For all I knew the gorgon was standing right over me and bending to bite me in two. But I had passed the point of any coherent reasoning. I was still screaming and squeezing the trigger of the now burned-out blaster five minutes later, when Morro and Framer came over and led me back to the ship.
We had killed the bastard, then. And I, Lieut. (Spatial) Joel Kaftan, commander of EExP A-7 to Bellatrix IV, was Perseus.
“We thought we’d never get you up,” said Morro.
Steeger said, “I saw that gorgon come out, and I yelled to you. You started waving the blaster around, and Morro came over too. But by the time he reached you, you had blasted Medusa in the neck and pretty near cut that head right off.”
Upton took up the story. “You were still blasting away without looking, even though the gorgon had fallen on its face. Holden came up and cut its head off, but it’s still thrashing its wings out there.”
“You ruined about three trees with your blaster,” Morro added. “Damned careless of you, Joel.”
I looked up. The accumulated tension had built up to such a pitch while I was waiting for the thing to come out of its lair that I felt I had been through a wringer and had been squeezed flat. I looked around at the men ranging the couch on which I lay.
I saw great Morro standing at my feet, and old Steeger looking even older after his remote-control chess-game with the gorgon. And there was Holden, and Upton. Four. And I made five. Two dead made seven. It took me another second to realize we were not all together.
“Where’s Framer?”
“Out there,” Upton said. “The biologist in him got the upper hand, and he’s out there examining our defunct friend.”
“But you said the wings were still thrashing,” I yelled, leaping from the couch. “That means—”
But the others realized what it meant, too, and we raced through the airlock door in no time at all.
We were too late, of course. We found the biologist bent over the decapitated gorgon, examining the head with interest. And frozen stiff.
Averting our eyes, we carried Framer back to the ship and buried him next to Flaherty and Janus. More than any of us, Kal had been a scientist, and he couldn’t resist trying to solve the puzzle of the gorgon. Whether he had or not we would never know—but apparently the gorgon’s neural network had been of a low order, low enough to remain functioning for a while after the organism’s death. And there had been enough of a charge left in those deadly eyes to give Framer a freezing blast.
I directed operations from the door of the ship, trying hard not to stare at the upturned gorgon-head. Upton and Morro crept up blindfolded and slipped the gorgon’s head into a thick plasticanvas bag, and zipped up the top. We stuck a “danger—do not open” sign on it.
Medusa had cost us three men, but we had beaten her. We loaded her headless corpse into the deep freeze for Earth’s scientists to puzzle over. It took all five of us to lift the huge thing and stow it away, and we were glad to see the end of it. No more monsters, we thought; the expedition would be restful from here on.
Until the next day, when Upton found that Sphinx crouching near the ship—
THE ROAD TO NIGHTFALL
I was in my late teens, an undergraduate at Columbia University, when I began sketching this story out in the fall of 1953. I had, I remember, been reading a story by the French writer Marcel Aymé called “Crossing Paris,” in the July-August 1950 issue of Partisan Review—a literary magazine that I followed avidly in those days. This was how it opened:
“The victim, already dismembered, lay in a corner of the cellar under wrappings of stained canvas. Jamblier, a little man with graying hair, a sharp profile, and feverish eyes, his belly girded with a kitchen apron which came down to his feet, was shuffling across the concrete floor. At times he stopped short in his tracks to gaze with faintly flushed cheeks and uneasy eyes at the latch of the door. To relieve the tension of waiting, he took a mop which was soaking in an enameled bucket, and for the third time he washed the damp surface of the concrete to efface from it any last traces of blood which his butchery might have left there…”
It sounds like the beginning of a murder mystery, or a horror story. But in fact “Crossing Paris” dealt with the complicated problem of transporting black-market pork by suitcase through the Nazi-occupied city. The grim, bleak wartime atmosphere and the situational-ethics anguish of the characters affected me profoundly; almost at once I found myself translating the story’s mood into science-fictional terms. What if, I asked myself, I were to take Aymé’s trick opening paragraph literally? Assume that the “victim” is not a pig but a man, as I had thought until the second page of the story, and the city is suffering privations far more intense even than those of the war, so that cannibalism is being practiced and the illicit meat being smuggled by night through the streets is the most illicit meat of all.
