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Renaissance
www.renebooks.com
Copyright ©2005 by Jean Marie Stine
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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TIME ENOUGH AT LAST
& Other SF Stories that Inspired Classic Episodes of The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Tales of Tomorrow, and Other Classic SF Television Series
(With Videographies)
Edited By
JEAN MARIE STINE
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-58873-729-2
Copyright 2005 Jean Marie Stine
Most stories reprinted permission the Ackerman Agency
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information:
[email protected]
PageTurner Editions/A Futures-Past Classic
CONTENTS
Introduction
Of Late I Think of Cliffordsville (adapted for The Twilight Zone)
The Yellow Pill (adapted for From Out of This World)
It's a Good Life (adapted for The Twilight Zone)
Stepson of Space (adapted for Tales of Tomorrow)
People are Alike All Over (adapted for The Twilight Zone)
I, Robot (adapted for The Outer Limits)
Time Enough at Last (adapted for The Twilight Zone)
INTRODUCTION
Too often television (and movies), in scheming to bring science fiction to the screen, ignore the vast body of work created by science fiction writers over the decades, and instead purchase original stories by “professional” screenwriters, whose knowledge of the genre, like their ability to think as intelligently and deeply about their story as, say, the average member if the SFWA, is negligible. Typically the results are deplorable, as reflected, among other things, by the sad record of original movies produced for the Sci-Fi Channel.
When television (and other) producers do turn to actual science fiction stories and adapt them for their particular medium, the results are often quite exemplary, as witness the majority of the most memorable episodes of The Twilight Zone. Such was the case with Lyn Venable's short story. “Time Enough at Last,” which, adapted by none less than the show's creator and host, multiple Emmy winner Rod Serling, achieved such legendary status that forty some years later was voted #25 on TV Guide's list of the “100 Hundred Most Memorable TV Moments.” Equally memorable was The Outer Limits’ adaptation of Eando Binder's sf classic, “I, Robot,” a tale so moving that it was selected for remake by the producers of The New Outer Limits more than three decade later.
This one-of-a-kind anthology gathers together seven science fiction novelettes and short stories that were adapted into classic episodes of legendary television series like The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Tales of Tomorrow, and From Out of This World. In addition, you will find videographies listing each story's first appearance, the name of the screenwriter who adapted it for television, the episode's director, air date, length, cast, and more. This is your chance to read seven of the most famous science fiction stories ever written, including one, Raymond Z. Gallun's “Stepson of Space,” which is reprinted here for the first time ever since its original magazine appearance.
Jean Marie Stine
OF LATE I THINK OF CLIFFORDSVILLE
MALCOLM JAMESON
ADAPTED FOR THE TWILIGHT ZONE (1963)
VIDEOGRAPHY
Series: The Twilight Zone
Episode title: Of Late I Think of Cliffordsville
Based on: “Blind Alley” by Malcom Jameson
Publication: Unknown Worlds, June 1943
Teleplay: Rod Serling
Director: David Lowell Rich
Cast: Albert Salmi (Bill Feathersmith), Julie Newmar (Miss Devlin), John Anderson (Diedrich), Wright King (Hecate), Guy Raymond (Mr. Gibbons), (Joanna Gibbons), John Harmon (Clark), Hugh Sanders (Cronk).
Running Time: hour episode
Medium: B&W.
Air Date: April 11, 1963
OF LATE I THINK OF CLIFFORDSVILLE
Nothing was further from Mr. Feathersmith's mind than dealings with streamlined, mid-twentieth-century witches or dickerings with the Devil. But something had to be done. The world was fast going to the bowwows, and he suffered from an overwhelming nostalgia for the days of his youth. His thoughts constantly turned to Cliffordsville and the good old days when men were men and God was in His heaven and all was right with the world. He hated modern women, the blatancy of the radio, That Man in the White House, the war...
