A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “Unless he can fool her into thinking that he really loves her for herself alone, she doesn’t get anything at all out of it. So, he’s got to fool her. And the worst of it is that, if he doesn’t succeed, she’ll walk out on him with her money; then he’ll lose what he’s after, too—so he’s got good reason for being afraid. The situation is necessarily unstable; it’s almost bound to lead to grief of one kind or another. So, that kind of a marriage is bad.”

  “Why’s this any different?” Tom asked.

  “For one thing, because we can’t live a lie,” Pete said. “Living a lie of that sort requires great concentration and continuous effort. With the clan, no one person can concentrate on any one other. The lie, if it ever got started, would be a very short-lived one; and I don’t think it would ever get started. Not only is it pretty obvious when a new girl is added to a clan, that we can’t all be so desperately in love with her; it isn’t necessary. A person joins the clan. She’s getting a new way of life, and a whole new group of friends. Until she’s been in the clan a while, these are not more than friends; it takes time really to integrate a person into a clan. But, at least they are friends—people who will help you to stand against the world.

  “So she does get something out of the clan. She gets a sense of belonging, and it doesn’t depend on any one person but on the group-structure of the clan. The clan is there to belong to, regardless of any one individual. But with a monogamistic marriage, the structure is lost when either person pulls out. So this thing means that, in the first place, the clan can’t live a lie, and, in the second, that there is no need for the lie, anyway. Finally, this means that the situation is quite different from a monogamistic marriage for money. Even if, by chance, the thing is unstable, there is still no reason for fear.”

  “You think this thing’s all right, then?” Tom asked.

  “Didn’t say that,” Pete smiled. “I don’t think it’s particularly immoral, but that doesn’t say it’s all right; I don’t know. I haven’t really thought it out. But what I am saying is that you can’t just take over the old ethics into the clan. We got to create a new code and we got to start from the bottom.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Tom said. He stared thoughtfully out the window for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned away. “But it doesn’t help much,” he added to himself as he wandered toward the dining room.

  5

  IT WAS after supper, when the dishes had all been washed and the children packed off to bed, that the clan gathered in the livingroom. They had chatted for a short time, but all fell silent when Ricky got up. He went to the mantlepiece and, turning, announced: “I find that there are problems before the clan that require the mature consideration of the clan. I therefore request a caucus.” The words were the ritual of the process, established through long custom, and the clan’s by-laws.

  Tom stood up and, with some ostentation, counted the people present. He then announced: “I find that there is present the full membership of the clan that is adult, and that has been accepted into responsibility for the clan. Also, there are no strangers present. I believe you may call a caucus.” He sat down.

  “We have the word of Tom,” Ricky said. “Does anyone doubt that I may now call a caucus?” He looked around carefully. “Since no one seems to have a doubt, I do now declare that the clan is assembled in caucus, and ask Sandy to operate the recorder.” Sandy reached over to a box sitting on a table and flipped a switch. She spoke into a microphone, giving the date and time, and then announced that the recorder was on.

  Paul bounced up out of his chair. “What is the purpose of this caucus?” This, too, was ritual.

  “I have called this caucus,” Ricky said, “to ask the clan to consider the application for membership of Marcia Graves. It is my opinion that this question must be decided now, since various collateral problems of some urgency will be determined by our decision on this matter. Does anyone question this, or feel that the matter should not be considered at this time for any reason?” Although this was part of the established pattern of a caucus, he looked at Tom since the latter could, if he wished, protest the matter. Tom, however, smiled and barely shook his head.

  “Since there is no objection,” Ricky continued, looking slightly relieved, “I will summarize the situation as I see it.

  “Marcia has requested admission to the clan. She has been instructed in what this means both legally, and—in so far as it can be described or codified—socially. I do not think it can be said that she does not know what she is doing. As regards the girl herself, all of you have met her, I think, several times. This, of course, is not sufficient to determine her fitness or compatibility. However, it is as much as can reasonably be done before decision.

  “In accordance with the custom and the law, then, it is proposed that she be admitted on a conditional basis for a period of one year. During this time the clan may, by a majority vote in caucus, refuse her further membership. At the end of one year, in the absence of such a vote, she will be admitted to full membership and reciprocal obligations with the clan established. Subsequent severance of this relation can be accomplished only through the courts for due cause, and with due consideration of the equity of both parties.” His voice was almost a monotone as he recited the formula.

  “In the present case,” he continued, his voice coming alive, “there are certain collateral problems. Marcia is the daughter of Mr. Graves, president of Eltron Electric. Mr. Graves has long been a Free-Trader, and Eltron Electric has never contracted with the clans. However, it is clear that, if his daughter becomes a clanswoman, then he can no longer maintain this aloofness towards the clan. Specifically, he has indicated he will be willing to contract the Vord clan for a desirable piece of work if we accept his daughter. It is my opinion that, if he can once be persuaded to contract a functioning clan, then he will find this the desirable way to operate, and will therefore stop opposing the clans. He has had a continued history of labor-troubles, with strikes, absenteeism, high turnover, and all the rest. Once he has tried the clans, he will find they solve his worst headaches; he may well end up our best friend, almost no matter what happens to Marcia.”

