Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  "Every now and then each race produces a genetic sport," I say, and I can see she believes it, "and we Antareans are so docile, to use your expression, that this particular one had no difficulty achieving power."

  "What was his name?"

  "I do not know."

  "I thought you took fourteen years' worth of history courses," she says accusingly, and I can tell she thinks I am lying to her, whereas every time I have actually lied she has believed me.

  "Our language has many dialects, and they have all evolved and changed over 36,000 years," I point out. "Some we have deciphered, but to this day many of them remain unsolved mysteries. In fact, right at this moment a team of human archaeologists is hard at work trying to uncover the Tyrant's name."

  "If it's a dead language, how are they going to manage that?"

  "In the days when your race was still planetbound, there was an artifact called the Rosetta Stone that helped you translate an ancient language. We have something similar -- ours is known as the Bosperi Scroll -- that comes from the Great Tyrant's era."

  "Where is it?" asks the woman, looking around.

  "I regret to inform you that both the archaeologists and the Bosperi Scroll are currently in a museum on Deluros VIII."

  "Smart," says the man. "They can protect it better on Deluros."

  "From who?" asks the woman.

  "From anyone who wants to steal it, of course," he says, as if explaining it to a child.

  "But I mean, who would want to steal the key to a dead language?"

  "Do you know what it would be worth to a collector?" answers the man. "Or a thief who wanted to ransom it?"

  They discuss it further, but the simple truth is that it is on Deluros because it was small enough to carry, and for no other reason. When they are through arguing I tell her that it is because they have devices on Deluros that will bring back the faded script, and she nods her head thoughtfully.

  We walk another 400 kilometers and come to the immense Palace of the Kings. It is made entirely of gold, and becomes so hot from the rays of the sun that one can touch the outer surface only at night. This was the building in which all the rulers of the 7th through the 12th Dynasties resided. It was from here that my race received the Nine Proclamations of Ascendency, and the Charter of Universal Rights, and our most revered document, the Mabelian Declaration.

  It was a wondrous time to have lived, when we had never tasted defeat and all problems were capable of solution, when stately caravans plied their trade across secure boundaries and monarchs were just and wise, when each day brought new triumphs and the future held infinite promise.

  I point to the broken and defaced stone chair. "Once there were 246 jewels and precious stones embedded in the throne."

  The child walks over to the throne, then looks at me accusingly. "Where are they?" he demands.

  "They were all stolen over the millennia," I reply.

  "By conquerers, of course," offers the woman with absolute certainty.

  "Yes," I say, but again I am lying. They were stolen by my own people, who traded them to various occupying armies for food or the release of captive loved ones.

  We spend a few more minutes examining the vanished glory of the Palace of the Kings, then walk out the door and approach the next crumbling structure. It is the Hall of the Thinkers, revered to this day by all Antareans, but I know they will not understand why a race would create such an ediface to scholarship, and I haven't the energy to explain, so I tell them that it is the Palace of the Concubines, and of course they believe me. At one point the child, making no attempt to mask his disappointment, asks why there are no statues or carvings showing the concubines, and I think very quickly and explain that Lois Kiboko's religious beliefs were offended by the sexual frankness of the artifacts and she had them all destroyed.

  I feel guilty about this lie, for it is against the Code of Just Behavior to suggest that a visitor's race may have offended in any way. Ironically, while the child voices his disappointment, I notice that none of the three seems to have a problem accepting that another human would destroy millennia-old artwork that upset his sensibilities. I decide that since they feel no guilt, this one time I shall feel none either. (But I still do. Tradition is a difficult thing to transcend.)

  I see the man anxiously walking around, looking into corners and behind pedestals, and I ask him if something is wrong.

  "Where's the can?" he says.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The can. The bathroom. The lavatory." He frowns. "Didn't any of these goddamned concubines ever have to take a crap?"

  I finally discern what he wants and direct him to a human facility that has been constructed just beyond the Western Door.

  He returns a few minutes later, and I lead them all outside, past the towering Onyx Obelisk that marked the beginning of the almost-forgotten 4th Dynasty. We stop briefly at the Temple of the River of Light, which was constructed over the river, so that the sacred waters flow through the temple itself.

  We leave and turn a corner, and suddenly a single structure completely dominates the landscape.

  "What's that?" asks the woman.

  "That is the Spiral Ramp to Heaven," I answer.

  "What a fabulous name!" she enthuses. "I just know a fabulous story goes with it!" She turns to me expectantly.

  "There was a time, before our scientists knew better, that people thought you could reach heaven if you simply built a tall enough ramp."

  The child guffaws.

  "It is true," I continue. "Construction was begun during the 2nd Dyntasy, and continued for more than 700 years until midway through the 3rd. It looks as if you can see the top from here, but you actually are looking only at the bottom half of it. The rest is obscured by clouds."

  "How high does it go?" asked the woman.

  "More than nine kilometers," I say. "Three kilometers higher than our tallest mountain."

  "Amazing!" she exclaims.

  "Perhaps you would like a closer look at it?" I suggest. "You might even wish to climb the first kilometer. It is a very gentle ascent until you reach the fifth kilometer."