Mr. Feathersmith did not feel well. His customary grouch—which was a byword throughout all the many properties of Pyramidal Enterprises, Inc.—had hit an all-time high. The weather was rotten, the room too hot, business awful, and everybody around him a dope. He loathed all mention of the cold war, which in his estimation had been bungled from the start. He writhed and cursed whenever he thought of priorities, quotas and taxes; he frothed at the mouth at every new government regulation. His plants were working night and day on colossal contracts that under any reasonable regime would double his wealth every six months, but what could he expect but a few paltry millions?
He jabbed savagely at a button on his desk, and before even the swiftest-footed of messengers could have responded, he was irritably rattling the hook of his telephone.
"Well?” he snarled, as a tired, harassed voice answered. “Where's Paulson? Wake him up! I want him."
Paulson popped into the room with an inquiring, “Yes, sir?” Mr. Paulson was his private secretary and to his mind stupid, clumsy and unambitious. But he was a male. For Mr. Feathersmith could not abide the type of woman that cluttered up offices in these decadent days. Everything about them was distasteful—their bold, assured manner, their calm assumption of efficiency, their persistent invasion of fields sacred to the stronger and wiser sex. He abhorred their short skirts, their painted faces and their varnished nails, the hussies! And the nonchalance with which they would throw a job in an employer's face if he undertook to drive them was nothing short of maddening. Hence Mr. Paulson.
"I'm roasting,” growled Mr. Feathersmith. “This place is an oven."
"Yes, sir,” said the meek Paulson, and went to the window where an expensive air-conditioning unit stood. It regulated the air, heating it in winter, cooling it in summer. It was cold and blustery out and snow was in the air; Mr. Feathersmith should have been grateful. But he was not. It was a modern gadget, and though a touch of the hand was all that was needed to regulate it, he would have nothing to do with it. All Paulson did was move a knob one notch.
"What about the Phoenix Development Shares?” barked the testy old man. “Hasn't Ulrich unloaded those yet? He's had time enough."
"The S.E.C. hasn't approved them yet,” said Paulson, apologetically. He might have added, but thought best not to, that Mr. Farquhar over there had said the prospectus stank and that the whole proposition looked like a bid for a long-term lease on a choice cell in a Federal penitentiary.
"Aw-r-rk,” went Mr. Feathersmith, “a lot of Communists, that's what they are. What are we coming to? Send Clive in."
"Mr. Clive is in court, sir. And so is Mr. Blakeslee. It's about the reorganization plan for the Duluth, Moline & Southern—the bondholders’ protective committee..."
"Aw-r-rk,” choked Mr. Feathersmith. “Yes, those accursed bondholders—always yelpi
ng and starting things. Get out. I want to think."
His thoughts were bitter ones. Never in all his long and busy life had things been as tough as now. When he had been simply Jack Feathersmith, the promoter, it had been possible to make a fortune overnight. You could lose at the same rate, too, but still a man had a chance. There were no starry-eyed reformers always meddling with him. Then he had become the more dignified “entrepreneur,” but the pickings were still good. After that he had styled himself “investment banker” and had done well, though a certain district attorney raised some nasty questions about it and forced some refunds and adjustments. But that had been in the 30's when times were hard for everybody. Now, with a war on and everything, a man of ability and brains ought to mop up. But would they let him? A w-r-rk!
Suddenly he realized he was panting and heaving and felt very, very weak. He must be dying. But that couldn't be right. No man of any age kept better fit. Yet his heart was pounding and he had to gasp for every breath. His trembling hand fumbled for the button twice before he found it. Then, as Paulson came back, he managed a faint, “Get a doctor. I must be sick."
For the next little while things were vague. A couple of the hated females from the outer office were fluttering and cooing about the room, and one offered him a glass of water which he spurned. Then he was aware of a pleasant-faced young chap bending over him listening to his chest through a stethoscope. He discovered also that one of those tight, blood-pressure contraptions was wrapped around his arm. He felt the prick of a needle. Then he was lifted to a sitting position and given a couple of pills.
