The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “I’ll bite. Why?” Dixon grinned, sweat rolling from his chubby face. “That’s the best suggestion we’ve had today.”

  “But he wouldn’t be real life then, not organic life. Besides, we can’t be sure that another batch of the tar would live—it might be an accident that Hermes contained just the right ingredients. The rest of the tar probably isn’t the same.”

  Hermes wriggled in his excitement. “Organic life is merely a chemicoelectrical reaction, with radioactivity thrown in; and I’m all of that. What difference does it make?” He stretched out a small leg. “Dr. Brugh, will you examine my feet?”

  With a puzzled frown, Brugh complied. “They’re wearing out,” he said. “The rubber is almost paper-thin. You’ll need a new body soon, Hermes.”

  “Precisely. That’s what I’m talking about. Why couldn’t I be put in Anthropos’ brainpan?”

  Hodges let out a startled wail that died out and left his mouth hanging open. Finally he remembered to close it. “I wonder—” he muttered. “Would it work?”

  Dixon demurred. “It’d be a delicate operation, removing the useless higher part of the brain and leaving the essential vital areas that control the heart and organs. Besides, could Hermes control the nerves?”

  “Why not? He can control your nerves at a distance if he tries hard enough. But the operation would need a doctor’s skill.”

  Hermes had that all figured out by now, and he voiced his plan while the others listened carefully. Hodges finally nodded. “It might work, son, and Anthropos isn’t much good as is. I promised to help you grow up, and if you can use this body, it’s yours. The university doesn’t seem to value it much.”

  Later, the borrowed dissecting equipment from the zoology department was in readiness and the men stood looking on as Hermes prepared for his work. He paused at the brink of the tank. “You know what you’re to do?”

  “We do. After you open it, we’ll lower your temperature until you harden up to unconsciousness, remove your casing, pack you in the brainpan, so there’s no danger of nerve pressure, and cover the opening with the removed section of the skull.”

  “Right. In that nutrient fluid, it should heal completely in a few hours.” Hermes dropped into the tank and was immersed in the liquid; his ability to work in any medium facilitated the operation.

  And his sense of perception made him capable of performing the work with almost uncanny skill. As the others watched, he cut briskly around the skull, removed a section, and went into the brain, analyzing it almost cell by cell and suturing, cutting, and scraping away the useless tissue.

  Blood oozed out slowly, but the liquid’s restorative power began functioning, healing the soft nerve tissue almost as rapidly as it was cut. Hermes nodded approval and continued until only the vital centers that functioned properly were left. Then he indicated that he was finished and Hodges pulled him out.

  The dry ice was numbing as they packed it around him, and his thoughts began moving more sluggishly. But as consciousness left him, a heady exultation was singing its song through every atom of his being. He would be tall and handsome, and Tanya would love him.

  Consciousness faded as Hodges began the relatively simple job of removing his casing and inserting him into the vacancy in Anthropos’ head.

  XI

  Darkness. That was the first thought Hermes felt on regaining consciousness. He was in a cave with no entrance, and light could not stream through. Around him was a warm shell that held him away from direct contact with the world. He started to struggle against it, and the uneasy sense of closeness increased.

  Then he remembered he was in the head of the synthetic man. He must open his eyes and look out. But his eyes refused to open. Again he concentrated, and nothing seemed to happen.

  Brugh’s voice, muffled as from a great distance, reached him. “Well, he’s awake. His big toe twitched then.” There was another sensation, the feeling of faint current pouring in from one of the nerve endings, and Hermes realized that must be his ears sending their message to his brain.

  This time he tried to talk, and Hodges spoke. “That was his leg moving. I wonder if he can control his body.” Hermes was learning; the sound and nerve messages co-ordinated this time. Learning to use Anthropos’ auditory system would not be too difficult.

  But he was having trouble. He had tried to open his eyes, and a toe had twitched; an effort to use his tongue resulted in a leg moving. There was only one thing to do, and that was to try everything until the desired result was obtained.

