A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Why, killing was almost too good for them, the Dendi murmured as they killed them.

  WHEN THE Troxxt ripped their way back into possession of Earth some eighteen months later, bringing us the sweet fruits of the Second Reliberation—as well as a complete and most convincing rebuttal of the Dendi—there were few humans found who were willing to accept with any real enthusiasm the responsibilities of newly-opened and highly-paid positions in language, science and government.

  Of course, since the Troxxt, in order to reliberate Earth, had found it necessary to blast a tremendous chunk out of the northern hemisphere, there were very few humans to be found, in the first place . . .

  Even so, many of these committed suicide rather than assume the title of Secretary-General of the United Nations when the Dendi came back for the glorious Re-Reliberation, a short time after that. This was the liberation, by the way, which swept the deep collar of matter off our planet, and gave it what our forefathers came to call a pear-shaped look.

  Possibly it was at this time—possibly a liberation or so later—that the Troxxt and the Dendi discovered the. Earth had become far too eccentric in its orbit to possess the minimum safety-conditions demanded of a Combat Zone. The battle, therefore, zig-zagged coruscatingly and murderously away in the direction of Aldebaran.

  That was nine generations ago, but the tale that has been handed down from parent to child, to child’s child, has lost little in the telling. You hear it now from me almost exactly as heard it. From my father I heard it as I ran with him from water-puddle to distant water-puddle, across the searing heat of yellow sand. From my mother I heard it as we sucked air and frantically grabbed at clusters of thick green weed, whenever the planet beneath us quivered in omen of a geological spasm that might bury us in its burned-out body, or a cosmic gyration that threatened to fling us into empty space.

  Yes, even as we do now did we do then, telling the same tale, running the same frantic race across miles of unendurable heat for food and water; fighting the same savage battles with the giant rabbits for each other’s carrion—and always, ever and always, sucking desperately at the precious air, which leaves our world in greater quantities with every mad twist of its orbit.

  Naked, hungry and thirsty came we into the world, and naked, hungry and thirsty do we scamper our lives out upon it, under the huge and never-changing sun.

  The same tale it is, and the same traditional ending it has as that I had from my father and his father before him. Suck air, grab clusters and hear the last holy observation of our history:

  “Looking about us, we can say with pardonable pride that we have been about as thoroughly liberated as it is possible for a race and a planet to be!”

  STOWAWAY

  Mack Reynolds

  The New Taos was headed into space for a year when the stowaway was discovered. As Lt. Norsen said, “Forty-live men and one woman—oh, no!”

  LIEUTENANT Johnny Norsen, his lanky body sprawled uncomfortably in an acceleration chair, was playing Spartan rules with the darts, and paused only momentarily before each shot. Spartan rules were pretty Spartan, but in spite of the handicaps he hit the bull’s eye six times out of six and grunted in disgust.

  He complained, to no one in particular, “This was a swell game when we first brought it aboard. Now everybody is as good as it’s possible to get. We might as well flush it overboard.”

  No one in particular happened to be Dick Roland, ship’s navigator. He looked up from the onion skin, paper bound history he was reading. “Ummm,” he said vaguely. “Maybe we could toughen up the rules.”

  “How?” Norsen grumbled. “They’re as tough already as it’s possible to get them. We’d have to close both eyes, or something.” He shifted in his chair, yawned and recrossed his legs. “What in the kert are you reading?”

  “Decline and Fall of the United Stales. Ancient history. What do you think of it?” The navigator was young, rather handsome in an easygoing sort of way, but almost colorless in his lack of aggressiveness.

  Johnny Norsen yawned again. “I don’t like history, so I’ve only read the book four or five times.” He looked up at the earth time chrono on the wall. “Let’s crack today’s video-news.”

  Dick Roland followed his eyes. “We’ve still got five minutes to go,” he protested mildly.

  The other was irritated. “Five minutes, ten minutes, what’s the difference? Today is today. It’s not as though we were cracking next week’s news. Besides, I think Doc Thorndon’s crazier than a makron. What difference does it make when we show a news wire?”

