by Bob Shaw
By the same author:
THE TWO-TIMERS
PALACE OF ETERNITY
ONE MILLION TOMORROWS
OTHER DAYS, OTHER EYES
TOMORROW LIES IN AMBUSH
ORBITSVILLE
NIGHT WALK
A WREATH OF STARS
COSMIC KALEIDOSCOPE
MEDUSA’S CHILDREN
WHO GOES HERE?
SHIP OF STRANGERS
VERTIGO
DAGGER OF THE MIND
THE CERES SOLUTION
A BETTER MANTRAP
ORBITSVILLE DEPARTURE
FIRE PATTERN
THE PEACE MACHINE
THE RAGGED ASTRONAUTS
THE WOODEN SPACESHIPS
First published in Great Britain 1989
by Victor Gollancz Ltd
14 Henrietta Street, London WC2E 8QJ
© Bob Shaw 1960, 1969, 1972, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1984, 1985, 1988, 1989.
“Dark Night in Toyland” was first published in Interzone, 1988.
“Go On, Pick a Universe!” was first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, 1981.
“Stormseeker” was first published in Galaxy, 1972.
“Aliens Aren’t Human” was first published in Extro Science Fiction, 1982.
“Love Me Tender” was first published in New Terrors, 1980.
“To the Letter” was first published in Interzone, 1989.
“Cutting Down” was first published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, 1982.
“Hue and Cry” was first published in Amazing, 1969.
“Dissolute Diplomat” was first published in IF, 1960.
“Well-Wisher” was first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, 1979.
“Executioner’s Moon” was first published in Imagine, 1985.
“Deflation 2001” was first published in Amazing, 1972.
“Shadows of Wings” was first published in More Magic, 1984.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Shaw, Bob,
Dark night in toyland
I. Title
813'.54[F]
ISBN 0 575 04448 9
Typeset at the Spartan Press Limited,
Lymington Hants
and printed in Great Britain by
St Edmundsbury Press Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk.
To Arthur C. Clarke
CONTENTS
Introduction
Dark Night in Toyland
Go On, Pick a Universe!
Stormseeker
Aliens Aren’t Human
Love Me Tender
To the Letter
Courageous New Planet
Cutting Down
Hue and Cry
The K-Y Warriors
Dissolute Diplomat
Well-Wisher
Executioner’s Moon
Deflation 2001
Shadow of Wings
INTRODUCTION
“Daddy, why are my fingernails made of plastic?”
The question came from my youngest daughter, then aged about four, who had just examined her hands, almost as though seeing them for the first time. I looked at her fingers and saw that the nails were indeed little translucent slivers, not much different in appearance from that shiny pink plastic which is used in making tiny dolls. I knew the true situation, but the child had accepted that she was a composite being—part flesh, part Woolworths plastic—and I suddenly saw a little way into the gulf that existed between her universe and mine.
The little episode gave me a cold feeling in the stomach, one which was accompanied by that turmoil at the centre of the being which authors sometimes describe as inspiration. And within a minute I had the idea and plot for DARK NIGHT IN TOYLAND, the lead story in this collection. You might describe it as science fiction, fantasy or horror—depending on your academic stance in these matters. I would hesitate to classify it, but would say there is something uniquely horrible in the idea that there might be no clear dividing line between the sacred body of one’s own child and the increasingly clever, increasingly complex products of the commercial toy manufacturer.
The above will, I hope, show why it is that when writers are confronted by that perennial question—where do you get your ideas from?—their eyes often cloud over and the muscles around their mouths become visibly agitated, but without any audible consequence. The workings of the creative mind cannot be explained. A skilled writer can deliberately manufacture a story he knows will sell in its intended market; or he can be struck by an inspirational bolt from the unknown and decide to take his chances on the resultant story ever finding an audience.
One of the pleasures of working in the science fiction and fantasy field is that the short story form is still very much alive there, and also that—literally—anything goes. Rules do exist, but they are not imposed on the writer from outside or above. A story can be an extended joke, an attempt to reach the dim boundaries of the imagination, a puzzle in disguise, a bad dream excised from the subconscious by the scalpel of language, or a personal statement about the perplexities inherent in being part of the human race.
All of the stories in this collection fall into one or more of the above categories—but which into which? No matter to which category you assign a particular piece I could argue for hours that others would have been more appropriate—especially if there was a little whisky available to lubricate the gearwheels of discussion. The most important thing, however, is that you should find at least some of these varied offerings enjoyable.
I hope you do!
DARK NIGHT IN TOYLAND
“Don’t let it happen today,” Kirkham prayed.
And then that other side of him, that intruder whose caustic, sneering voice had been growing more and more insistent for the past month, cut in with: Yeah, it’s bad enough for a kid to die of cancer at any time—but if it happens on Christmas Day it makes him feel rotten.
Kirkham jumped to his feet and strode violently about the study, ashamed and afraid of the voice even though he was sufficiently Manichaean in outlook to understand why he heard it. The oak-panelled room had once seemed so right for a small-town Methodist minister whose mission was the preservation of religious belief in the hostile climate of the 21st century. Now it seemed dark and claustrophobic. He went to the window and pulled aside the green velvet drapes. It was ocean-black outside—six o’clock on a Christmas morning. No different to six o’clock on any other morning in winter.