I wrote it in odd moments stolen from class work over the next couple of months, intending to submit it to a contest one of the science-fiction magazines was running that year, and finished it during my Christmas break from college. A thousand-dollar prize (the equivalent of at least ten thousand in today’s money) was being offered for the best story of life in twenty-first-century America written by a college undergraduate. For some reason I never entered the contest—missed the deadline, perhaps—but in the spring of 1954 I started sending my manuscript around to the science-fiction magazines. I was nobody at all, then, an unpublished writer (though to my own amazement I had just had my first novel, Revolt on Alpha C, accepted for hardcover publication in 1955). Back the story came with great speed, just as all the fifteen or twenty other stories I had sent out over the previous five years had done. (I had been thirteen or fourteen when I first began sending my stories to the magazines.) When it had been to all seven or eight of the magazines that existed then, and every editor had told me how depressing, morbid, negative, and impossible to publish it was, I put it aside and wrote it off as a mistake.
A couple of years went by. By then I was selling my stories at a rapid clip and had become, before I was twenty-one, a well-known science-fiction writer. I was earning a nice living from my writing while still an undergraduate at Columbia. (You will find an account of how all that happened in my collection of pulp-adventure stories, In the Beginning.)
Meanwhile a kid from Cleveland had come to New York, moved in next door to me, and set up shop as a writer as well. His name was Harlan Ellison. One day in 1956 I told him that I had been able to sell all my stories except one, which no editor would touch, and he demanded to see it. He read it on the spot. “Brilliant!” he said. “Magnificent!” Or words to that effect. Harlan was indignant that such a dark masterpiece would have met with universal rejection, and he vowed to find a publisher for it. Just about then, the kindly and unworldly Hans Stefan Santesson took over the editorship of a struggling magazine called Fantastic Universe, and Harlan told him I had written a story too daring for any of his rivals to print—virtually defying him not to buy it. Hans asked for the manuscript, commented in his mild way that the story was pretty strong stuff, and, after hesitating over it for nearly two years, ran it in the July, 1958 issue of his magazine.
After more than half a century I find it hard to see what was so hot to handle about “Road to Nightfall.” Its theme—that the stress of life in a post-atomic society could lead even to cannibalism—seemed to upset many of the editors who turned it down, but there was no taboo per se against that theme. (Cf. Damon Knight’s 1950 classic, “To Serve Man,” just to name one.) Most likely the protagonist’s moral collapse at the end was the problem, for most s-f editors of the time preferred stories in which the central figure transcends all challenges and arrives at a triumphant conclusion to his travail. That I had never published anything at the time was a further drawback. Theodore Sturgeon or Fritz Leiber, say, might have persuaded an editor to buy a story about cannibalism, or one with a downbeat ending—but a downbeat cannibal story by an unknown author simply had too m
uch going against it, and even after my name had become established it still needed the full force of the Harlan Ellison juggernaut to win it a home. To me it still seems like a pretty good job, especially for a writer who was still a considerable distance short of his twentieth birthday. It moves along, it creates character and action and something of a plot, it gets its point across effectively. If I had been an editor looking at this manuscript back then, I would certainly have thought its writer showed some promise.
——————
The dog snarled, and ran on. Katterson watched the two lean, fiery-eyed men speeding in pursuit, while a mounting horror grew in him and rooted him to the spot. The dog suddenly bounded over a heap of rubble and was gone; its pursuers sank limply down, leaning on their clubs, and tried to catch their breath.