  "Yes," she replies happily. "I think I'd like that very much."

  "I'm not climbing anything," says the man.

  "Oh, come on," she urges him. "It'll be fun!"

  "The air's too thin and the gravity's too heavy and it's too damned much like work. One of these days I'm going to choose our itinerary, and I promise you it won't involve so goddamned much walking."

  "Can we go back and watch the game?" asks the child eagerly.

  The man takes one more look at the Spiral Ramp to Heaven. "Yeah," he says. "I've seen enough. Let's go back."

  "We really should finish the tour," says the woman. "We'll probably never be in this sector of the galaxy again."

  "So what? It's just another backwater world," replies the man. "Don't tell your friends about the Stairway to the Stars or whatever the hell it's called and they'll never know you missed it."

  Then the woman comes up with what she imagines will be the clinching argument. "But you've already agreed to pay for the tour."

  "So we'll cut it short and pay him half as much," says the man. "Big deal."

  The man pulls a wad of credits out of his pocket and peels off three ten-credits notes. Then he pauses, looks at me, pockets them, and presses a fifty-credit note into my hand instead.

  "Ah, hell, you kept your end of the bargain, Herman," he says. Then he and the woman and child begin walking back to the hotel.

  * * * *

  The first aliens ever to visit Antares were rude and ill- mannered barbarians, but Perganian II, the greatest Emperor of the 31st Dynasty, decreed that they must be treated with the utmost courtesy. When the day of their departure finally arrived, the aliens exchanged farewells with Perganian, and one of them thrust a large, flawless blue diamond into the Emperor's hand in payment for his hospitality.

  After the aliens left the courtyard, Perganian let the diamond d
rop to the ground, declaring that no Antarean could be purchased for any price.

  The diamond lay where it had fallen for three generations, becoming a holy symbol of Antarean dignity and independence. It finally vanished during a dust storm and was never seen again.

  COSMIC CORKSCREW

  Michael A. Burstein

  Stasis felt unreal.

  Dr. Scheihagen had warned me about that when I volunteered for this mission. "Remember, we don't know what it'll be like for you inside," he said in his German accent. "We've never sent a human so far back before."

  Scheihagen himself had been the volunteer for the first few experiments, but he had only gone back in time on the scale of hours, not years. So he was little equipped to prepare me for my experience.

  Even now, I can't describe it. How does one describe the passage of imaginary time in a box of Stasis, of timelessness? I felt frozen in time, while events passed around me in a blur of color. Throughout, I worried that I might get trapped in Stasis, and never emerge into normal time again. But I had been willing to take the risk for this literary mission of the utmost importance.

  Finally, after an eternity of nothing, the Chronobox and I materialized in a small, isolated alleyway. I jumped out of the Chronobox, gulped down a few breaths of air, and closed the door. The sunlight passed through the glass cubicle, rendering it almost invisible. Only once I felt safely back in normal time did I check my wrist chronometer.

  Its digital display of the date read 06:20:38. Monday, June 20, 1938.

  Afternoon.

  Perfect. I had managed to reprogram the Chronobox right under Scheihagen's nose.

  Scheihagen had warned me about it when he set up the controls.

  "Remember our agreement," he had said to me. "I'm sending you back on June 23, when the story has already been rejected, so there's no chance of interference with the main event. You make one copy of the story, then get back into the Chronobox and come home. Do not interact with anyone, most of all, with him. Ist das klar?"

  I nodded my agreement, not bothering to point out to Scheihagen that one of our subject's own short stories showed a timeline changing over just such a mission, even after the original work in question had been rejected. After all, the last thing I wanted to do was give Scheihagen a reason to suspect me.

  Then, while his back was turned and he fiddled with the last few controls, I used the wrist chronometer -- which was much more than a simple watch -- to reprogram the date of arrival. I had to time this perfectly, making the change before Scheihagen sent me back, but not early enough in the launch sequence for him to notice.

  Why did I do this? Because, despite Scheihagen's warnings, I wanted to make contact with the subject. When he was alive, whenever I had met him, I had always been a fan; by the time I had made a name for myself in his field, he was long gone. I wanted to meet him right at the start of his career, and as far as I was concerned, that beginning was right after he finished writing his first story.

  I looked back at the Chronobox, then checked my clothing and patted my pockets. I was dressed in a jacket, tie, and overcoat, perfect to blend in with the natives of this era. In my pockets I had my scanner and my disorienter. The scanner was vital to my mission; the disorienter was for repairing the past in case I made a mistake. Feeling confident, I turned around the corner and walked to my destination: the candy store at 174

  Windsor Place in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn.

  I had memorized the route in the future, and here in the past I found my way quite easily. The candy store stood in the middle of the block. A newspaper rack sat outside, with the day's papers and more popular magazines of the era prominently displayed. I pushed the door open and went in.

  The details of this store were important to me, and I wanted to take in everything I saw as perfectly as possible, so I could remember it once I had left. The first thing I noticed was that the store was broader than it was deep. To the left, near the wall, I saw a cigar counter and a cash register. Behind the register were vertical slots against the walls, crammed with cigarette packets. At right angles to the cigar counter was a candy counter, with three rows of penny candies (penny!) and one row of nickel candies. The sweet smell of the cigars wafted through the store, permeating it with a pleasant, musty odor.

