The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  EP had researched this in order to foster larger, brighter, healthier children and adults. #772 used the same information to deliberately convert women to cows. No drugs were required, or surgical lobotomy. And there was no hope that any individual could preserve or recover full intelligence, with such a lifelong regime. No wonder he had gotten nowhere with Iota!

  He heard the babies wailing. What price, peace?

  “And,” he said as she turned away, “and any of these calves could grow up to be as intelligent and lively as we are, if raised properly?”

  “They could. But that’s against the law, and of course such misfits wouldn’t be successful as milkers. They’re really quite well off here; we take good care of our own. We’re very fortunate to have developed this system. Can you imagine using actual filthy beasts for farming?”

  And he had milked those placid cows and had his round with Iota . . .

  He left her, sick in body and spirit as he passed by the wailing tanks. In each was a human baby crying out its heritage in a mind-stifling environment, deprived of that stimulation and response essential to normal development, systematically malnourished. No health, no comfort, no future—because each had been born in the barn. In the barn.

  He could do nothing about it, short-range. If he ran amok amid the tanks, as he was momentarily inclined to, what would he accomplish except the execution of babies? And this was only one barn of perhaps millions. No—it would take generations to undo the damage wrought here.

  He paused as he passed tank #7, hearing a cry already poignant. The baby he had carried here, in his naivete. Esmeralda’s child. The responsibility he had abrogated. The final and most terrible failure.

  A newborn personality, bound and bloody in the dark, never to know true freedom, doomed to a lifelong waking nightmare . . . until the contentment of idiocy took over.

  Suddenly Hitch understood what Iolanthe meant by integrity of purpose over and above the standards of any single world. There were limits beyond which personal ambition and duty became meaningless.

  He stepped up to the tank and lifted the lid. The cries became loud. He clapped his free hand to his ankle, feeling for the blade concealed there. He brought it up, plunged it into the tank, and slashed away the straps.

  “Hey!” the matron cried sharply.

  He dropped the knife and grabbed the floundering infant, lifting it out. He hugged it to his shirtfront with both arms and barged ahead. By the time the supervisor got there, Hitch was out of the nursery, leaving a trail of oil droplets from the empty tank.

  As soon as he was out of sight he balanced the baby awkwardly in one arm and reached up to touch the stud in his skull.

  It was risky. He had no guarantee there would be an open space at this location on Earth-Prime. But he was committed.

  Five seconds passed. Then he was wrenched into his own world by the unseen operator. Safely!

  There was no welcoming party. The operator had merely aligned inter-world coordinates and opened the veil by remote control. Hitch would have to make his own way back to headquarters, where he would present his devastating report. Armies would mass at his behest, but he felt no exhilaration. Those tanks . . .

  He held the baby more carefully, looking for a place to put it down so that he could remove the remaining strap-fragments and wrap it protectively. He knew almost nothing about what to do for it, except to keep it warm. But the baby, blessedly, was already asleep again, trusting in him as it had before though there was blood on its cheek. The mutilated tongue . . .

  He was in a barn. Not really surprisingly; the alternate framework tended to run parallel in detail, so that a structure could occupy the same location in a dozen Earths. There were many more barns in #772 than in EP, but it still didn’t stretch coincidence to have a perfect match. The one he trekked through now was an Earth-Prime barn, though, an old-fashioned red one. It had the same layout as the other, but it contained horses or sheep or—cows.

  He walked down the passage, cradling the sleeping baby—his baby!—and looking into the stalls. He passed the milkroom and entered the empty stable, noting how it had changed for animal accommodation. He couldn’t resist entering the special wing again.

  The first stall contained an ill cow who munched on alfalfa hay. The second was occupied by a lively heifer who paused to look soulfully at him with large soft eyes and licked its teeth with a speech-mute tongue. Had she just been bred? The third

  Then it struck him. He had been shocked that man could so ruthlessly exploit man, there on #772. It was not even slavery on the other world, but such thorough subjugation of the less fortunate members of society that no reprieve was even thinkable for the—cows. When man was rendered truly into animal, revolt was literally inconceivable for the domesticants.

