Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  So Roger Zelazny arrived on the science fiction scene in 1962. Like other writers who were later to be labeled "new wave," he became part of a movement that with intelligence and irreverence, according to Brian Aldiss, destroyed the old pulp formulas, and, according to Christopher Priest, brought to science fiction the first fundamental change in the genre since it was formulated in magazine form in 1926.

  As much as any of the new writers, Zelazny helped bring science fiction out of the ghetto. He did so by applying to it the styles and techniques of "serious literature." At the center of his approach were characters who, though larger than life, were psychologically credible. While they were extended and broadened by allusion, their molds were struck from Zelazny's own knowledge and experience.

  Zelazny has always been a student of human behavior. Even his early schooling (he graduated from Euclid Senior High School in 1955) and his college work (he earned a Bachelor's degree in English from Case Western Reserve in 1959) added to a growing knowledge of people. Graduate work at Columbia University (he earned a Master's degree in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama in 1962) gave him the Opportunity to roam the coffeehouses of Greenwich Village. A tour of active duty in the Ohio National Guard exposed him to a number of personality types, and his first job as a claims representative with Social Security, allowed him to dig deeply into the backgrounds of many varied individuals. These experiences not only helped him to create scores of fascinating minor characters, they combined with his deeply introspective nature to form the very heart of his major characters. Gallinger, for example, the red-haired poet-genius of "A Rose for Ecclesiastes," finds his genesis in Zelazny's own psychological experience.

  "Rose" was Zelazny's first important story. It brought him not only a Hugo nomination but also a great deal of attention from his peers. It is an anomaly in that it was published after it had become public knowledge that Mars could not support life, but it is also, in most ways, typical of Zelazny's early work. It is erudite, with allusions to Shakespeare, Rilke, Blake, Shelley, and the Bible. It is heavily symbolic, with the rose as its primary symbol. It is written in a highly poetic style which, while much more controlled in later years, was even then a trademark of Zelazny's prose. It concentrates on character, Gallinger's experiences producing evolution in his own maturational process as well as causing an initiation of growth in the Martians themselves. And it is a well-plotted, tightly spun, complex story packed with meaning which, while displaying an open-ended quality, nonetheless bears the unmistakable mark that the author is in control.

  Thematically, "A Rose for Ecclesiastes" treats one of Zelazny's most persistent themes--renewal. In this case, Gallinger's psychological growth is blocked by his vanity and the Martians' regeneration is blocked by their fierce pessimism. Zelazny offers up to each of them a solution in the form of a rose. For the Martians, it is a real rose, an American Beauty, grown in the hydroponics lab, and for Gallinger, it is a rose in the form of Braxa. Each rose renews its object.

  In his work, Zelazny has maintained the philosophy that "death," either literal or figurative, is a necessary component of growth. Psychologically, for example, it is necessary to kill off an old self before a new one can be born. This basic theme runs through Zelazny's best work--This Immortal, "The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth," "The Keys to December," Lord of Light, the "Dilvish" stories, the "Amber" novels--but never is it so clearly evident as here, where the "deaths" of Martian rigidity and sterility and of Gallinger's vanity are necessary before each of them can transform.

  Zelazny's stories center on character and depend for their effectiveness on reaching and translating that deep inner core of humanness that we all share. That is what all literature attempts to do and what "A Rose for Ecclesiastes," and other great literature, does so well.

  Lady of Steel, by Roger Zelazny

  Now, now, you know what good manners teach us: Gentlemen first.

  Uttering a curse in his well-practiced falsetto, Cora swung his blade and cut down the opposing swordswoman. His contoured breastplate emphasized features which were not truly present.

  Simultaneous then, attacks came from the right and the left. Beginning his battle-song, he parried to the left, cut to the right, parried left again, cut through that warrior, parried right, and thrust. Both attackers fell.

  “Well done, sister!” shouted Edwina, the aging axe-woman, from where she stood embattled ten feet away. High compliment from a veteran!

