A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Once, the present gas giant had been a solid planet, like other solid planets, though very much larger than the average, and well above the limit—about three times the mass of Earth—above which it could form the core of a gas giant. With its considerable gravity, it had collected a fair quantity of the free gas in the system of its accretion, and with its thereby increased gravity, it had gone on to collect more and more, mostly hydrogen and helium, and that snowballing had almost produced a star.

  According to some definitions, it already had: the Jovian radiated heat and was active in the microwave band, but it was powered solely by the force of compression, and had no internal fusion source where the original core had been lost in its gaseous envelope. So, according to the generally accepted definition, the Jovian was still only—a planet.

  The method of turning the Jovian into a temporary star was, in essence, quite simple: it meant transferring the vicious flux of energies from the “crude-scooped” sun via the double store. While it couldn’t contain them, it could pass them on to the interior of the Jovian, where they would raise the temperature in the area of their debouchment to a point where fusion reactions could begin. And then the Jovian would become a star. It wouldn’t stay one, for the heat produced by the fusion would break the balance already struck between compression and expansion. The expansion produced would finally lower the compression-produced core temperature, and the core temperature would fall below that necessary for fusion. The body would then contract, raising the temperature again high enough for fusion, the process would be repeated, and the body would then oscillate about the borderline between star and planet until the effect of the initial heat kick from the ‘Collomosse’ was finally dissipated. If it worked at all.

  We waited in the control room, watching the visual display board. The super-Jovian looked quite normal.

  “What should we expect?” asked Hardwick, with more than a trace of sarcasm, to hide his apprehension. “A sunspot? Or will it suddenly turn into an incandescent globe?”

  “I don’t know . . . never done this before,” I said, echoing his sarcasm. “Probably there’ll just be a rise in the surface temperature, and a bit of activity up and down the electromagnetic spectrum; but nothing too dramatic.”

  Which was the way it happened. The redness of the Jovian seemed to deepen, and as far as the eye was concerned, that was it; but the machines were more discerning.

  They had to immediately make allowance for being in a binary system, according to the standard programming. Alarms rang throughout the ship, warning lights flashed red, pandemonium seemed to have broken loose.

  There was no real doubt, but we checked over the figures with great care, and found, to our relief, that the Jovian was kicking off more energy than it should or could—unless it had a fusion power source—and was a star.

  “It’s worked!” Hardwick said, elated despite himself. “I was watching the Base on the display board, and the hypespace communicator was re-targetted. It’s sending a report back!”

  The last entanglements of fear falling from me, I pushed myself off the bunk and onto my feet.

  “Do you recall, Hardwick, making a confession to me?”

  Hardwick looked momentarily nonpulssed, then:

  “Can’t you wait? Do you need it down on your record so badly?”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I did.” He looked like a trapped animal.

  “And are you willing still to accept executive punishment?”

  The light of understanding flickered in Hardwick’s eyes:. executive punishment was necessarily lighter than the judicial variety. He nodded. It didn’t take long. I sentenced him to a 100 days’ detention, starting from the time of his surrender, a day or two before, and I logged it on the ship’s computer record.

  By the time the rescuers arrived, the sentence would almost be served.

  IT WAS ONLY LATER, as I stood my watch, that I began to wonder whether I’d been right to be so generous to Hardwick. It could hurt me with the Customs Service, though it probably wouldn’t. The laws affecting the free transfer of people between worlds were already under review, for as well as clashing with great economic interests, a great many in the Service detest the laws, even though we enforce them. To have taken a ship and been instrumental in the death of four smugglers could have caused me to have been marked down as overly zealous in that field. My leniency to Hardwick should just about even the score and leave me the enviable record of spectacularly overcoming the Glacis. Very career enhancing!

  I suddenly noticed on the instrument board that the fusion reaction had stopped for the fourth and, unless more energy were to be poured in, almost certainly for the last time. It hardly seemed necessary to do that, unless . . . And then, why not? It would take some careful calculation and accurate work, but we still had a lot of waiting to do. Why not use it to gain for myself the added distinction of being the first man to signal by means of a sun—even if it was only a home-made one? And also—although many would doubt it—of having a sense of humour. For there was no doubt in my mind what the message should be—

  S.O.S.

  See—Our Sun!

  I SEE YOU

  Damon Knight

  You are five, hiding in a place only you know. You are covered with bark dust, scratched by twigs, sweaty and hot. A wind sighs in the aspen leaves. A faint steady hiss comes from the viewer you hold in your hands; then a voice: “Lorie, I see you—under the barn, eating an apple!” A silence. “Lorie, come on out, I see you.” Another voice. “That’s right, she’s in there.” After a moment, sulkily: “Oh, okay.”

  You squirm around, raising the viewer to aim it down the hill. As you turn the knob with your thumb, the bright image races toward you, trees hurling themselves into red darkness and vanishing, then the houses in the compound, and now you see Bruce standing beside the corral, looking into his viewer, slowly turning. His back is to you; you know you are safe, and you sit up. A jay passes with a whir of wings, settles on a branch. With your own eyes now you can see Bruce, only a dot of blue beyond the gray shake walls of the houses. In the viewer, he is turning toward you, and you duck again. Another voice: “Children, come in and get washed for dinner now.” “Aw, Aunt Ellie!” “Mom, we’re playing hide and seek. Can’t we just stay fifteen minutes more?” “Please, Aunt Ellie!” “No, come on in now—you’ll have plenty of time after dinner.” And Bruce: “Aw, okay. All out’s in free.” And once more they have not found you; your secret place is yours alone.

