was occupied by a great reddish creature that lay there quietly like an overgrown lump of flesh taken from some giant’s butcher shop. A transparent panel walled it off from the rest of the ship. Through the panel Dr. Meltzer could see the thirty-foot-wide slit that marked the mouth. Above that was a cluster of breathing pores, look­ing like gopher holes, and above these was a semicircle of six great eyes, half closed and dulled as if with pain.

  He had never seen anything like it before. “My God, what it it?”

  “For lack of a better name, we call it a space-cow. Actually, it doesn’t inhabit free space—we picked it up on Ganymede as a matter of fact—and as you can see, it doesn’t resemble a cow in the least.”

  “Is that supposed to be my patient?”

  “That’s it, Doctor.”

  He laughed, with more anger than amusement. “I haven’t the slightest idea what that behemoth is like and what’s wrong with it. How do you expect me to treat it?”

  “That’s up to you. Now, wait a minute, Doctor, before you blow up. This thing is sick. It isn’t eating. It hardly moves. And it’s been getting worse almost from the time we left Ganymede. We meant to land at Marsopolis and have it treated there, but we overshot the place and when something went wrong with our drive we had no choice but to come down here.”

  “Don’t they have any doctors to spare from town?”

  “They’re no better than you are. I mean that, Doctor. The vets they have in Marsopolis are used to treating pets for a standard series of diseases, and they don’t handle animals as big as the ones you do. And they don’t meet the kind of emergencies you do, either. You’re as good a man as we can get.”

  “And I tell you, I don’t know a thing about this overgrown hunk of protein.”

  “Then you’ll just have to find out about it. We’ve radioed Earth, and hope to be getting some information soon from some of their zoo directors. Meanwhile—”

  The crewmen were bringing over what appeared to be a diver’s uniform. “What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Something for you to wear. You’re going to go down into this animal.”

  “Into that mass of flesh?” For a moment horror left him with his mouth open. Then anger took over. “Like hell I am.”

  “Look, Doctor, it’s necessary. We want to keep this beast alive—for scientific purposes, as well as possible value as a food animal. And how can we keep it alive unless we learn something about it?”

  “There’s plenty we can learn without going into it. Plenty of tests we can make first. Plenty of—”

  He caught himself abruptly because he was talking nonsense and he knew it. You could take the thing’s tempera­ture—but what would the figure you got tell you? What was normal temperature for a space-cow? What was normal blood pressure—provided the creature had blood? What was normal heartbeat—assuming there was a heart? Presumably the thing had teeth, a bony skeleton—but how to learn where and what they were? You couldn’t X-ray a mass of flesh like this—not with any equipment he had ever seen, even in the best-equipped office.

  There were other, even more disquieting ways in which he was ignorant. What kind of digestive juices did the thing have? Suppose he did go down in a divers uniform —would the juices dissolve it? Would they dissolve the oxygen lines, the instruments he used to look around and probe the vast inside of the beast?

  He expressed his doubts to the Captain, and the latter said, “These suits have been tested, and so have the lines. We know that they can stand a half hour inside without being dissolved away. If they start to go, you’ll radio to us, and we’ll pull you up.”

  “Thanks. How do I know that once the suit starts to go, it won’t rip? How do I know that the juices simply won’t eat my skin away?”

  There was no answer to that. You just didn’t know, and you had to accept your ignorance.

  Even while he was objecting, Dr. Meltzer began putting on the suit. It was thin and light, strong enough to withstand several atmospheres of pressure, and at the same time not so clumsy as to hamper his movements considerably. Scaled pockets carried an assortment of in­struments and supplies. Perfect two-way communication would make the exchange of ideas—such as they might be—as easy as if the person he was talking to were face to face with him. With the suit came a pair of fragile-looking gloves that left his hands almost as free as if they were bare. But the apparent fragility was misleading. Mechanical strength was there.

  But what about resistance to biological action? The question kept nagging him. You can’t know, he told himself. About things like that you take a chance. You take a chance and hope that if anything goes wrong, they’ll pull you up before the juices have time to get working on you.

  They had everything in readiness. Two of the other men were also wearing uniforms like his own, and when he had put his on, and tested it, the Captain gave the signal, and they all went into a small airlock. The door sealed behind them, a door in front opened. They were in the chamber where the great beast lay and quivered dully as if in giant pain.

  They tied strong thin plastic cords around Doctor Meltzer’s waist, tested the oxygen lines. Then they put a ladder up in front of the beast’s face. Doctor Meltzer had a little trouble breathing, but it was not because of anything wrong with the oxygen supply. That was at the right pressure and humidity, and it was mixed with the correct amount of inert gases. It was merely the thought of going down into the creature’s belly that constricted his throat, the idea of going into a strange and terrible world so dif­ferent from his own, of submitting to unimaginable dangers.

  He said hoarsely into the radio speaker, “How do I get in anyway, knock? The mouth’s at least forty feet off the ground. And it’s closed. You’ve got to open it, Captain. Or do you expect me to pry it open myself?”

  The tw
o men with him stretched out a plastic ladder. In the low gravity of Mars, climbing forty feet was no problem. Dr. Meltzer began to pull his way up. As he went higher, he noticed that the great mouth was slowly opening. One of the men had poked the creature with an electric prod.

  Dr. Meltzer reached the level of the low jaw, and with the fascinated fear of a bird staring at a snake, gazed at the great opening that was going to devour him. Inside there was a gray and slippery surface which caught the beam of his flashlight and reflected it back and forth until the rays faded away. Fifty feet beyond the opening, the passage made a slow turn to one side. What lay ahead, he couldn’t guess.

  The sensible thing was to go in at once, but he couldn’t help hesitating. Suppose the jaws closed just as he got between them? He’d be crushed like an eggshell. Suppose that throat constricted with the irritation he caused it? That would crush him too. He recalled suddenly an ancient fable about a man who had gone into a whale’s belly. What was the man’s name, now? Daniel—no, he had only gone into a den of lions. Job—wrong again. Job had been afflicted with boils, the victim of staphylo­cocci at the other end of the scale of size. Jonah, that was it. Jonah, the man whose name was a symbol among the superstitious for bad luck.