Modern Classics of Science Fiction

by Gardner Dozois

  He had to pass the pub. The chimney smoked but there was no other sign of life. The train crashed behind him, thunderously obedient. Fifty yards on he used the whistle, over and again, waking Margaret’s huge iron voice, filling the street with steam. Childish, but he couldn’t stop himself. Then he was clear. Swanage dropping away behind as he climbed toward the heath. He built up speed. He was late; in that other world he seemed to have left so long ago, a man called Dickon would be worrying.

  Way off on the left a semaphore stood stark against the sky. He hooted to it, the two pips followed by the long call that all the hauliers used. For a moment the thing stayed dead; then he saw the arms flip an acknowledgement. Out there he knew Zeiss glasses would be trained on the Burrell. The Guildsmen had answered; soon a message would be streaking north along the little local towers. The Lady Margaret, locomotive, Strange and Sons, Durnovaria; out of Swanage routed for Corvesgat, fifteen thirty hours. All well …

  Night came quickly; night and the burning frost. Jesse swung west well before Wareham, cutting straight across the heath. The Burrell thundered steadily, gripping the road with her seven-foot drive wheels, leaving thin wraiths of steam behind her in the dark. He stopped once, to fill his tanks and light the lamps, then pushed on again into the heathland. A light mist or frost smoke was forming now; it clung to the hollows of the rough ground, glowing oddly in the light from the side lamps. The wind soughed and threatened. North of the Purbecks, off the narrow coastal strip, the winter could strike quick and hard; come morning the heath could be impassable, the trackways lost under two feet or more of snow.

  An hour out from Swanage, and the Margaret still singing her tireless song of power. Jesse thought, blearily, that she at least kept faith. The semaphores had lost her now in the dark; there would be no more messages till she made her base. He could imagine old Dickon standing at the yard gate under the flaring cressets, worried, cocking his head to catch the beating of an exhaust miles away. The loco passed through Wool. Soon be home, now; home, to whatever comfort remained …

  The boarder took him nearly by surprise. The train had slowed near the crest of a rise when the man ran alongside, lunged for the footplate step. Jesse heard the scrape of a shoe on the road; some sixth sense warned him of movement in the darkness. The shovel was up, swinging for the stranger’s head, before it was checked by an agonized yelp. “Hey ol’ boy, don’ you know your friends?”

  Jesse, half off balance, grunted and grabbled at the steering. “Col.… What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  De la Haye, still breathing hard, grinned at him in the reflection of the sidelights. “Jus’ a fellow traveler, my friend. Happy to see you come along there, I tell you. Had a li’l bit of trouble, thought a’d have to spend the night on the bloody heath…”

  “What trouble?”

  “Oh, I was ridin’ out to a place a’ know,” said de la Haye. “Place out by Culliford, li’l farm. Christmas with friends. Nice daughters. Hey. Jesse, you know?” He punched Jesse’s arm, started to laugh. Jesse set his mouth. “What happened to your horse?”

  “Bloody thing foundered, broke its leg.”

  “Where?”

  “On the road back there,” said de la Haye carelessly. “A’ cut its throat an’ rolled it in a ditch. Din’ want the damn routiers spottin’ it, gettin’ on my tail.…” He blew his hands, held them out to the firebox, shivered dramatically inside his sheepskin coat. “Damn cold, Jesse, cold as a bitch.… How far you go?”

  “Home. Durnovaria.”

  De la Haye peered at him. “Hey, you don’ sound good. You sick, ol’ Jesse?”

  “No.”

  Col shook his arm insistently. “Whassamatter, ol’ pal? Anythin’ a friend can do to help?”

  Jesse ignored him, eyes searching the road ahead. De la Haye bellowed suddenly with laughter. “Was the beer. The beer, no? Ol’ Jesse, your stomach has shrunk!” He held up a clenched fist. “Like the stomach of a li’l baby, no? Not the old Jesse any more; ah, life is hell…”

  Jesse glanced down at the gauge, turned the belly tank cocks, heard water splash on the road, touched the injector controls, saw the burst of steam as the lifts fed the boiler. The pounding didn’t change its beat. He said steadily, “Reckon it must have bin the beer that done it. Reckon I might go on the waggon. Gettin’ old.”