"A little stroke, eh?” beamed the young doctor, cheerily. “Well, you'll be all right in a few minutes. The ephedrine did the trick."
Mr. Feathersmith ground his teeth. If there was anything in this topsy-turvy modern age he liked less than anything else it was the kind of doctors they had. A little stroke, eh? The young whippersnapper! A fresh kid, no more. Now take old Dr. Simpson, back at Cliffordsville. There was a doctor for you—a sober, grave man who wore a beard and a proper Prince Albert coat. There was no folderol about him—newfangled balderdash about basal metabolism, X-rays, electrocardiograms, blood counts and all that rot. He simply looked at a patient's tongue, asked him about his bowels, and then wrote a prescription. And he charged accordingly. “Do you have these spells often?” asked the young doctor. He was so damn cheerful about it, it hurt.
"Never,” blared Mr. Feathersmith. “Never was sick a day in my life. Three of you fellows pawed me over for three days, but couldn't find a thing wrong. Consolidated Mutual wrote me a million straight life on the strength of that and tried their damnedest to sell me another million. That's how good I am."
"Pretty good,” agreed the doctor with a laugh. “When was that?"
"Oh, lately—fifteen years ago, about."
"Back in ‘28, huh? That was when even life insurance companies didn't mind taking a chance now and then. You were still in your fifties then, I take it?"
"I'm fit as a fiddle yet,” asserted the old man doggedly.
He wanted to pay this upstart off and be rid of him.
"Maybe,” agreed the doctor, commencing to put his gear away, “but you didn't look it a little while ago. If I hadn't got here when I did..."
"Look here, young man,” defied Mr. Feathersmith, “you can't scare me."
"I'm not trying to,” said the young man, easily. “If a heart block can't scare you, nothing can. Just the same, you've got to make arrangements. Either with a doctor or an undertaker. Take your choice. My car's downstairs if you think I'll do."
"Aw-r-rk,” sputtered Mr. Feathersmith, but when he tried to get up he realized how terribly weak he was. He let them escort him to the elevator, supporting him on either side, and a moment later was being snugged down on the back seat of the doctor's automobile.
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The drive uptown from Wall Street was as unpleasant as usual. More so, for Mr. Feathersmith had been secretly dreading the inevitable day when he would fall into doctors’ hands, and now that it had happened, he looked out on the passing scene in search of diversion. The earlier snow had turned to rain, but there were myriads of men and lots of equipment clearing up the accumulation of muck and ice. He gazed at them sourly—scrape, scrape, scrape—noise, clamor and dirt, all symptomatic of the modern city. He yearned for Cliffordsville where it rarely snowed, and when it did it lay for weeks in unsullied whiteness on the ground. He listened to the gentle swishing of the whirling tires on the smooth, wet pavement, disgusted at the monotony of it. One street was like another, one city like another—smooth, endless concrete walled in by brick and plate glass and dreary rows of light poles. No one but a fool would live in a modern city. Or a modern town, for that matter, since they were but unabashed tiny imitations of their swollen sisters. He sighed. The good old days were gone beyond recapture.
It was that sigh and that forlorn thought that turned his mind to Forfin. Forfin was a shady fellow he knew and once or twice had employed. He was a broker of a sort, for the lack of better designation. He hung out in a dive near Chatham Square and was altogether a disreputable person, yet he could accomplish strange things. Such as dig up information known only to the dead, or produce prophecies that could actually be relied on. The beauty of dealing with him was that so long as the fee was adequate—and it had to be that—he delivered the goods and asked no questions. His only explanation of his peculiar powers was that he had contacts—gifted astrologers and numerologists, unprincipled demonologists and their ilk. He was only a go-between, he insisted, and invariably required a signed waiver before undertaking any assignment. Mr. Feathersmith recalled now that once, when he had complained of a twinge of rheumatism, Forfin had hinted darkly at being able to produce some of the water of the Fountain of Youth. At a price, of course. And when the price was mentioned, Mr. Feathersmith had haughtily ordered him out of the office.