  It was several minutes later when Dixon’s voice registered on his nerves: “See, his eyes are open. Can you see, Hermes—or Anthropos?”

  Hermes couldn’t. There was a wild chaos of sensation pouring in through the optic nerve, which must be the effect of light, but it made little sense to him. He concentrated on one part that seemed to register less strongly, and succeeded in making out the distorted figure of a man. It was enough to begin with, but learning to use his eyes took more time than the ears had.

  He gave up trying to speak and sent his thought out directly to Brugh. “Lift me out and move me around, so that I can study which sensations are related to my various parts.”

  Brugh obeyed promptly with the help of the others, enthusiasm running high. Hermes had the entire job of learning to make his body behave before him, but he brought a highly developed mind to bear on the problem. Bit by bit, the sensation sent up by the nerves registered on his brain, was cataloged and analyzed, and became a familiar thing to him. He tried touching a table with his finger, and made it in two attempts.

  “You’ll be better than any man when we’re done with you,” Hodges gloated. “If I’d brought consciousness into Anthropos, I’d still have had to educate him as a child is taught. You can learn by yourself.”

  Hermes was learning to talk again, in the clumsy system of breathing, throat contraction, and oral adaptation that produces human words. He tried it now. “Let me walk alone.”

  Another half hour saw a stalwart young figure striding about the laboratory, examining this and that, trying out implements, using his body in every way that he could. It answered his commands with a smooth co-ordination that pleased them all.

  Brugh was elated. “With a brain like that, Hermes, and the body you have now, we could make the world’s greatest physical chemist out of you. A little wire pulling and a few tricks, examinations, and things, and you’d have your degree in no time. I could use you here.”

  “He’d be a wonderful biochemist,” Hodges cut in. “Think of what that sense of perception would mean to us in trying to determine the effects of drugs on an organism.”

  Dixon added his opinion. “As an organic chemist, think what it would mean in analyzing and synthesizing new compounds. But why not all three? What we really need is someone to co-ordinate the various fields, and Hermes is ideal.” He held out an old pair of trousers, acid-stained, but whole, and Hermes began climbing into them. That was a complication he hadn’t thought of, and one which was not entirely pleasant. He saw no reason to conceal the new body of which he was so proud.

  Brugh had accepted Dixon’s idea. “How about getting yourself added to our staff in a few years? It would mean a lot to science, and the board of directors couldn’t refuse the appointment if you’d force a little thought into their empty heads.”

  Hermes had been considering it, and the prospect appealed to him. But Tanya wouldn’t like it, probably. He’d have to see her before he could make any decisions. Of course, now that he was a real man instead of a rubber statue, she couldn’t refuse him.

  There was an interruption from the door, a small child’s voice. “Daddy, Daddy, are you there?” The door swung open and Kitty Brugh came tripping in.

  “Kitty, you don’t belong here.” Brugh faced her with a scowl of annoyance. “I’m busy.”

  “But Mamma sent me.” Her voice was plaintive. “She gave me this telegram to bring to you.”

  Brugh took it and read it throu
gh, his face lighting up. “Great luck,” he told Hermes, handing it over. “I never thought Tanya would choose so well.”

  The telegram was as simple as most telegrams are:

  HAVE MARRIED WILL YOUNG AND ON HONEYMOON IN MILLSBURG STOP EVER SO HAPPY STOP LOVE

  TANYA

  And with it, the newly created man’s hopes went flying out into nothingness.

  But somehow he felt much better than he should. He handed it back to Brugh, and the sigh he achieved was halfhearted. Kitty’s eyes noticed him for the first time.

  She squeaked delightedly. “Oh, what a pretty man! What’s your name?”

  Hermes’ heart went out to her. He stooped and picked her up in his strong young arms, stroking her hair. “I’m the little god, Kitty. I’m your Hermes in a new body. Do you like it?”

  She snuggled up. “Um-hmm. It’s nice.” There was no surprise for her in anything Hermes might do. He turned back to the three men then.

  “Dr. Brugh, I’ve decided to accept your offer. I’d like nothing better than working with all of you here at Gorton.”