  Smiling, Cora prepared for another onslaught, recalling when he had been Corak the cook but months before. He had had a dream then, and now he was living it.

  He had thought of being a great warrior, laying about him in battle, famed in song and story for his prowess. How he had practiced with the blade! Until one day he realized he need also practice his walk and his speech—as well as shaving closely and clandestinely every day—if he were ever to realize that dream. So he did. And one day he disappeared, Cora appeared weeks later, and a legend was born. Several months into the campaign now, and he was not only accepted but celebrated—Cora, Lady of Steel.

  But the enemy, too, had heard of him, and all seemed anxious to claim the glory of reaping his head. Perspiration broke out on his brow as five warriors moved to engage him. The first he took out quickly with a surprise rush. The others—more wary now—fought conservatively, seeking to wear him down. His arms ached by the time he had dealt with the second. His battle-song broke as he dispatched the third and took a cut deep in his right thigh from one of the others. He faltered.

  “Courage, sister!” shouted Edwina, hacking her way toward him.

  He could barely defend himself against the nearer warrior as Edwina took out the fourth. Finally, he stumbled, knowing he could not rise in time to save himself from the death-blow.

  At die last moment, however, an axe flashed and his final assailant’s head rolled away in the direction of her retreating sisters.

  “Rest!” Edwina ordered, taking up a defensive position above him. “They flee! We have the field!”

  He lay there, clutching his thigh and watching the retreat, fighting to retain consciousness. “Good,” he said. This was the closest it had ever been. . . .

  After a time, Edwina helped him to his feet. “Well-acquitted, Steel Lady,” she said. “Lean on me. I’ll help you back to camp.”

  Inside her tent, the fractured leg-armor removed, she bathed the wound. ‘“This will not cripple you,” she said. “We’ll have you good as new shortly.”

  But the wound extended higher. Suddenly, she had drawn aside his loincloth to continue her ministrations. He heard her gasp.

  “Yes,” he said then. “You know my secret. It was the only way for me to distinguish myself—to show that I could do the work as well or better than a woman.”

  “I must say that you have,” Edwina admitted. “I remember your prowess at Oloprat, Tanquay, and Ford. You are a most unusual man. I respect you for what you have done.”

  “You will help me keep my secret then?” he asked. “Let me complete the campaign? Let me make a record to show the world a man can do this work, too?”

  She studied him, then winked, pinched his fanny, and smiled.

  “I’m sure we can work something out,” she said.

  King Solomon's Ring, by Roger Zelazny

  King Solomon had a ring, and so did the guy I have to tell you about. Solomon's was a big iron thing with a pentagram for a face, but Billy Scarle's was invisible because he wore it around his mind. The two rings did serve similar purposes though.

  Legend has it Solomon's enabled him to understand the language of beasts. Scarle as you may remember, also had the gift of tongues. I suppose that was the reason for his peculiar susceptibilities.

  I am writing this letter, Lisa, because you are the one who managed to recruit him, and I think he was in love with you. Maybe I am wrong. If so, I can only ask pardon for the intrusion and trust to your sense of humor to put things in perspective.

  Last night (I t
hink it was last night) I was having dinner/s with Dr. Hale, whom you have never met. He is a big panda of a man—white boots (generally), wide black trousers (always), white shirt (always), black tie (ditto), and black on top (mostly). He has the feral eyes, too, and he listens to the world through a pair of puffed teacups (he used to be a light-heavyweight—a pretty good one), and he has a nose like the old Eiffel Tower, and bent, and he manages to get by with less couchside blather than other complex-pushers I've met. He claims his record as a therapeutic Svengali is based on the fact that his patients tend to feel sorry for him on first sight, but I sometimes wonder. Once he turns on that snow machine of his, his fat face sort of melts until it seems you are staring at a portrait of Machiavelli in retirement.

  He is not retired though, and he has a very professional manner with steaks …

  Between mouthfuls: "What about Billy Scarle?"