The voice again: Here it is, Christmas—and us out here chasing a star.
Kirkham gnawed the back of his hand and went into the kitchen to brew coffee. Dora was there in her powder-blue dressing gown, making herself busy with cups and spoons. Straight-backed. Brave woman, their friends and neighbours must have been saying, but only Kirkham knew the extent to which she had been defeated by Timmy’s illness.
One night when he had talked to her about faith she had said, with a kind of sad contempt, “Do you have faith that two and two make four? Of course not, John. Because you know two and two make four.” It had been the first and only time she had spoken to him in that manner, but he had a disturbing conviction she had been making a personal statement about life and death.
“I didn’t hear you come down,” he said. “Isn’t it a little early for you?”
Dora shook her head. “I want this day to be as long as possible.”
“It won’t work, Dora.” He knew at once what she was trying to do. Dostoyevsky on the morning he was led out to be executed, resolving to magnify and subdivide every second so as to expand an hour into a lifetime.
“You have to let time go,” he said. “With gladness. It’s the only way to tackle eternity.” He waite
d, aware he had sounded pompous, hoping she would challenge him and thus admit her need for his help. And thus establish, in his own mind, that he was able to help.
“Milk or cream?” she said.
“Milk.” They sipped their coffees for a moment, separate, the bright clean geometries of the kitchen shimmering between them.
“What are we going to do next Christmas, John?” Dora’s voice was matter-of-fact, as though discussing arrangements for a vacation. “When we’re alone.”
“We have to see what God has in store for us. Perhaps, by then, we’ll understand.”
“Perhaps we understand already. Perhaps the only thing we have to understand is that there is nothing for us to understand.”
“Dora!” Kirkham felt a sombre excitement over the fact that his wife seemed on the brink of acknowledging her disbelief. He knew he would be unable to help her unless it was brought out into the open. The words had to be said, the thoughts translated into mouth movements and air vibrations, even though the eyes of God could see everywhere.
The voice: Great eyesight, God has. I mean, how else could he sit at the centre of the galaxy and fire a cosmic ray across thousands of light years and hit a single cell in a little boy’s spine? That’s real sharpshooting in anybody’s book. Especially the Good Book…
Kirkham’s attention on Dora’s face wavered. Of all places, it had had to be the spine, where the living structures were too complex for successful reproduction by bioclay. The treatment had been applied, of course, using the most advanced compounds, and it had given Timmy a few extra months. For a time it had even seemed that a cure might be achieved (the breakthrough had to come someday) but then the boy had begun to lose the mobility of his left leg—first signs that the bioclay, which was displacing cancer cells as quickly as they were formed, was proving unequal to the task of recreating the original tissues.
“…be awake by this time,” Dora was saying. “Let’s go in.”
Feeling that he had missed an important opportunity, Kirkham nodded and they went into Timmy’s room. In the dim glow of the nightlight they could see that the boy was awake, but he had not touched the Christmas gifts which were stacked at his bedside. Kirkham learned, yet again, how the word heartbreak had originated. He hung back, afraid to trust his voice, while Dora went to the bed and kneeled beside it.
“It’s Christmas morning,” she coaxed. “Look at all the presents you have.”
Timmy’s eyes were steady on her face. “I know, Mum.”
“Don’t you want to open them?”
“Not now—I’m tired.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?”
“It’s not that sort of tiredness.” Timmy looked away from his mother, his small face dignified and lonely. Dora lowered her head.
He knows, Kirkham thought, and was galvanised into action. He hurried across the room and began opening the varicoloured packages.
“Look at this,” he said cheerfully. “From Uncle Leo—an audiograph! Look at the way it turns my voice into colour patterns! And here’s a self-moving chess set…” He went on opening parcels until the bed was covered with gifts and discarded wrappings.
“This is great, Dad.” Timmy smiled. “I’ll play with them later.”
“All right, son.” Kirkham decided to make one more attempt. “Isn’t there anything you specially wanted?”
The boy glanced at his mother, suddenly alert, and Kirkham felt grateful. “There was one thing,” Timmy said.
“What is it?”
“I told Mum last week, but I didn’t think you’d let me have it.”
Kirkham was hurt. “Why shouldn’t…?”
“It’s a Biodoh kit,” Dora put in. “Timmy knows how you feel about that stuff.”
“Oh! Well, you must admit it’s not…”
“But I bought it for him anyway.”
Kirkham began to protest, then he saw that—despite the encumbrance of paralysed legs—Timmy was struggling into an upright position in the bed, face filled with eagerness, and he knew it would be wrong to interfere at that moment. Dora went to a closet and brought a large flat box which had not been gift wrapped. Printed across it in capacitor inks which made the letters flash regularly, like neon signs, was the word “BIODOH”. Kirkham felt a stirring of revulsion.
“Is it all right, Dad? Can I have it? You won’t be sorry.” Timmy was almost out of bed. His pyjama jacket had crumpled up, exposing the edge of the therapeutic plastron the surgeons had attached to his back.