  He knew the answer to his own question as well as anyone else in the New Taos, but it was something to talk about.

  Dick Roland said, “I think it’s a good idea. Keeps us interested in things. Every day we can look forward to getting the news. Sure, it’s a full year old, but that doesn’t make any difference to us. We haven’t heard it yet. Doc Thorndon says it’s one way of keeping space cafard from hitting the crew—something new every day, something to look forward to.”

  Norsen screwed up his angular face. “Where’d Doc get the idea, anyway? We never did it before.”

  Dick closed his history and tossed it to the wardroom table. He’d read it half a dozen times already, himself. He said, “You know Doc. Always reading those old books. From what he says, back in ancient times they used to pull the same idea—weather station men who were stuck up in the Artie and snowed in for maybe six months at a crack. They’d have a file of newspapers on hand, and each day they’d take one off the top. The news was exactly one year old, but it didn’t make any difference to them. They hadn’t read it before and so it was as fresh as though it’d just happened. When their supplies came in, in the Spring, they’d get another batch of papers.”

  Lieutenant Norsen looked up at the chrono again. “Well, it’s time now. Let’s crack today’s. I want to see if there’s anything on Jackie Black. It’s about time for him to pull one of his jobs again. That little makron is sure giving the S.S.B.I. a run for their credits.”

  Dick Roland was on his feet and getting the video-news wire from its built-in file. “Ummm,” he said. “Most effective criminal for the past century. If he keeps on making haul after haul, he ought to be set for life pretty soon.”

  Ensign Mart Bakr, his chubby face questioning, and his mouth still working on some tidbit or other, hurried through the wardroom door. “Haven’t started the video-wire yet have—” He saw they were about to run it and interrupted himself. “Good,” he said, and slumped into a chair.

  “Be ready in a second,” Dick Roland told him.

  “Good. By the way, you fellows hear the news?”

  They weren’t particularly interested. There wasn’t any news that could develop on a space cruiser on a year long trip.

  He said, nonchalantly, “Commander Gurloff thinks he’ll turn around and head back home.”

  They spun on him. “What!”

  He grinned at their excitement. “April Fool!”

  They stared at him, then their eyes went to each other, questioningly.

  Doctr Thorndon entered the tiny officer’s mess and wardroom just in time to pick up the end of the conversation. He said soothingly, “Never mind, boys, he’s not down with cafard. It’s a joke.”

  “A joke?” Johnny Norsen grumbled. “Why the fat little makron had Dick and me believing him for a minute. What’s this about April something or other?”

  Doc Thorndon settled into a chair. He was a cheerful, rolypoly man, his cheeks still pink but his hair thinning and graying. He was about forty-five—old for the space service.

  “April Fool,” he said. “It’s a time-honored jest. By the ancient calendar there was a day in the Terran year during which persons played practical jokes on each other. When the victim became indignant, the perpetrator merely called out April Fool! and the other was forced to admit himself duped.”

  They still didn’t quite get it. Doc Thorndon added, patiently, “If we were still following
the old calendar, this would be April 1st, All Fool’s Day, as they called it.” Dick Roland said, “Well, anyway, here’s the video-news for last April Fool’s Day.” He dimmed the room’s lights and flashed the video wire on the wall so that everyone could read.

  Over an hour later, he said, “Should we run it again now, or should we wait another couple of hours.”

  “Three times is enough,” Johnny Norsen said, “We’ll get tired of it, otherwise. Remember, it’s another twenty-four hours until we get another one. Let’s sit around and discuss it for awhile.”

  “Yeah,” Mart Bakr said. The chubby third officer shook his head in reluctant admiration. “Did you see that item about Jackie Black? They almost got him there on Calypso, but he’s too slick for them.”

  Johnny Norsen grunted contemptuously. “I don’t think that was him at all. Too big, for one thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Black was still on Earth. They’ve been reporting him on every planet and satellite in the system, but I’ll bet he never left Neuve Los Angeles, where he pulled his last—”

  “Caper,” Doc Thorndon said.

  The other three looked at him. “His what?” Mart Bakr asked.