  RICKY continued, “It is this matter of Graves that makes this matter urgent. Graves must decide in the next day or two how to handle this piece of work. He will either give it to us, or set up his own supervisory organization in this time. So we have to decide quickly. This, however, is not the only basis on which we should decide. It is one of them, and, I think, is a legitimately important one. But it is only one; we must also consider Marcia and the clan. She is one whose background is not in this direction. Her father, as I said, is rather vigorously Free-Trading and Monogamistic. She is poorly prepared, psychologically, for clan life.

  “And yet, she is sincere in wanting to join the clan. She has tried the other life and had it fail her. She hopes, in the clan, to find what she needs; and I think it quite possible that she may. I would not advocate this unless I thought she had at least a reasonable chance of succeeding.

  “As regards the clan, this, I suppose, is something each of us will have to decide for ourselves. Personally, I think she has a lot to contribute. She is intelligent, well-educated, and she has had a lot of cultural experience that none of us have had. I think she could add much to the clan, if we can only integrate her in. But that ‘if’ is the question. And each of you will have to decide yourself what is the answer to it.

  “But I think I have talked enough, here,” he said. “I’ve told you my own point of view. I think it is time to listen to the other side.” He looked at Tom, and waved his hand as if presenting him the floor.

  Tom got to his feet. He looked around at all these faces so familiar to him. What should he say? he wondered. What did he want to say? He did not know; he felt confused. And this surprised him.

  He looked at Ricky, and remembered their argument that afternoon. What was Ricky really after? he wondered. Was he just asking the clan to be opportunistic? To ta
ke Marcia in, just because of what the contract could do for them?

  Or did he really think Marcia could fit? That she could learn to be a real part of them? Or, again, as he remembered Ricky’s comment that she was a ‘dish’, had Ricky gone overboard about her? Was he so taken by her looks and all that he was forgetting the clan? Not consciously, of course; he would not, could not, do that consciously. But perhaps unknowing? Using the other arguments as rationalization?

  Somehow, Tom doubted this. Ricky might not be too deep a thinker but, Tom thought, he was generally extremely level headed. No, he thought, Ricky was probably quite serious in thinking the clan should accept Marcia, that she, in one way or another, would be good for the clan. And that left only the question of whether he was right or not.

  Tom’s eyes swung to Sandy, and he remembered his discussion with her. And he remembered her parting shot which had asked him if he was afraid of Marcia. If, perhaps, he did not resent her for being better educated than he, and if, maybe, she might awe him. Was that it? he wondered. Did he feel awe at her? He did of her father, certainly. He remembered his talks with Mr. Graves, and remembered coming out of them feeling beaten and bedraggled—something of the way he might feel towards Marcia.

  Yes, he had to admit it, there was that feeling there. She was from a background he did not know and it did, in truth, somewhat scare him. How much did this influence him? He did not know.

  He looked at Betsy, thinking of his talk with her. He remembered how she had brushed aside any thought that the kids might be harmed by Marcia. Was she right? Were the kids so stable emotionally that nothing Marcia could bring into their world would seriously harm them? Remembering Sue who had come to flirt with him with her four-year-old eyes, it was not hard to believe that Betsy was right.

  Also there was Betsy’s discussion of what might happen to Marcia. Betsy had argued, Tom remembered, that Marcia might well learn to fit, that she would find all the old rules by which she had lived outside the clan so completely inadequate that she would be forced to learn from scratch. Was that right, he wondered. After the initial period when she would be learning how little she knew, would she then be able to learn like a child, without undue prejudice, just because her background was so different? It was possible, he had to admit.

  And finally he looked at Pete. Pete had argued that it was not immoral to take in Marcia for economic reasons, that it was not like marrying a girl for her money. Economics were an integral and avowed part of the clan idea; and certainly the moralities of a clan had to be different from those of a monogamist marriage. Yes, he had to admit that he thought Pete’s arguments sound. There was a different ethics here. There had to be. What the true ethics would say of the case of Marcia, he did not know. But at least he could not lightly dismiss it all as simply and obviously immoral. It could not be that simple.

  AS TOM looked at them and pondered what he should say, the answer suddenly came to him. It came to him like a revelation, and he felt as if something inside of him had broken, something that had hampered and restricted him, even without his knowing it. He felt free, suddenly, free and exultant.

  He smiled at them and said: “When Ricky told me this afternoon, I was afraid; as I talked to several of you since that time, I continued to be afraid. And I was afraid when I came here tonight. But now, as I look at your bright faces, I am no longer. You and I are the clan, and the clan is stronger than anyone outside. Not Marcia, nor Graves, nor anyone else can break it; only we can break it—only we, by losing faith in it. I know now that I have not had the faith that I should have. The faith in you, and in us, and in our relations to each other. As I stood here looking at the faces of those I talked to, and remembering what you said, it came to me how foolish I have been.