  "You're the doctor. You tell me."

  "I value your opinion."

  "In that case, you're losing your touch. I don't have one."

  "Then manufacture one, because I want it."

  I bit into a roll, buying myself thirty seconds' mulling time, and proceeded to mull.

  · · · · ·

  Scarle's early career had been a success mainly because it was a minimum-personnel operation. He did not trust too many people, so everyone aboard his ship was a close-mouthed specialist in many things. What puzzled the Guard for a long time was the fact that he was very unconventional in disposing of the fruits of his piracies. Dozens of the worlds on the Exploratory Perimeter are no more than encyclopedia entries followed by a couple sentences, but there are many excellent trading centers among them. Language is a genuine barrier though, and there just aren't that many interpreters, especially for bootlegging operations.

  What it took you a long time to figure out was something that Scarle was barely aware of himself. He just thought he had mastered galactic sign language and that the hybrid patois of Fenster, his home world, was sufficient to fill in the gaps. Bear in mind, Lisa, that while he was clever, he was only nominally educated in a Slumschule and was quite naïve in many matters. Still, it took the Circle of Solomon to tip off the Guard as to what they were dealing with.

  After his apprehension on Martin VIII, it was his ratty luck to be shipped Earthward in the custody of an old Guardsman ready for retirement. As you know, the cop decided along the way that the arrest had been out of jurisdiction, and he also decided he did not want a black mark on his record at that stage in the game. So he changed a couple log entries and elected himself judge, jury, and executioner—as you may not know. He never said a word while he made the preparations, but of course Scarle knew.

  I suppose it would be interesting to tell you the details of the cop's not being able to pull the trigger and Scarle's smashing him to pieces with his arm collars, but I'd rather not be that interesting. I've heard the story too many times.

  When you picked him up in that bar on Kimberly, he was beginning to suspect what he was, but he was too busy vacationing to do much experimenting. He was lying low and feeling high, and shopping around for a new rig, that night you sat down across from his whisky-and-flent and offered to tell his fortune.

  Naturally he said yes, because you are beautiful.

  "The thirteenth card of the Major Arcana," you told him, "is the Bony Reaper. He signifies Death, often only on metaphysical levels, but a death, nevertheless. Your life is going to change."

  And he smiled and agreed and asked if you wanted to help change it, and you smiled and agreed, sort of. It took about a week of his being puzzled (because he could not anticipate you the way he could other people), before you knew he was ready for The Bet. (Did you have that Tarot up your sleeve? He wondered that on several occasions, so I thought I would ask.) It was well managed, I gather, and of course the prediction turned out to be quite true.

  For the wagered price of one cruiser, he agreed to be your quarry. You managed to convince him that you were rich (which was also true, now I think of it) and looking for kicks (which might have held an incidental truth, at that). He could not back down, not that he wanted to, because he had boasted too much beforehand. And he did have a high survival potential also, as it was only by accident that I managed to kill him when I finally had to.

  Three days for him to hide himself in the jungles of Kimberly, and a week in which he had to stay hidden, despite your trackers, your mechanical spiders, and your electronic B.O. detectors, and he did it. I remember the night you told me about it. It was on Lilith, with a sky full of moons and a fine, tangy sea breeze assaulting the smells of roast Süssevogel and Lilith-mosel (that pagan Liebfraumilch!)—do you recall the name of the place? I seem to forget it now, but I remember the balcony quite vividly, and you were wearing something dark blue … Oh, well.

  It took three days to find his trail, you said, and six hours to close in on him. Then he escaped when you approached his campsite. This happened a couple times, until you had flushed him onto the higher ground near the Gila Range. Remember now? The spiders stopped coming back, and you started finding them smashed to bits, until you were out of spiders. But then it became apparent that he was mounted, because he started moving very fast and the broken spiders showed hoof-marks. After the fifth day the trackers gave up, without admitting it, and the "dogs" grew interested in other matters.