“It’s going to get much worse than this,” said a small, grubby-looking man who appeared from nowhere next to Katterson. “I’ve heard the official announcement’s coming today, but the rumor’s been around for a long time.”
“So they say,” answered Katterson slowly. The chase he had just witnessed still held him paralyzed. “We’re all pretty hungry.”
The two men who had chased the dog got up, still winded, and wandered off. Katterson and the little man watched their slow retreat.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen people doing that,” said Katterson. “Out in the open like that—”
“It won’t be the last time,” said the grubby man. “Better get used to it, now that the food’s gone.”
Katterson’s stomach twinged. It was empty, and would stay that way till the evening’s food dole. Without the doles, he would have no idea of where his next bite of food would come from. He and the small man walked on through the quiet street, stepping over the rubble, walking aimlessly with no particular goal in mind.
“My name’s Paul Katterson,” he said finally. “I live on 47th Street. I was discharged from the Army last year.”
“Oh, one of those,” said the little man. They turned down 15th Street. It was a street of complete desolation; not one pre-war house was standing, and a few shabby tents were pitched at the far end of the street. “Have you had any work since your discharge?”
Katterson laughed. “Good joke. Try another.”
“I know. Things are tough. My name is Malory; I’m a merchandizer.”
“What do you merchandize?”
“Oh…useful products.”
Katterson nodded. Obviously Malory didn’t want him to pursue the topic, and he dropped it. They walked on silently, the big man and the little one, and Katterson could think of nothing but the emptiness in his stomach. Then his thoughts drifted to the scene of a few minutes before, the two hungry men chasing a dog. Had it come to that so soon? Katterson asked himself. What was going to happen, he wondered, as food became scarcer and scarcer and finally there was none at all?
But the little man was pointing ahead. “Look,” he said. “Meeting at Union Square.”
Katterson squinted and saw a crowd starting to form around the platform reserved for public announcements. He quickened his pace, forcing Malory to struggle to keep up with him.
A young man in military uniform had mounted the platform and was impassively facing the crowd. Katterson looked at the jeep nearby, automatically noting it was the 2036 model, the most recent one, eighteen years old. After a minute or so the soldier raised his hand for silence, and spoke in a quiet, restrained voice.
“Fellow New Yorkers, I have an official announcement from the Government. Word has just been received from Trenton Oasis—”
The crowd began to murmur. They seemed to know what was coming.
“Word has just been received from Trenton Oasis that, due to recent emergency conditions there, all food supplies for New York City and environs will be temporarily cut off. Repeat: due to recent emergency in the Trenton Oasis, all food supplies for New York and environs will temporarily be cut off.”
The murmuring in the crowd grew to an angry, biting whisper as each man discussed this latest turn of events with the man next to him. This was hardly unexpected news; Trenton had long protested the burden of feeding helpless, bombed-out New York, and the recent flood there had given them ample opportunity to squirm out of their responsibility. Katterson stood silent, towering over the people around him, finding himself unable to believe what he was hearing. He seemed aloof, almost detached, objectively criticizing the posture of the soldier on the platform, counting his insignia, thinking of everything but the implications of the announcement, and trying to fight back the growing hunger.
The uniformed man was speaking again. “I also have this message from the Governor of New York, General Holloway: he says that attempts at restoring New York’s food supply are being made, and that messengers have been despatched to the Baltimore Oasis to request food supplies. In the meantime the Government food doles are to be discontinued effective tonight, until further notice. That is all.”
The soldier gingerly dismounted from the platform and made his way through the crowd to his jeep. He climbed quickly in and drove off. Obviously he was an important man, Katterson decided, because jeeps and fuel were scarce items, not used lightly by anyone and everyone.
Katterson remained where he was and turned his head slowly, looking at the people round him—thin, half-starved little skeletons, most of them, who secretly begrudged him his giant frame. An emaciated man with burning eyes and a beak of a nose had gathered a small group around himself and was shouting some sort of harangue. Katterson knew of him—his name was Emerich, and he was the leader of the colony living in the abandoned subway at 14th Street. Katterson instinctively moved closer to hear him, and Malory followed.