  “His caper,” the doctr repeated, pleased with himself. “It’s a new word I ran into today. Criminals used to call a crime a caper.”

  Dick Roland shook his head and grinned. “What a hobby. Prehistoric slang.”

  There was a gentle knock at the wardroom door and the four of them looked up at the messman who stood there, somewhat nervous at being in officer’s country.

  “Yes, Spillane?” Johnny Norsen said.

  The messman cleared his throat. “Could you tell me where the skipper is, sir?”

  “I think he’s sleeping, Spillane. What is it?”

  “Well, sir. Well . . . there’s a stowaway on board.” He cleared his throat again and said, “We found her in the number eight compartment.” His eyes went from one to the other of them. He added, decisively, “Yes, sir.”

  Doc Thorndon was the first to explode. “Her!” he blurted.

  Mart Bakr started suddenly to laugh. His chuckle swelled into a roar and the others turned to stare at him in his turn. He was finally able to get out, “April Fool! We all bit again. April Fool!”

  Spillane looked blank.

  The faces of the others relaxed. Even the angular features of Johnny Norsen twisted themselves in a wry grin. He said, “You certainly caught us, Spillane.”

  The messman looked anxiously from one of the ship’s officers to the other. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “What?”

  Johnny Norsen scowled and said, “Run along now, Spillane. It was a good joke. Congratulations.”

  “Joke, sir? What joke?”

  Doc Thorndon had settled back into his chair now. “Oh, come along, Spillane. We—”

  A new voice, pitched low, and somewhat timid, said from the doorway, “Could I come in, now?”

  Johnny Norsen was facing the other way. He didn’t turn to look at her for a full minute. Instead, he closed his eyes and muttered in pain, “Oh, no. Forty-five men and one woman in a ship that’s to be in space for twelve months!”

  SHE wasn’t beautiful, nor even pretty, as current tastes went—but she had something, very definitely. She was about five foot five and probably in her middle twenties. Her attractiveness lay in a certain eagerness, a brightness, an interest in what was going on about her, no matter what it might be. Yes, she had something, very definitely. It was hard to put your finger on it.

  Right now, she was attired in a simple sports dress, wrinkled and somewhat soiled from her period in hiding among the supplies in compartment eight. Her eyes went nervously from one to the other of them and she self consciously brushed her clothes, avoiding her breasts and hips, as though not wishing to bring her sex to their attention.

  Johnny Norsen blurted, “Holy Jumping Wodo, Miss! Do you know where you are?”

  She looked down at the steel deck, toeing in like a little girl who’d been caught at something naughty. Her voice was very low. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “Oh, you do, eh?” Norsen rasped.

  Mart Bakr spoke for the first time since the apparition had appeared. “Don’t pick on her, Norsen,” he said truculently. “Can’t you see the poor kid’s scared?”

  The first officer spun on him. “Scared?” he said bitterly. “We’re the ones that ought to be scared.” He turned back to the girl. “Come on, Miss. Let’s go see the captain.”

  Mart Bakr and Dick Roland, the latter’s eyes still popping, started to follow into the corridor. Johnny Norsen grunted, “You two had better stay here. This many of us can’t crowd into the skipper’s quarters.” He added, sarcastically, “Besides, it’s probably going to be a trifle hot in there.”

  He made no protest when Doctr Thorndon followed and the three of them, ship’s first officer, stowaway, and ship’s doctr made a procession down the corridor past a score of open mouthed crew members.

  “Oh, brother, a dame on board,” a jetman muttered happily.

  “Knock it off, Johnson,” the first officer snapped in irritation over his shoulder.

  They rapped at the Captain’s cubbyhole which doubled as his living quarters and the space cruiser’s office. A voice from within growled, “What the kert is it?”

  Norsen fingered the door release and entered, followed by the two others.

  There was a flat silence which Johnny Norsen broke by saying dryly, “A stowaway, sir. The crew found her in the number eight compartment.”

  Commander Mike Gurloff had been relaxed on his bunk, staring unseeingly at the overhead. Now he spun around and came to an elbow, blinking.