  De la Haye peered at him again, intently. “Jesse,” he said. “You got problems, my son. You got troubles. What gives? C’mon, spill…”

  That damnable intuition hadn’t left him then. He’d had it right through college; seemed somehow to know what you were thinking nearly as soon as it came into your head. It was Col’s big weapon; he used it to have his way with women. Jesse laughed bitterly; and suddenly the story was coming out. He didn’t want to tell it; but he did, down to the last word. Once started, he couldn’t stop.

  Col heard him in silence; then he started to shake. The shaking was laughter. He leaned back against the cab side, holding onto a stanchion. “Jesse, Jesse, you are a lad. Christ, you never change.… Oh, you bloody Saxon.…” He went off into fresh peals, wiped his eyes. “So … so she show you her pretty li’l scut, he? Jesse, you are a lad; when will you learn? What, you go to her with … with this.…” He banged the Margaret’s hornplate. “An’ your face so earnest an’ black, oh, Jesse, a’ can see that face of yours. Man, she don’ want your great iron destrier. Christ above, no.… But a’… a’ tell you what you do…”

  Jesse turned down the corners of his lips. “Why don’t you just shut up…”

  De la Haye shook his arm. “Nah, listen. Don’ get mad, listen. You … woo her, Jesse; she like that, that one. You know? Get the ol’ glad rags on, man, get a butterfly car, mak’ its wings of cloth of gold. She like that.… Only don’ stand no shovin’, ol’ Jesse. An’ don’ ask her nothin’, not no more. You tell her what you want, say you goin’ to get it.… Pay for your beer with a golden guinea, tell her you’ll tak’ the change upstairs, no? She’s worth it, Jesse, she’s worth havin’ is that one. Oh but she’s nice…”

  “Go to hell…”

  “You don’ want her?” De la Haye looked hurt. “A’ jus’ try to help, ol’ pal.… You los’ interest now?”

  “Yeah,” said Jesse. “I lost interest.”

  “Ahhh…” Col sighed. “Ah, but is a shame. Young love all blighted.… Tell you what though.” He brightened. “You given me a great idea, ol’ Jesse. You don’ want her, a’ have her myself. Okay?”

  When you hear the wail that means your father’s dead your hands go on wiping down a crosshead guide. When the world turns red and flashes, and drums roll inside your skull, your eyes watch ahead at the road, your fingers stay quiet on the wheel. Jesse heard his own voice speak dryly. “You’re a lying bastard, Col, you always were. She wouldn’t fall for you…”

  Col snapped his fingers, danced on the footplate. “Man, a’ got it halfway made. Oh but she’s nice.… Those li’l eyes, they were flashin’ a bit las’ night, no? Is easy, man, easy.… A’ tell you what, a’ bet she be sadistic in bed. But nice, ahhh, nice.…” His gestures somehow suggested rapture. “I tak’ her five ways in a night,” he said. “An’ send you proof. Okay?”

  Maybe he doesn’t mean it. Maybe he’s lying. But he isn’t. I know Col; and Col doesn’t lie. Not about this. What he says he’ll do, he’ll do … Jesse grinned, just with his teeth. “You do that, Col. Break her in. Then I take her off you. Okay?”

  De la Haye laughed and gripped his shoulder. “Jesse, you are a lad. Eh…? Eh…?”

  A light flashed briefly, ahead and to the right, way out on the heathland. Col spun round, stared at where it had been, looked back to Jesse. “You see that?”

  Grimly. “I saw.”

  De la Haye looked round the footplate nervously. “You got a gun?”

  “Why?”

  “The bloody light. The routiers…”

  “You don’t fight the routiers with a gun.”

  Col shook his head. “Man, I hope y
ou know what you’re doin’…”

  Jesse wrenched at the firebox doors, letting out a blaze of light and heat. “Stoke…”

  “What?”

  “Stoke!”

  “Okay, man,” said de la Haye. “All right, Okay.…” He swung the shovel, building the fire. Kicked the doors shut, straightened up. “A’ love you an’ leave you soon,” he said. “When we pass the light. If we pass the light…”

  The signal, if it had been a signal, was not repeated. The heath stretched out empty and black. Ahead was a long series of ridges; the Lady Margaret bellowed heavily, breasting the first of them. Col stared round again uneasily, hung out the cab to look back along the train. The high shoulders of the tarps were vaguely visible in the night. “What you carryin’, Jesse?” he asked. “You got the goods?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Bulk stuff. Cattle cake, sugar, dried fruit. Not worth their trouble.”