  Yet what of the animals of this world, Earth-Prime? Man had, perhaps, the right to be inhumane to man—but how could he justify the subjugation of a species not his own? Had the free-roving bovines of ten thousand years ago come voluntarily to man’s barns, or had they been genocidally compelled? What irredeemable crime had been perpetrated against them?

  If Earth-Prime attempted to pass judgment on this counter-Earth system, what precedent would it be setting? For no one knew what the limits of the alternate-universe framework were. It was probable that somewhere within it were worlds more advanced, more powerful than EP. Worlds with the might to blast away all mammalian life including man himself from the Earth, leaving the birds and snakes and frogs to dominate instead. Had it been such intervention that set back #772?

  Worlds that could very well judge EP as EP judged counter-Earth #772,. Worlds that might consider any domestication of any species to be an intolerable crime against nature . . .

  Iolanthe would take care of the baby; he was sure of that. She was that sort of person. Prompt remedial surgery should mitigate the injury to the tongue. But the rest of it—a world full of similar misery

  He knew that in saving this one baby he had accomplished virtually nothing. His act might even give warning to #772 and thus precipitate far more cruelty than before. But that futility was only part of his growing horror.

  Could he be sure in his own mind that Earth-Prime had the right of it? Between it and #772 was a difference only in the actual species of mammal occupying the barn. The other world was, if anything, kinder to its stock than was EP.

  No—he was being foolishly anthropomorphic! It was folly to attempt to attribute human feelings or rights to cows. They had no larger potential, while the human domesticants of #772 did. Yet—

  Yet—

  Yet what sort of a report could he afford to make?

  Afterword

  The name inscribed over the bullpen is HARLAN, though the description is not necessarily physical. I was one of those who supposed his intellectual scrotum contained two jellybeans, but I learned that there were, after all, nitties in his gritty. Thus I applauded the potency of the first DANG VIS and clamored for admission to the second.

  Why? Why:

  Our field of speculative fiction, like our nation, like our world, becomes too complacent at times. Originality and candor are not always sought, not always appreciated, even when the need becomes critical. At such times there may be no gentle way to fertilize the willing medium; we have to call upon a bull-editor, a rampaging volume, and irate authors such as these you read here. Perhaps even so the mission will fail—but we must, must try. For it is in the expansion of our horizons, including especially these literary and moral ones, that our brightest future lies.

  In the Barn is intended to be a shocker, of course. It could have been told without the, if you’ll pardon the expression, vulgar detail. But the real shock should not stem from the portrayal of acts every normal person practices. It should be this: this story is a true representation of a situation that exists widely in America, and in the world, and that has existed for millennia. Only one detail has been changed: one form of mammal has been substituted for another in the barn.
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br />   Does human morality have to be defined in terms of humans? Is it impossible for us to recognize the inherent rights of nonhuman creatures? Surely, if we can show no more respect for cows, for chickens, for pigs, for any animal or color or philosophy—no more respect than this—surely we have defined our own morality unmistakably.

  SOUNDLESS EVENING

  Lee Hoffman

  Introduction

  Yesterday, speaking to a workshop group of hopeful writers at the University of Colorado, I was asked to explain why so much contemporary fiction (typified by the Updike/Cheever school as published in The New Yorker) was murky, seemingly pointless and devoid of plot . . . and I responded in my snotty manner that it was a perpetuation of the myth that people who say little, who speak rarely and who—when they do speak, orally or in their fiction—speak enigmatically are DEEP and MEANINGFUL.

  Christian charity on the part of you readers will excuse this editor’s frequent chauvinism and tendencies toward simplistic answers. A product of perfect toilet training in the Outback, I’m certain.

  Because if that theory is true, then how to explain Ms. Lee Hoffman, a woman of incredible depth and awesome powers, who is verbally stingy?