  “Holy Jumping Wodo!” he blurted.

  “Yes, sir,” Norsen said. “That’s what I said. Probably the first female stowaway on a military craft since the beginning of intergalactical warfare.” He added, as though anyone needed reminding, “A year long cruise—forty-five men and one woman.”

  Doc Thorndon closed the door behind them. He said, softly, “We’re only three days out, Mike.” He was the only man aboard who habitually called the burly commander by his first name. “We could turn back.”

  The skipper brought his feet around to the floor and sat up. He stared at the girl, almost vacantly, then lowered his shaven head into his hands. He was a big man and toughened by the long years in the space service which had seen him rise to the position of the outstanding ship’s officer of his generation. He sat there like that for a full five minutes.

  Finally he took a deep breath and brought his eyes up to her. “What is your name, Miss?” Then he cleared his throat and said, more gently, “Don’t be afraid. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Kathleen . . . sir.” She added, after swallowing, “They call me Kathy.”

  He continued to look at her, and she said, nervously, “Kathleen Westley.”

  “All right, Miss Westley. Now tell us about it.” He indicated the swivel chair at the desk, the only chair in the tiny room. “You might as well sit down.”

  She sat in the chair, knees together and her hands in her lap, and looked less frightened now.

  Gurloff said, “Tell us about it.”

  She swallowed once more and said, “I don’t sec why women aren’t allowed in the Space Service.” There was an edge of defiance in her voice.

  Doc Thorndon said softly, “There are various reasons, Miss. Some of them medical, especially in intergalactic travel.”

  “Well, I don’t see—”

  Commander Gurloff said, “It doesn’t make much difference right at the moment, does it? What are you doing aboard my ship, Miss Westley?” His face was expressionless, almost as though he was too tired to care.

  She tossed her head infinitesimally, and her lower lip protruded. “I . . . I’ve always wanted to be a space . . . well, a spaceman.”

  Inadvertently, Gurloff’s eyes took in her full breast, her rounded hips. He said, wryly, “I’m afraid something went wrong wit
h your ambitions twenty-five or so years ago.”

  The girl flushed, but her face remained defiant.

  Doctr Thorndon said, “To make it short, Miss Westley, do we understand that you stowed away on this vessel to prove that women are quite as suitable for space travel as are men?”

  Her mouth tightened stubbornly and she nodded.

  Commander Gurloff asked, “And did you know that this vessel was to be in space for a period of over a year, Miss? A year is rather a long time.”

  Her eyes widened at that. “A . . . a year?”

  Gurloff grunted, suddenly weary of the interview. He said, “Mr. Norsen, take our . . . our passenger back to the officer’s mess. I suppose she’s hungry.” He thought it over briefly. “She can have the second and third officer’s stateroom. One of them can bunk with you, the other in the ship’s hospital.” His mouth tightened. “See that the lock on the door is in good repair and that she has a key.”

  The skipper’s eyes went back to the girl. He said, “Later—we’re going to have lots of time, Miss Westley—later, you can give us any further details about your decision to become a . . . a spaceman.” He motioned with his head and Johnny Norsen took her by the arm to lead her out.

  Gurloff said, “Do you mind staying a while, Doctr?”

  After the first officer and the girl had left, Doc Thorndon sank into the chair she had vacated. He waited for the other to speak.

  Commander Mike Gurloff sank prone on the bed again and his eyes focused on a rivet in the overhead. He said, “Possibly she’s the straw.”

  “The one that broke the camel’s back, eh?”

  Gurloff said, “Doc, have you wondered why we’ve been sent out on a cruise less than two weeks after the last one? Out on a cruise that’ll take over a year? A year! And half of my men on the verge of space cafard after finishing the last trip.”

  Doctr Thorndon nodded and rubbed the end of his nose with a forefinger. He said, “No, I haven’t wondered. I know the reason, Mike. By the way, did you know that they sent us off in such a hurry that our supplies of books, games, music wires, video-wires—all of our means of entertainment, in short—were ‘accidentally’ not replenished? Nothing, that is, except last year’s news wires.”