Kirkham made himself smile. “Of course, it’s all right.”
“Thanks, John.” Dora’s eyes signalled her gratitude as she made Timmy comfortable against his pillows and moved the other presents to a table.
Kirkham nodded. He went to a window, drew back the curtains and looked out. The panes were still enamelled with night’s blackness, reflecting the scene within the bedroom. A child in a warmly lit cot, his mother kneeling by his side. The associations with the first Christmas, which might have comforted Kirkham earlier, seemed blasphemous in the presence of Dora’s gift. He wanted to leave the room, to find peace to think, but there was a risk of spoiling his son’s unexpected happiness. He returned to the bedside and watched Timmy explore the compartments and trays of the Biodoh box.
There was the pink dough which represented surface flesh; reddish slivers which would serve as muscles; coiled blue and yellow strands for nerves; plastic celery stalks for major bones; interlocking white beads for vertebrae. Small eyes arranged in neat watchful pairs. Snap-on nylon hooks for muscle inserts, the silver plugs of nerve connectors. And—most hideous of all to Kirkham’s eyes—the grey putty, debased commercial relative of the bioclay which was at work in Timmy’s spine, which could be fashioned into ganglia. Primitive little brains. The boy’s fingers fluttered over the box, briefly alighting on one treasure and then another.
Kirkham looked at the discarded lid on the floor. “BIODOH helps your child understand the Miracle of Life!” The fools, he thought, don’t they know that if you understand a miracle it ceases to be a miracle?
Timmy leafed through the glossy instruction manual. “What should I make first, Mum?”
“What does it suggest?”
“Let me see…a giant caterpillar! Simple invertebrate…blind…Shall I try it? Right now?”
“There’s no time like the present,” Dora said. “Come on—I’ll help.”
They put their heads together and—working intently, with frequent consultations of the manual—began to build an eight-inch caterpillar. A muscle strip of suitable length was chosen first. Load-spreaders, like miniature umbrellas, were attached to each extremity. A blue nerve cord was added, cut in two at the centre of its length and silver nerve connectors fitted to the severed ends.
Pale green surface flesh was taken from the appropriate compartment and formed in the shape of a hotdog roll which had a longitudinal slit. The muscle, complete with nerve, was then laid in the slit and the load-spreaders were firmly pressed into the green flesh at each end.
Finally, Timmy took a pellet of the grey putty, pressed it against his wrist and determinedly opened and shut his hand in a steady rhythm for about a minute, to imprint the nerve impulse pattern in the receptive material.
“This is it,” he said breathlessly. “Do you think it will work, Mum?”
“I think so. You did everything exactly right.”
Timmy looked up at his father, seeking praise, but Kirkham could only stare at the lifeless green object on the workboard. It both horrified and fascinated him. Timmy dropped the grey pellet into the thing’s interior and pressed the two silver nerve connectors into it.
On the instant, the caterpillar began to squirm.
Timmy gave a startled cry and dropped it. The pseudo-creature lay on the board, sideways, stretching and contracting. At each contraction its body opened obscenely and Kirkham saw the muscle swelling within.
You lied to us, Christ, he thought in his dread. There is nothing special or sacred
about life. Anybody can create it—therefore we have no souls.
Timmy laughed delightedly. He picked up the caterpillar and sealed it along its length by pressing the sides of the wound together. The pale flesh melded. Timmy, working with uncanny certitude, fashioned little foot-like blobs along the creature’s underside and set it down again. This time, stabilised and aided by its feet, the caterpillar crawled along the workboard, moving blindly, with the rhythm it had learned from the boy’s clenching fist. Timmy looked into his mother’s face, triumphant, intoxicated.
“Good boy!” Dora exclaimed.
Timmy turned to his father. “Dad?”
“I…I’ve never…” Kirkham sought inspiration. “What name are you going to give it, son?”
“Name?” Timmy looked surprised. “I’m not going to keep it, Dad. I’ll need the materials for other projects.”
Kirkham’s lips were numb. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Put it back into inventory, of course.” Timmy lifted the dumbly working caterpillar, split it open in the middle with his thumbs and extracted the grey pellet. As soon as the nerve connectors were separated from the ganglion the pseudo-creature lapsed into stillness.
“That’s all there is to it,” Timmy commented.
Kirkham nodded, and left the room.
“I’m sorry to have to say this, John and Dora, but your boy has very little time left.” Bert Rowntree stirred the tea Dora had made for him, his spoon creating irrelevant little ringing sounds in the quietness of the afternoon. His brow was creased with unprofessional sadness.
In contrast, Dora’s face was carefully relaxed. “How much time?”
“Probably less than a week. I’ve just taken new tissue compatibility readings, and the ratio is falling off very quickly. I…There’s no point in my trying to paint a falsely optimistic picture.”
“We wouldn’t want you to do that, Bert,” Kirkham said. “You’re sure there’ll be no pain?”
“Positive—the bioclay has built-in blocks. Timmy will simply go to sleep.”
“That’s something we can thank God for.”