  At the end of the week he walked into your camp, all smiles, and aware of his power. He had won The Bet by destroying the mechanical hunters, circling around behind your party, and "eavesdropping" on your hunting beasts. Then he managed to "talk" them out of following him. He followed along behind you until the seven days were up, and then he walked in on you, clean-shaven, and thinking he had won. The poor sucker! He had been initiated into the most exclusive club in the galaxy and therewith reduced his life expectancy by ninety or a hundred years. Excuse me, dear, I'm not being bitter, but I liked the guy. If the Guard had gotten him to Earth alive, he would have been recruited anyhow.

  King Solomon had a ring, you told him—while you were on that month's frolic about Earth and the Inworlds—a ring that enabled him to understand all the tongues of life. And you, Billy Scarle, you also have a ring. You wear it around your mind like an introverted chastity belt, and whenever anything is going to speak, you know what it is going to say before it says it, and whenever you want to say something, and want to strongly enough, others know what you are going to say before you say it. You are a fractional telepath and a potential paralinguist. You would probably flunk first semester French, which is an easy Orthotongue, but with the proper training you could be a two-way on-the-spot interpreter for any two languages without knowing either.

  And he wanted to know if there was money in it! Do you remember him now? He was about five-ten, with that premature frost on his hair that comes of pushing poorly shielded cruisers too far; nervous fingers, light eyes, a preference for nondescript clothing; and when he talked, all his sentences seemed like one long word. At first glance, I guess he just did not give the impression of being much of a criminal. Rather, perhaps (and quite correctly), he seemed a person who would have had a hard time enjoying Mardi Gras time on Centuvo. Hale thinks this was the key to his talent, cast long ago on the streets of Fenster.

  You offered him full Circleship, if he could pass the training, emphasizing its retroactive civil immunity as much as its high pay, so what else could he do? He realized you were his superior in nearly everything. He wanted to even things up, and his pride was always an amazing thing to behold—right up until the end it made him equal to almost any task. I remember how he sweated over Chomsky's book (which did not mean much in the long run, because the Thing Applied was all sedation and sound cycles), but it furnished him with broad concepts, and things like concepts help smooth down rough edges. And as for the law—well, he did want an out.

  He joined, and you kept in touch: beautiful, witty, sophisticated, what shall I say?—polemics?—until he drew his first assignment a
nd went incommunicado. What then, Lisa?

  · · · · ·

  "I'll tell you, Doc," I said to Hale, " I was thinking of his first assignment. It was to that world called Malmson. You weren't along that trip, which is too bad. He felt we wrecked the whole society there, and it sort of got to him. I think he felt more responsible for it than one man has a right to feel."

  "For what? What happened?"

  "Oh, nothing out-and-out crushing. We didn't hook the population with narcotics or send their females to brothels, as we've often been accused of doing. We couldn't have done much physical exploitation if we'd wanted to—they were all about three feet tall and looked sort of like kiwis with arms. But Scarle really didn't know what he was doing yet. He thought it was all setting up the hum-box, taking a shot, and filling out the Omniform. Of course, it doesn't stop with that."

  "And?"

  "He found out, after the Omni was Staff Evaluated and Malmson's borox deposits were deemed significant. A report was submitted, and we left. A year later he went back for a visit—they should never let a paraling revisit one of his X-worlds … The industry we were imposing had already begun disrupting the culture's value systems—and because Scarle was a paraling, he translated feelings as well as words when he talked with the creatures that second time. The deposed grow bitter, the young lose their roots—you know the story. Scarle had already had a couple other X's by then, but he came away unsure after that visit. He claimed we had no right to make aliens over into our image. He said he wanted to quit."

  "What did the Circle say?"

  "Nothing, officially. But he was subsequently visited by the woman who had recruited him, and she persuaded him to accept another assignment."

  "This last one?"

  "Right. Mack 997-IV, the world they call the Butcher. His recruiter explained to him that the first assignments were also in the nature of training, and she proceeded to reveal the rest of the significance of the Ring."