The doctor's office was the chamber of horrors he had feared. There were many rooms and cubbyholes filled with shiny adjustable enameled torture chairs and glassy cabinets in which rows of cruel instruments were laid. There were fever machines and other expensive-looking apparatus, and a laboratory full of mysterious tubes and jars. White-smocked nurses and assistants flitted noiselessly about like helpful ghosts. They stripped him and weighed him and jabbed needles in him and took his blood. They fed him messy concoctions and searched his innards with a fluoroscope; they sat him in a chair and snapped electrodes on his wrists and ankle to record the pounding of his heart on a film. And after other thumpings, listenings and measurings, they left him weary and quivering to dress himself alone.
Naked as he was, and fresh from the critical probing of the doctor and his gang, he was unhappily conscious of how harshly age had dealt with him after all. He was pink and lumpy now where he had once been firm and tanned. His spindly shanks seemed hardly adequate for the excess load he now carried about his middle. Until now he had valued the prestige and power that goes with post-maturity, but now, for the first time in his life, he found himself hankering after youth again. Yes, youth would be desirable on any terms. It was a thoughtful Mr. Feathersmith who finished dressing that afternoon.
The doctor was waiting for him in his study, as infernally cheerful as ever. He motioned the old man to a chair.
"You are a man of the world,” he began, “so I guess you can take it. There is nothing to be alarmed over—immediately. But you've got to take care of yourself. If you do, there are probably a good many years left in you yet. You've got a cardiac condition that has to be watched, some gastric impairments, your kidneys are pretty well shot, there are signs of senile arthritis, and some glandular failure and vitamin deficiency. Otherwise, you are in good shape."
"Go on.” Now Mr. Feathersmith knew he would have to get in touch with Forfin.
"You've got to cut out all work, avoid irritation and excitement, and see me at least weekly. No more tobacco, no liquor, no spicy or greasy foods, no late hours. I'm giving y
ou a diet and some prescriptions as to pills and tablets you will need..."
The doctor talked on, laying down the law in precise detail. His patient listened dumbly, resolving steadfastly that he would do nothing of the sort. Not so long as he had a broker on the string who could contact magicians.
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That night Mr. Feathersmith tried to locate Forfin, but Forfin could not be found. The days rolled by and the financier felt better. He was his old testy self again and promptly disregarded all his doctor's orders. Then he had his second heart attack, and that one nearly took him off. After that he ate the vile diet, swallowed his vitamin and gland extract pills, and duly went to have his heart examined. He began liquidating his many business interests. Sooner or later his scouts would locate Forfin. After that he would need cash, and lots of it. Youth, he realized now, was worth whatever it could be bought for.
The day he met with his lawyers and the buyers’ lawyers to complete the sale of Pyramidal Enterprises, Inc., Mr. Blakeslee leaned over and whispered that Forfin was back in town. He would be up to see Mr. Feathersmith that night. A gleam came into the old man's eye and he nodded. He was ready. By tomorrow all his net worth would be contained in cash and negotiable securities. It was slightly over thirty-two million dollars altogether, an ample bribe for the most squeamish demonologist and enough left over for the satisfaction of whatever dark powers his incantations might raise. He was confident money would do the trick. It always had, for him, and was not the love of it said to be the root of all evil?
Mr. Feathersmith was elated. Under ordinary circumstances he would have conducted a transaction of the magnitude of selling Pyramidal with the maximum of quibbling and last-minute haggling. But today he signed all papers with alacrity. He even let Polaris Petroleum & Pipeline go without a qualm, though the main Polaris producing field was only a few miles south of his beloved Cliffordsville. He often shuddered to think of what an oil development would do to a fine old town like that, but it made him money and, anyhow, he had not been back to the place since he left it years ago to go and make his fortune.
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