  If that theory is correct, how then does one explain Quandry, the single most mordantly witty fanzine ever to grace a mailbox, created and edited and nourished on the droll humor of Lee Hoffman?

  If that theory is supportable, there is no explanation for the hours of stories told around midnight campfires concerning the legend of Lee Hoffman.

  Clearly, your editor is either dead wrong in his belief, or Lee Hoffman is homo superior.

  It is possible to be in Lee’s company, in an oyster bar or cocktail lounge, and she won’t say anything for forty minutes, lying back as it were, and allowing the more garrulous and egomaniacal members of the group to monopolize center stage. Then at minute forty-one point thirty-six she will slide one Dorothy Parker-like line into the conversation and everyone will fall down. At that point you will realize that Lee Hoffman is what has held the group together for three hours, that everyone has been vying to see her smile or get her to laugh or nod her head sagely. She is the glue that holds the Universe together.

  I’ve known Lee so long now it seems as if I can’t remember a time when I didn’t. Beatley’s On-The-Lake Hotel it was, Bellefontaine, Ohio, sometime back in the very early Fifties. It’s gotta be twenty years Lee and I have known one another. Every five years she drops me a line informing me that another installment is due on my serial “!nissassa” for her magazine, Science fiction Five-Yearly. Oh God how I adore Lee Hoffman.

  Here is what she’s written, book-length: most of it has nothing to do with sf, despite the length and depth of time Lee has been a freak of the form. It is the beginning of a substantial body of writing in the field of the western novel. And she is good. So bloody good she won the Western Writers of American Spur award for The Valdez Horses in 1967. And if you think the only good writing in Westerns has been done by Steve Frazee and Dorothy Johnson and Jack Schaeffer and A. B. Guthrie and Elmer Kelton, then you have missed The Legend of Blackjack Sam and Gun-fight at Laramie (Ace, 1966), Bred to Kill (Ballantine, 1967), The Yarborough Brand (Avon, 1968), Dead Man’s Gold (Ace, 1968), West of Cheyenne (Doubleday, 1969), Wild Riders (Signet, 1969), Return to Broken Crossing (Ace, 1969) and Loco (Dell, 1971). But if all you read is science fiction, then you’ll like The Caves of Karst (Ballantine, 1969) and half of a Belmont Double edition containing Telepower (1967). You will not like the other half of that Belmont book, despite the fact (or perhaps because of the fact) that it is a short novel by your editor.

  It is interesting to note—as a dumb sidelight—that the name Lee chose for the hero of Telepower, the short novel in the book we shared, was Beldone; and that just happened to be the phony name I used when running with a kid gang, many years ago. What was I saying about the karass a while ago?

  But enough trivia. Here is Hoffman, for herself.

  “I was born in Chicago, Illinois, in the neighborhood where Dillinger got it. I spent a good deal of my pre-school life in the local museums, which my mother loved to browse. I’ve never outgrown my fascination with things which are ancient, obsolete and in ruins.

  “We moved to Lake Worth, Florida, in time for me to begin school a half term later than most kids. In Florida, I lolled about the beaches, played under Australian pines, and discovered comic books, which provided a good incentive for learning to read.

  “Then we moved to Savannah, Georgia, where I continued my schooling, and eventually started my education. At 18 I completed the two years of junior college available in town. Until that time I’d had various ideas of what I wanted to do for a living: horse ranching, radio engineering, theatre, things like that. On leaving college, I hadn’t the least idea of what I wanted to do.

  “I ran through a batch of odd and occasionally peculiar jobs, as would seem to be customary with people destined to become professional writers: I worked as a puppeteer, a stage hand, a shill to a horse trader in Kansas, doing minor radio repairs, handfeeding a Gordon press, handling complaints for an importer of foreign cars, in printing production (ever notice how often writer-types have worked in printing? Something to do with a confusion between cause and effect, I suppose), and reading slush for the first science fiction magazine to publish Harlan Ellison. I did a stint as a reporter/photographer on assignment in the Bahamas with a borrowed camera, sold a few drawings for publication, and wrote a few articles for car magazines.