“It’s all a plot!” the emaciated man was shouting. “They talk of an emergency in Trenton. What emergency? I ask you, what emergency? That flood didn’t hurt them. They just want to get us off their necks by starving us out, that’s all! And what can we do about it? Nothing. Trenton knows we’ll never be able to rebuild New York, and they want to get rid of us, so they cut off our food.”
By now the crowd had gathered round him. Emerich was popular; people were shouting their agreement, punctuating his speech with applause.
“But will we starve to death? We will not!”
“That’s right, Emerich!” yelled a burly man with a beard.
“No,” Emerich continued, “we’ll show them what we can do. We’ll scrape up every bit of food we can find, every blade of grass, every wild animal, every bit of shoe-leather. And we’ll survive, just the way we survived the blockade and the famine of ’47 and everything else. And one of these days we’ll go out to Trenton and—and—roast them alive!”
Roars of approval filled the air. Katterson turned and shouldered his way through the crowd, thinking of the two men and the dog, and walked away without looking back. He headed down Fourth Avenue, until he could no longer hear the sounds of the meeting at Union Square, and sat down wearily on a pile of crushed girders that had once been the Carden Monument.
He put his head in his hands and sat there. The afternoon’s events had numbed him. Food had been scarce as far back as he could remember—the twenty-four years of war with the Spherists had just about used up every resource of the country. The war had dragged on and on. After the first rash of preliminary bombings, it had become a war of attrition, slowly grinding the opposing spheres to rubble.
Somehow Katterson had grown big and powerful on hardly any food, and he stood out wherever he went. The generation of Americans to which he belonged was not one of size or strength—the children were born undernourished old men, weak and wrinkled. But he had been big, and he had been one of the lucky ones chosen for the Army. At least there he had been fed regularly.
Katterson kicked away a twisted bit of slag, and saw little Malory coming down Fourth Avenue in his direction. Katterson laughed to himself, remembering his Army days. His whole adult life had been spent in uniform, with soldier’s privileges. B
ut it had been too good to last; two years before, in 2052, the war had finally dragged to a complete standstill, with the competing hemispheres both worn to shreds, and almost the entire Army had suddenly been mustered out into the cold civilian world. He had been dumped into New York, lost and alone.
“Let’s go for a dog-hunt,” Malory said, smiling as he drew near.
“Watch your tongue, little man. I might just eat you if I get hungry enough.”
“Eh? I thought you were so shocked by two men trying to catch a dog.”
Katterson looked up. “I was,” he said. “Sit down, or get moving, but don’t play games,” he growled. Malory flung himself down on the wreckage near Katterson and tried to straighten his tangled, thinning hair.
“Looks pretty bad,” Malory said.
“Check,” said Katterson. “I haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“Why not? There was a regular dole last night, and there’ll be one tonight.”
“You hope,” said Katterson. The day was drawing to a close, he saw, and evening shadows were falling fast. Ruined New York looked weird in twilight; the gnarled girders and fallen buildings seemed ghosts of long-dead giants.
“You’ll be even hungrier tomorrow,” Malory said. “There isn’t going to be any dole, any more.”
“Don’t remind me, little man.”
“I’m in the food-supplying business, myself,” said Malory, as a weak smile rippled over his lips.
Katterson picked up his head in a hurry.
“Playing games again?”
“No,” Malory said hastily. He scribbled his address on a piece of paper and handed it to Katterson. “Here. Drop in on me any time you get really hungry. And—say, you’re a pretty strong fellow, aren’t you? I might even have some work for you, since you say you’re unattached.”
The shadow of an idea began to strike Katterson. He turned so he faced the little man, and stared at him.
“What kind of work?”
To Be Continued - 1953–58 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume One Page 3