  Call him Smith. He was the president of a company that bore his name and which held more than a hundred patents in the scientific instrument field. He was sixty, a widower. His only daughter and her husband had been killed in a plane crash in 1978. He had a partner who handled the business operations now; Smith spent most of his time in his own lab. In the spring of 1990 he was working on an image intensification device that was puzzling because it was too good. He had it on his bench now, aimed at a deep shadow box across the room; at the back of the box was a card ruled with black, green, red and blue lines. The only source of illumination was a single ten-watt bulb hung behind the shadow box; the light reflected from the card did not even register on his meter, and yet the image in the screen of his device was sharp and bright. When he varied the inputs to the components in a certain way, the bright image vanished and was replaced by shadows, like the ghost of another image. He had monitored every television channel, had shielded the device against radio frequencies, and the ghosts remained. Increasing the illumination did not make them clearer. They were vaguely rectilinear shapes without any coherent pattern. Occasionally a moving blur traveled slowly across them.

  Smith made a disgusted sound. He opened the clamps that held the device and picked it up, reaching for the power switch with his other hand. He never touched it. As he moved the device, the ghost images had shifted; they were dancing now with the faint movements of his hand. Smith stared at them without breathing for a moment. Holding the c
ord, he turned slowly. The ghost images whirled, vanished, reappeared. He turned the other way; they whirled back.

  Smith set the device down on the bench with care. His hands were shaking. He had had the thing clamped down on the bench all the time until now. “Christ almighty, how dumb can one man get?” he asked the empty room.

  You are six, almost seven, and you are being allowed to use the big viewer for the first time. You are perched on a cushion in the leather chair at the console; your brother, who has been showing you the controls with a bored and superior air, has just left the room, saying, “All right, if you know so much, do it yourself.”

  In fact, the controls on this machine are unfamiliar; the little viewers you have used all your life have only one knob, for nearer or farther—to move up/down, or left/right, you just point the viewer where you want to see. This machine has dials and little windows with numbers in them, and switches and pushbuttons, most of which you don’t understand, but you know they are for special purposes and don’t matter. The main control is a metal rod, right in front of you, with a gray plastic knob on the top. The knob is dull from years of handling; it feels warm and a little greasy in your hand. The console has a funny electric smell, but the big screen, taller than you are, is silent and dark. You can feel your heart beating against your breastbone. You grip the knob harder, push it forward just a little. The screen lights, and you are drifting across the next room as if on huge silent wheels, chairs and end tables turning into reddish silhouettes that shrink, twist and disappear as you pass through them, and for a moment you feel dizzy because when you notice the red numbers jumping in the console to your left, it is as if the whole house were passing massively and vertiginously through itself; then you are floating out the window with the same slow and steady motion, on across the sunlit pasture where two saddle horses stand with their heads up, sniffing the wind; then a stubbled field, dropping away; and now, below you, the co-op road shines like a silver-gray stream. You press the knob down to get closer, and drop with a giddy swoop; now you are rushing along the road, overtaking and passing a yellow truck, turning the knob to steer. At first you blunder into the dark trees on either side, and once the earth surges up over you in a chaos of writhing red shapes, but now you are learning, and you soar down past the crossroads, up the farther hill, and now, now you are on the big road, flying eastward, passing all the cars, rushing toward the great world where you long to be.

  It took Smith six weeks to increase the efficiency of the image intensifier enough to bring up the ghost pictures clearly. When he succeeded, the image on the screen was instantly recognizable. It was a view of Jack McCranie’s office; the picture was still dim, but sharp enough that Smith could see the expression on Jack’s face. He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. Beside him stood Peg Spatola in a purple dress, with her hand on an open folder. She was talking, and McCranie was listening. That was wrong, because Peg was not supposed to be back from Cleveland until next week.

  Smith reached for the phone and punched McCranie’s number.

  “Yes, Tom?”

  “Jack, is Peg in there?”

  “Why, no—she’s in Cleveland, Tom.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  McCranie sounded puzzled. “Is anything the matter?” In the screen, he had swiveled his chair and was talking to Peg, gesturing with short, choppy motions of his arm.

  “No, nothing,” said Smith. “That’s all right, Jack, thank you.” He broke the connection. After a moment he turned to the breadboard controls of the device and changed one setting slightly. In the screen, Peg turned and walked backward out of the office. When he turned the knob the other way, she repeated these actions in reverse. Smith tinkered with the other controls until he got a view of the calendar on Jack’s desk. It was Friday, June 15th—last week.

  Smith locked up the device and all his notes, went home and spent the rest of the day thinking.