  “Splendid, my boy. Splendid. Eh, Hiram?”

  They crowded around him, shaking his hand, and he thoroughly enjoyed the flattery of their respect. But most of his thoughts were centered on Kitty. After all, she was the only woman—or girl—who had treated him with any consideration, and her little mind was open and honest. She’d make a wonderful woman in ten more years.

  Ten more years; and he wasn’t so very old himself. There might be hope there yet.

  THE SCIENCE FICTION ALPHABET, by Allen Glasser

  A’s for Amazing, the first of its kind;

  It keeps going strong while the rest drop behind.

  B is for Burroughs, the great Edgar Rice;

  No mag gets his yarns if they don’t meet his price.

  C is for Cummings, whose stuff is okay,

  Though some of his plots have grown rather gray.

  D’s for Dimension—the Fourth one we mean;

  It’s mighty well known, though it’s never been seen.

  E is for Earthmen who wander through space,

  Calmly subduing each troublesome race.

  F is for Forrest, most famous of fans;

  The letters he’s written would fill sev’ral vans.

  G is for Gilmore; the first name is Tony.

  His writing’s okay, but that moniker’s phony.

  H is for Hamilton, who has written a lot;

  He sure makes good use of his favorite plot.

  I’s for Invaders who seek Earth to hold,

  Until they are slain by our hero so bold.

  J is for Jupiter and each Jovian moon;

  To fantasy writers they sure are a boon.

  K is for Keller, who lives in Penn State;

  He can’t get a cover though his stories are great.

  L is for Luna, our own satellite;

  It’s appeared in more yarns than I’m able to cite.

  M is for Mars, way up in the sky,

  Without it, we fear, science fiction would die.

  N is for Newton, the Gravity King,

  Whose laws, in our mags, just don’t mean a thing.

  O’s for Ourselves, who read science-fiction

  We know what we like, and there’s no dereliction.

  P’s for the Princess that’s always on hand

  To wed the brave Earthman who visits her land.

  Q is for Quinn, the weird-story writer;

  If he’d do science fiction his fame might be brighter.

  R is for Robot, of whom much is said;

  For many an author his antics have fed.

  S is for Starzl, Schachner, and Sloane;

  And let’s not forget Doc Smith and Miss Stone.

  T is for Time, a favorite theme

  Which never grows stale—or so it would seem.

  U is the Unknown, which writers employ

  Whenever they need some death dealing toy.

  V is for Venus, which belonged to one Kline

  Until Mr. Burroughs took over that line.

  W’s Wonder, a changeable book;

  You never can tell how it’s going to look.

  X means “okay” when written “All X”

  A term which has brought Doctor Smith many checks.

  Y’s for the Yarn which will suit everyone;

  We hardly believe it can ever be done.

  Z is for Zagat—whom else could it be?

  It’s lucky for us his name starts with Z!

  CANAL, by Carl Jacobi

  At the top of the stairs Kramer stood still a long moment, listening. The road behind him was empty and desolate, stretching off into the red-rimmed horizon like a crayon streak on a piece of cardboard. Up above in the dry motionless air a lone Kiloto wheeled and soared, searching for prey. There was no sign of pursuit.

  Mentally Kramer checked over his equipment: canteen, food concentrate envelope, sand mask, and most precious of all, the map. The official Martian Cartographic Folio 654, direct from its glass case in the FaGanda Bureau of Standards. The map still lay in its oilskin pouch, and the archaic printing thrilled him as he stared down upon it.

  It was Monday morning, 11:14 Earth time; he checked with his watch. In exactly eleven days, assuming all went well, he should be entering Canal 28 Northwest and coming down the home-stretch. After that it would be easy. His forged passports would give him easy access to the Crater City port. The regular Earth Express would take off at high noon. Not even Blanchard would suspect him of escaping in this direction. Since Kramer had first conceived the plan a month ago, he had studied each detail, accounted for each contingency, and everything had worked like clockwork.