  “As to writing fiction, well, my mother used to tell me stories. Then I started telling her stories. I began to put one on paper (ruled tablet paper with a soft lead pencil) when I was in the sixth grade. I never finished that one, but for a couple or three years I kept whupping off 500 word novels, having moved on to notebook paper and a pen. I did most of my writing in class, during lectures, when I wasn’t busy thinking up excuses for my declining grades.

  “After college, I had a job consisting mostly of sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. I read until I got tired of reading, and then started writing Westerns for my own amusement. I considered trying to sell some of the stuff, but decided I ‘wasn’t ready yet.’

  “I put aside notions of writing fiction professionally for the time being, and eventually pretty much forgot them. I had a career planned in the printing trade. Then one day, Ted White suggested that we collaborate on a book. That idea never got anywhere, but it gave me a notion to try another book of my own. A Western. I did it and, clutching the ms. in my grubby little hands, rushed up to Ace to give it to Terry Carr.

  “Terry liked it, but Ace hadn’t yet passed judgment, when suddenly one day Terry phoned me with an assignment to do another Western. I grabbed at the chance.

  “At the time, I’d quit my last job and was taking a few weeks off from nine-to-fiving. The next thing I knew I had one book sold, one contracted and another in the works. I decided not to go hunting a steady job again until the money started running low. Well, that was over six years ago and I’m still on the bum. So far I’ve sold sixteen books.

  “As to me, I’m a pack rat. I collect things. I have at various times owned six horses, two motorcycles, one fifth of a racing go-kart, a quart of vintage Okefenokee swamp water, the largest labelled rusty nail collection in the neighborhood, and over 2,500 fossil sharks teeth (hand-collected), not to mention uncountable other odds and ends, mostly books.

  “I live in genteel poverty in an extremely cluttered hole under a tenement on what was the Lower East Side when I moved in, but has since become The East Village, though I don’t think I am in any way responsible for this.

  “Mine is a life of occasional hectivity, much leisure, frequent confusion, and many pleasures. I count among my friends some of the finest people in the world. It is not always an easy life, but it is a good one.”

  Soundless Evening

  The holovision was turned low, its play of colors muted to soft pastels, and the accompanying music
barely audible. The windows, set at translucent, glowed with the warmth of the twilight beyond them. The ventilating system fed the room with air that was fresh and pure, pumped directly from outdoors. All the world was soft, and warm, and comfortable.

  Settled in his favorite easy chair, Winston Adamson sipped a fresh vegetable-juice cocktail and spied on his daughter from the corner of his eye. He felt a pleasant amusement in watching her.

  She stood beside the cat’s bed, gazing with rapt curiosity at Tammy and the kittens. Five of them in the litter. Mewling, squirming little furry lumps of life. Tammy’s first offspring. Even where he sat, Winston could hear Tammy’s soft contented purring.

  The child, Lorette, was Thea and Winston Adamson’s third at the present. Not the third-born. There had been two others between the first two and this little girl. He found himself suddenly thinking of those two. Jimmy and Beth. Both gone now. But there was still Lorette. She had the same brightness of eye, the same small pouched mouth, the eager hands—always curious, always exploring. The pleasure he took in watching her was the same.

  Charming children, he told himself with pride. It was a shame that kids couldn’t stay that way—all cute and cuddly and small.

  Something vaguely unpleasant touched the edge of his contentment, drawing a withered brown line along it. His oldest boy, Bob, wasn’t turning out at all the way he had hoped. The boy was full of foolish ideas about wanting to change the world. Change perfection!

  Dammitall, why?

  But as the question formed itself, Winston shoved it away. He refused to examine it. He didn’t like questions. He rarely asked them of himself. Most had been answered for him long before it might have occurred to him to ask. It was better this way. The chair was comfortable. The house was comfortable. The world was comfortable. Winston was satisfied. He couldn’t understand why everyone else wasn’t just as content.