  By the end of July he had refined and miniaturized the device and had extended its sensitivity range into the infrared. He spent most of August, when he should have been on vacation, trying various methods of detecting sound through the device. By focusing on the interior of a speaker’s larynx and using infrared, he was able to convert the visible vibrations of the vocal cords into sound of fair quality, but that did not satisfy him. He worked for a while on vibrations picked up from panes of glass in windows and on framed pictures, and he experimented briefly with the diaphragms in speaker systems, intercoms and telephones. He kept on into October without stopping and finally achieved a system that would give tinny but recognizable sound from any vibrating surface—a wall, a floor, even the speaker’s own cheek or forehead.

  He redesigned the whole device, built a prototype and tested it, tore it down, redesigned, built another. It was Christmas before he was done. Once more he locked up the device and all his plans, drawings and notes.

  At home he spent the holidays experimenting with commercial adhesives in various strengths. He applied these to coated paper, let them dry, and cut the paper into rectangles. He numbered these rectangles, pasted them onto letter envelopes, some of which he stacked loose; others he bundled together and secured with rubber bands. He opened the stacks and bundles and examined them at regular intervals. Some of the labels curled up and detached themselves after twenty-six hours without leaving any conspicuous trace. He made up another batch of these, typed his home address on six of them. On each of six envelopes he typed his office address, then covered it with one of the labels. He stamped the envelopes and dropped them into a mailbox. All six, minus their labels, were delivered to the office three days later.

  Just after New Year’s, he told his partner that he wanted to sell out and retire. They discussed it in general terms.

  Using an assumed name and a post office box number which was not his, Smith wrote to a commission agent in Boston with whom he had never had any previous dealings. He mailed the letter, with the agent’s address covered by one of his labels on which he had typed a fictitious address. The label detached itself in transit; the letter was delivered. When the agent replied, Smith was watching and read the letter as the secretary typed it. The agent followed his instruction to mail his reply in an envelope without return address. The owner of the post office box turned it in marked “not here”; it went to the dead-letter office and was returned in due time, but meanwhile Smith had acknowledged the letter and had mailed, in the same way, a large amount of cash. In subsequent letters he instructed the agent to take bids for components, plans for which he enclosed, from electronics manufacturers, for plastic casings from another, and for assembly and shipping from still another company. Through a second commission agent in New York, to whom he wrote in the same way, he contracted for ten thousand copies of an instruction booklet in four colors.

  Late in February he bought a house and an electronics dealership in a small town in the Adirondacks. In March he signed over his interest in the company to his partner, cleaned out his lab and left. He sold his co-op apartment in Manhattan and his summer house in Connecticut, moved to his new home and became anonymous.

  You are thirteen, chasing a fox with the big kids for the first time. They have put you in the north field, the worst place, but you know better than to leave it.

  “He’s in the glen.”

  “I see him, he’s in the brook, going upstream.”

  You turn the viewer, racing forward through dappled shade, a brilliance of leaves: there is the glen, and now you see the fox, trotting through the shallows, blossoms of bright water at its feet.

  “Ken and Nell, you come down ahead of him by the springhouse. Wanda, you and Tim and Jean stay where you are. Everybody else come upstream, but stay back till I tell you.”

  That’s Leigh, the oldest. You turn the viewer, catch a glimpse of Bobby running downhill through the woods, his long hair flying. Then back to the glen: the fox is gone.

  “He’s heading up past the corncrib!”

  “Okay, keep
spread out on both sides, everybody. Jim, can you and Edie head him off before he gets to the woods?”

  “We’ll try. There he is!”

  And the chase is going away from you, as you knew it would, but soon you will be older, as old as Nell and Jim; then you will be in the middle of things, and your life will begin.

  By trial and error, Smith has found the settings for Dallas, November 22, 1963: Dealey Plaza, 12:25 p.m. He sees the Presidential motorcade making the turn onto Elm Street. Kennedy slumps forward, raising his hands to his throat. Smith presses a button to hold the moment in time. He scans behind the motorcade, finds the sixth floor of the Book Depository Building, finds the window. There is no one behind the barricade of cartons; the room is empty. He scans the nearby rooms, finds nothing. He tries the floor below. At an open window a man kneels, holding a high-powered rifle. Smith photographs him. He returns to the motorcade, watches as the second shot strikes the President. He freezes time again, scans the surrounding buildings, finds a second marksman on a roof, photographs him. Back to the motorcade. A third and fourth shot, the last blowing off the side of the President’s head. Smith freezes the action again, finds two gunmen on the grassy knoll, one aiming across the top of a station wagon, one kneeling in the shrubbery. He photographs them. He turns off the power, sits for a moment, then goes to the washroom, kneels beside the toilet and vomits.

  The viewer is your babysitter, your television, your telephone (the telephone lines are still up, but they are used only as signaling devices; when you know that somebody wants to talk to you, you focus your viewer on him), your library, your school. Before puberty you watch other people having sex, but even then your curiosity is easily satisfied; after an older cousin initiates you at fourteen, you are much more interested in doing it yourself. The co-op teacher monitors your studies, sometimes makes suggestions, but more and more, as you grow older, leaves you to your own devices. You are intensely interested in African prehistory, in the European theater, and in the ant-civilization of Epsilon Eridani IV. Soon you will have to choose.