  De la Haye nodded worriedly. “Wha’s in the trail load?”

  “Brandy, some silks. Bit of tobacco. Veterinary supply. Animal castrators.” He glanced sideways. “Cord grip. Bloodless.”

  Col looked startled again, then started to laugh. “Jesse, you are a lad. A right bloody lad.… But tha’s a good load, ol’ pal. Nice pickings…”

  Jesse nodded, feeling empty. “Ten thousand quids’ worth. Give or take a few hundred.”

  De la Haye whistled. “Yeah. Tha’s a good load…”

  They passed the point where the light had appeared, left it behind. Nearly two hours out now, not much longer to run. The Margaret came off the down-slope, hit the second rise. The moon slid clear of a cloud, showed the long ribbon of road stretching ahead. They were almost off the heath now, Durnovaria just over the horizon. Jesse saw a track running away to the left before the moon, veiling itself, gave the road back to darkness.

  De la Haye gripped his shoulder. “You be fine now,” he said. “We passed the bastards.… You be all right. I drop off now, ol’ pal; thanks for th’ ride. An’ remember, ’bout the li’l girl. You get in there punchin’, you do what a’ say. Okay, ol’ Jesse?”

  Jesse turned to stare at him. “Look after yourself, Col,” he said.

  The other swung onto the step. “A’ be okay. A’ be great.” He let go, vanished in the night.

  He’d misjudged the speed of the Burrell. He rolled forward, somersaulted on rough grass, sat up grinning. The lights on the steamer’s trail load were already fading down the road. There were noises round him; six mounted men showed dark against the sky. They were leading a seventh horse, its saddle empty. Col saw the quick gleam of a gun barrel, the bulky shape of a crossbow. Routiers.… He got up still laughing, swung onto the spare mount. Ahead the train was losing itself in the low fogbanks. De la Haye raised his arm. “The last waggon.…” He rammed his heels into the flanks of his horse, and set off at a flat gallop.

  Jesse watched his gauges. Full head, a hundred and fifty pounds in the boiler. His mouth was still grim. It wouldn’t be enough; down this next slope, halfway up the long rise beyond, that was where they would take him. He moved the regulator to its farthest position; the Lady Margaret started to build speed again, swaying as her wheels found the ruts. She hit the bottom of the slope at twenty-five, slowed as her engine felt the dead pull of the train.

  Something struck the nearside hornplate with a ringing crash. An arrow roared overhead, lighting the sky as it went. Jesse smiled, because nothing mattered any more. The Margaret seethed and bellowed; he could see the horsemen now, galloping to either side. A pale gleam that could have been the edge of a sheepskin coat. Another concussion, and he tensed himself for the iron shock of a crossbow bolt in his back. It never came. But that was typical of Col de la Haye; he’d steal your woman but not your dignity, he’d take your trail load but not your life. Arrows flew again, but not at the loco. Jesse, craning back past the shoulders of the waggons, saw flames running across the sides of the last tarp.

  Halfway up the rise; the Lady Margaret labouring, panting with rage. The fire took hold fast, tongues of flame licking forward. Soon they would catch the next trailer in line. Jesse reached down. His hand closed slowly, regretfully, round the emergency release. He eased upward, felt the catch disengage, heard the engine beat slacken as the load came clear. The burning truck slowed, faltered, and began to roll back away from the rest of the train. The horsemen galloped after it as it gathered speed down the slope, clustered round it in a knot of whooping and beating upward with their cloaks at the fire. Col passed them at the run, swung from the saddle and leaped. A scramble, a shout; and the routiers bellowed their laughter. Poised on top of the moving load, gesticulating with his one free hand, their leader was pissing valiantly onto the flames.

  The Lady Margaret had topped the rise when the cloud scud overhead lit with a white glare. The explosion cracked like a monstrous whip; the shock wave slapped at the trailers, skewed the steamer off course. Jesse fought her straight, hearing echoes growl back from distant hills. He leaned out from the footplate, stared down past the shoulders of the load. Behind him twinkled spots of fire where the hell-burner, two score kegs of fine-grain powder packed round with bricks and scrap iron, had scythed the valley clear of life.