  On the right side of the store was a soda fountain, and right along with it a refrigerator, containers of syrup, electric stirrers, faucets for carbonated water, and a sink. Four stools sat below it, currently empty. I was the only customer in the store.

  On the right wall was a magazine stand. Next to it, a rotary telephone, and a table with four chairs. And then, coming around to the right side of the door, an ice container.

  And back behind the cigarette counter stood a young man, only 18 years old, wearing glasses and showing an impossible grin. He looked at me, and with an unmistakable Brooklyn accent, said, "May I help you?"

  I was in the right place, the right time. Standing behind the counter was the young Isaac Asimov.

  I told him I was just looking, which seemed to strike him as odd; I guess most people in this era came into a candy store intent on one or two particular items. But he seemed to relax when I headed to the magazine stand and began studying the titles.

  I had to take a few deep breaths just to calm myself down. Part of me was worried that at any moment, Scheihagen might appear to drag me back to the future, or perhaps the universe might collapse around me for having already violated his protocols by slightly altering the timeline with my brief contact. But most of me was feeling simple awe at being in the presence of one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.

  I considered my next move. I really wanted a chance to talk more with the young Asimov, and it seemed to me that I no longer had to worry about disrupting the timeline. After all, I had already made contact, and I was still here. I convinced myself that it meant that my actions were harmless.

  But that still left one question: how could I get him to talk to me?

  What could I do to get him to want to strike up a conversation with just another anonymous customer?

  And then my eyes, wandering over the titles of the magazines, fell upon the current issue -- that is, June 1938 -- of Astounding Science-Fiction. It was perfect; the obvious way to hit it off with the young Isaac Asimov. I studied it for a moment as I gathered my resolve. The cover illustration was a painting of Mars as if seen from Deimos. Quite good, given the fact that no one in 1938 had set foot on the Moon, much less on Mars. Of course, even in my time, the three human figures standing on the Martian moon's surface and their silver cigar-shaped spacecraft were still the province of science fiction, not of science fact.

  I grabbed a copy and brought it over to the counter. Asimov had been staring into space; now he came out of his reverie and prepared to take money from me.

  He looked down at the magazine, then gave me a quizzical glance.

  "Pardon my asking," he said, "but you read science fiction?"

  I nodded; I felt a lump in my throat and it took me a moment to find my voice. My ploy had worked. "Yes. Why?"

  He looked around for a moment; we were still the only two in the store.

  "I do too. And I haven't met too many other readers of science fiction."

  I thought for a moment; at this point in his life, Asimov was writing letters to the magazines, but he hadn't yet hooked up with the Futurians.

  "Well," I replied with a smile, "I've been reading Analog - -"oops "-- I mean Astounding -- for a while now."

  "Really? What's your name? What do you do?"

  "Um --" I didn't want to give him my real name. "Schwartz," I said after a moment of thought. "Joseph Schwartz. I'm a -- a teacher."

  "I'm Isaac Asimov. My family owns this store, but I'm a chemist." We shook hands.

  "Dr. Asimov --" I began.

  He laughed. "Doctor? Call me Isaac! I'm nowhere near to a Ph.D. yet."

  I felt sheepish; I had just addressed him as I always had, wheneve
r I had met him in his later life.

  "Sorry. Isaac," I said, which felt strange. "Tell me, um, have you read this issue yet?"

  "Have I!" He turned the issue around so the cover was right side up for him. "I finished this one a few days ago." His fingers traced the banner at the top of the cover which proudly boasted "THE LEGION OF TIME by Jack Williamson." His eyes were filled with enthusiasm. "I've been enjoying the Williamson serial. How do you suppose he's going to end it?"

  "Um," I said. I had never read it. "I'm really not sure."

  "Well, I think..." Asimov began, and he launched into a detailed plot, based on his own extrapolation of what he felt would come next.

  When he finished, I said, "You know, that sounds pretty good. Have you ever thought of writing the stuff yourself?"

  He looked away for a moment, then said, "Actually, I have."

  I knew that, of course. "Really?"

  He hesitated. "Yes. I just finished a story yesterday. My first."

  "What's the title?" I asked.

  "'Cosmic Corkscrew.'"

  This was the pivotal moment. "May I see it?"

  He got a wary look on his face. "What do you teach?"

  "Physics," I said.

  His look changed to one of relief. "As long as it's not writing."

  Isaac reached under the counter, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. With a slight tremble in his hand, he handed the manuscript over to me. I flipped through it eagerly. Years later, in his autobiography, Isaac himself had admitted that the story must have been utterly impossible.

  And yet, as far as I and many others were concerned, it was the most valuable thing in the world.

  "It's a time travel story," Isaac said as I flipped through it. "You see, I call it 'Cosmic Corkscrew' because --"

  "-- time is a helix," I murmured to myself, but a little too loudly.

  "Oh, you saw that part already? I decided to use the neutrino as the explanation for time travel, since they haven't been discovered yet, only theorized."