  “I don’t know whether this thing is right or not; I don’t know what its ultimate result will be. Maybe it will be good, and maybe bad. But if it’s bad, it won’t be so bad as to be a disaster. The clan will survive anything that may come of it, and may even be the stronger for it. And if the results are good, why then of course everyone will be the winner for it. No, I don’t know what the results will be, but now I am willing to face whatever they are without fear, and with confidence in the clan.

  “My vote will be to accept Marcia.” He sat down feeling quite at peace with himself for the first time in what seemed like a long, long time.

  As Ricky came forward to take the floor again, and ask for further discussion, Tom looked around. Sandy, he saw, was looking at him with a smile in her eyes. She approved, he knew. And so did Betsy. She was watching him with a warm look that spoke her feelings. Pete was staring off into space, no doubt following down some logical train.

  The others were each reacting in their separate ways. Paul was interested but probably had no idea of what it really was about. Rita, in her maternal self-absorption, was not really concerned. Polly was watching him with sympathy for him as a man, but not with any basic understanding. Sam, with his dead-pan face was hard to read. His penetrating eyes saw deeply, but what they saw was hard to tell. Herb was looking around him with awkward movements; he was probably feeling very shy at the thought of a new member. Marcia, Tom thought, might well be good for him, teach him a greater social finesse.

  And there was Joan, leaning forward intently, no doubt wondering how Marcia would affect the artistic balance of the group. Mike was looking interested but not concerned. And Esther was sitting back in her chair with a vague smile on her lips. Probably, Tom thought with a mental chuckle, she was already planning some suitable induction ceremony.

  From here on out, Tom sensed, it was only a matter of formality. Other discussion there would be; arguments, perhaps. But in the end, Marcia would be admitted by unanimous vote. And he was content that it be so.

  THE INCREDIBLE EXPERIMENT

  Harold Sinclair

  He died a thousand times as he lay listening to the count toward zero, knowing he was the living subject of

  YOU can guess how I felt when this young fellow said, “You see, I’ve been to the moon and back. I guess I’m probably the only guy that ever has been there and back.”

  It was like this.

  Both the reading and writing of this so-called science fiction is not for me. But I know a few of the boys who do write the stuff and without exception they are real mental sharpies and anything is apt to turn up in even their most casual conversation. So when I encountered Bob Hooker and Tom Price at a table in our hangout I was glad to help them punish a few more beers and listen to their verbal excursions into outer space and other worlds.

  I noticed a young fellow alone at the bar who seemed more than casually interested in our talk, but that was not unusual. It’s a very small place, with only a path between the tables and the bar, so that practically all conversations are community property unless you especially stop your ears. There wasn’t anything important about his listening—it was free. I just couldn’t help remembering him, since I was looking at his face from a distance of six feet.

  Much as I liked the talk and the beer, I had to leave. I had a date to meet Helen at our usual bench at a comer of Beecham Park. I knew that the listener at the bar arose when I did, but I didn’t make anything of it until I sat down on the bench and saw the fellow was only ten feet behind me.

  “Mind if I sit down?” he asked a little diffidently.

  “Help yourself.” I didn’t have any lien on the bench and it was a public place. At the same time I knew also that the fellow had something on his mind. Well, Helen would be along in a few minutes.

  “You’re a writer, aren’t you?” It was put as a question, but was really a statement.

  So here it came. All writers run into, or are sought by, people who have the one and only story to tell—all you have to do is write it and make a million dollars, which of course they will obligingly split with you. The only safe and sure policy is to run the other way, fast; most of them just need a confessor. But in this instance I had to wait for Helen.


  “Well,” I conceded,” I make a sort of living at it.”

  “Yeah—well, I’d like to tell you a story.”

  “Now look——” I began, but he waved an impatient hand that somehow stopped me.

  “I know—you think I ’m going to make you some kind of proposition. Well, it’s nothing like that at all. I just want to tell the story. I’ve tried to tell it a hundred times. Generally I get hooted at before I get started good, or I get the old brush-off, and once I even got pinched and held for investigation. All that was mostly from the brass, naturally. Then I overheard your name back there in the bar. I’ve read some ?f your stuff and I figured maybe you’d like to hear this. You see, I’ve been to the moon and back.” He looked pensively at the end of his cigarette and added, I swear in all modesty, “I guess I’m probably the only guy that ever has.”

  I swung on the bench then and took my first good all-over look at him. A pleasant, ordinary-looking fellow of thirty, thirty-five, a decent suit and necktie, blond crew haircut, no hat.

  His eyes were blue and clear and seemed to have a kind of distant look in them—though I don’t quite know what I mean by that. Maybe that he seemed to be continually seeing something a million miles from this bench in Beecham Park.

  “Those two fellows I was with at the restaurant,” I said. “They’re your men. They’re science-fiction writers, and——”

  “No,” he said, and his jaw set a little stubbornly. “I know those birds—at least I know who they are, and they’re not for me. They don’t want the real truth—they wouldn’t believe it because they’ve dreamed up their own malarkey for too long. Now are you giving me the brush-off too? If you are I’ll beat it before we get into a useless argument.”