  Water was low. He worked the injectors, checked the gauge. “We must live how we can,” he said, not hearing the words. “We must all live how we can.” The firm of Strange had not been built on softness; what you stole from it, you were welcome to keep.

  Somewhere a semaphore clacked to Emergency Attention, torches lighting its arms. The Lady Margaret, with her train behind her, fled to Durnovaria, huddled ahead in the dim silver elbow of the Frome.

  ROGER ZELAZNY

  This Moment of the Storm

  Like a number of other writers, Roger Zelazny began publishing in 1962 in the pages of Cele Goldsmith’s Amazing. This was the so-called “Class of ’62,” whose membership also included Thomas M. Disch, Keith Laumer and Ursula K. Le Guin. Everyone in that “class” would eventually achieve prominence, but some of them would achieve it faster than others, and Zelazny’s subsequent career would be one of the most meteoric in the history of SF. The first Zelazny story to attract wide notice was “A Rose for Ecclesiastes,” published in 1963. (It was later selected by vote of the SFWA membership to have been one of the best SF stories of all time.) By the end of that decade, he had won two Nebula Awards and two Hugo Awards and was widely regarded as one of the two most important American SF writers of the ’60s (the other was Samuel R. Delany).

  Zelazny’s early novels were, on the whole, well-received (the first half of This Immortal, before the giant pigs and giant dogs come out, is excellent), but it was the strong and stylish short work he published in magazines like F&SF and Amazing and Worlds of If throughout the middle years of the decade that electrified the genre. It was these early stories – stories like “The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth,” “The Graveyard Heart,” “He Who Shapes,” “The Keys to December,” “For a Breath I Tarry,” and “This Mortal Mountain” – that-established Zelazny as a giant of the field, and that many still consider to be his best work. These stories are still amazing for their invention and elegance and verve, for their good-natured effrontery and easy ostentation, for the risks Zelazny took in pursuit of eloquence without ruffling a hair, the grace and nerve he displayed as he switched from high-flown pseudo-Spenserian to wisecracking Chandlerian slang to vivid prose-poetry to Hemingwayesque starkness in the course of only a few lines – and for the way he made it all look easy and effortless, the same kind of illusion Fred Astaire used to generate when he danced.

  The story that follows is Zelazny at the top of his form, writing about the indifference of the universe and the inevitability of time, with unruffled elegance and grace, all wrapped in vivid and atmospheric prose.

  After a string of weak books in the ’70s, the critics, whose darling he had always been until then, would turn sharply on Zelazny, but he remained popular with the readership. By the end of the ’70s, h
is long series of novels about the enchanted land of Amber – beginning with Nine Princes in Amber – had made him one of the best-selling SF and fantasy writers of our time, and inspired the founding of worldwide fan clubs and fanzines. He won Nebula and Hugo Awards in 1976 for his novella “Home Is the Hangman,” and another Hugo in 1986 for his novella “24 Views of Mt Fuji, by Hokusai.” His books include the novels This Immortal, The Dream Master, Lord of Light, Isle of the Dead and Roadmarks, and the collections The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth and Other Stories, and Frost and Fire. His most recent novel is Sign of Chaos. He lives with his family in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  Back on Earth, my old philosophy prof – possibly because he’d misplaced his lecture notes – came into the classroom one day and scrutinized his sixteen victims for the space of half a minute. Satisfied then, that a sufficiently profound tone had been established, he asked:

  “What is a man?”

  He had known exactly what he was doing. He’d had an hour and a half to kill, and eleven of the sixteen were coeds (nine of them in liberal arts, and the other two stuck with an Area Requirement).

  One of the other two, who was in the pre-med program, proceeded to provide a strict biological classification.

  The prof (McNitt was his name, I suddenly recall) nodded then, and asked:

  “Is that all?”

  And there was his hour and a half.

  I learned that Man is the Reasoning Animal, Man is the One Who Laughs, Man is greater than beasts but less than angels, Man is the one who watches himself watch himself doing things he knows are absurd (this from a Comparative Lit gal), Man is the culture-transmitting animal, Man is the spirit which aspires, affirms, loves, the one who uses tools, buries his dead, devises religions, and the one who tries to define himself. (That last from Paul Schwartz, my roommate – which I thought pretty good, on the spur of the moment. Wonder whatever became of Paul?)