  He began to descend the steps, absently counting them as he went down: fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight.

  Level One. Here the first sign, almost illegible from age, met his gaze:

  IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN TO ENTER THESE CANALS.

  BY ORDER OF ZARA

  It seemed strange seeing that name, Zara, there out of a history book. The last Martian monarchy had passed on into the limbo ages ago. And Kramer remembered that even during the last three—or was it four?—dynasties the canals had been closed.

  One twenty-eight, one twenty-nine. Third, fourth, fifth level. Kramer drew up before a massive door, fashioned of arelium steel. A second sign stood out mockingly in the light of his torch:

  IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN…

  Without hesitation he reached into his pocket and drew forth a key. He removed the royal seal with the utmost care, inserted the key in the lock and twisted. The door swung open slowly of its own accord.

  Even then with virtual success just within his grasp, he did not forget himself. He replaced the seal in such away that the closed door would show no signs of passage. Then he broke into a low laugh.

  There it was—Canal Grand, the master artery that linked North Mars with South Mars, the single avenue that crossed the Void, and offered a possible means of escape. No Earth men, no living Martian had ever penetrated the Void and returned. Planes, expeditions, rocket ships had taken off time and time again, only to disappear without trace. In their wake superstition had flowered, rumor had multiplied, until today the Void stood, a chasm of isolation, effectually slicing the red planet into two parts.

  Kramer strode boldly forward, warm and comfortable in his space suit and hextar helmet. For the first twenty yards alluvial drift impeded his progress, and he swore to himself as he thought of his early schooling that had taught him there was no wind on Mars.

  Then he reached the hard-packed center of the canal, and the ground here was firm and level as a pavement.

  The frowning walls, towering sheer on either side, were as oppressive as a tunnel at first. The geometric desolation fatigued the eye. But after he had gone a mile Kramer swung along rapidly, immune to these irritations.

  Queer how things worked out in one’s life. A month ago he had been an ordinary salvage ratio clerk at the
Metropolitan Power Unit in FaGanda. His life had been routine, with only a few petty thieveries and unimportant swindlings to break the monotony. Then, quite by accident he had hit upon the plan.

  The plan had as its nucleus the secret, of the Void which had baffled mankind for so many years. In 3091 the historian, Stola, had written:

  I am convinced that the great catastrophe which caused the complete dehydration of the canals and began the rapid decline of the early Martians under the monarchy is linked in some unexplainable way with that corridor which we know today as the Void.

  We know of a certainty that Canal Grand was unquestionably the only passage which crossed that corridor even in those early times, and we know by spectroscopic analysis that somewhere along that canal lies a deposit of retnite, now catalogued as Chemical X. Since Chemical X is the most desired thing by Earthmen today, there is no doubt in my mind but that eventually the lode will be tapped and the mysteries of the Void explored.

  Stola had written that, and he had been conservative. In the entire System, Kramer knew, there were but fourteen kilograms of retnite known to exist. That was reserved for the nine members of the Interplanetary Council and their elected successors.

  But retnite was in reality nothing more than a drug, a mental stimulant which, when taken correctly, could amplify the thought processes of the brain a thousandfold. A retniter carried with ease, not only the heritage of his ancestors but viewed the panorama of life intelligently. A retniter, in other words, was a super intellect.

  Kramer wanted that elixir. He wanted it because it would open the door for him to success. No more petty swindlings then, no more trickster schemes with constant fear of the police. He could tell Blanchard and the law to go to blazes.

  Inside his helmet he pressed his chin against a stud, and automatically a Martian cheroot dropped out of a rack and slipped between his lips. A tiny heat unit swung over to ignite it, and the exhaust valve behind his neck increased its pulsations to expel the smoke. He walked on…

  Kramer’s introduction to the plan had come about in an odd way. In a small curio shop in FaGanda he had purchased an old vase, marked with a mixture of curious hieroglyphics on one side and some doggerel Martian verse on the other. Now Kramer was no student of languages, but in order to quicken his wits he had frequently pored over early Martian.