by Anthology
He wandered through the motel, poking his head in the various panels held in small meeting rooms, the minimally crowded autograph sessions with a few old writers from the pulp magazine days. He was thrilled to find others who had read every issue of Amazing and Astounding. In all his adult years, Jimmy had met only a couple of like-minded souls who didn’t consider him weird or immature to be reading “that strange spaceman stuff.”
This tiny World Science Fiction Convention had gathered the few remaining readers who didn’t mind being identified with the genre. By his guess, only a hundred or so people were there, most of them gloomy because of the recent news that the television show Star Trek had just been cancelled. When it aired, Star Trek was seen as not one small step, but a giant leap for science fiction, with intelligent and thought-provoking episodes (along with a pointy-eared alien and very short skirts on the female crewmembers).
Jimmy found a few fans sitting in the lobby, some of them dressed in costumes, others trading battered out-of-print books, all of them grumbling about the show’s cancellation. “There’s simply nothing we can do,” said one brown-haired woman with glasses who sat on a sofa, putting her chin in her hands. “I loved Star Trek. I even met Mr. Roddenberry at the Hugo ceremony last year.”
“We know, Bjo.”
“They’ll probably replace Star Trek with another doctor show,” groaned a beanpole-thin young man wearing a floppy Three Musketeers hat. “But what can you do? We’re not studio executives.”
Jimmy took a seat on the floor next to the fans. “You could write a letter.”
“What good would one letter do?” asked the woman named Bjo.
“Not just one letter—why not a whole campaign? There are at least a hundred people gathered right here at this motel. It would be a start. Then you could all tell your friends. There must be other fans in the world.”
“A few,” said the man in the Three Musketeers hat.
Bjo seemed delighted to have something to hold onto. “I’ll do it for Star Trek. I’ll write a letter. In fact, I’ll write a sample letter and mimeograph it so everybody has a starting point. You’ll all write to the studio, won’t you?” It didn’t sound like a question. “It’s time we stop hiding. As fans, we shouldn’t be ashamed of what we enjoy to read or watch.”
The skinny man said, “We’re embarrassed because we feel so alone.”
“Then we need to get organized,” Bjo said. “Even though the pulp magazines died, a couple of fan publications managed to survive. They’ve got mailing lists. They’ve got friends. It’ll be a genuine letter-writing campaign. We’ll bury Paramount with letters demanding that Star Trek be given another chance!”
“How can you think that’ll work, Bjo? It’s never been done before.”
She leaned forward. “Isn’t that what science fiction’s about? Imagining things that other people consider impossible?”
“This could be really important.” Jimmy clutched his hands together earnestly. “By putting together a letter-writing campaign, you’ll light a fire under fandom again. If we win this battle, then everybody in Hollywood will realize that we have power after all.”
“Sounds even more far-fetched than something written by Edgar Rice Burroughs,” said a quiet, chubby young man who had been dozing against the corner of the lobby sofa.
“I like ERB!” a woman next to him snapped, then her expression softened. “I didn’t know anybody still read him. Do you prefer John Carter of Mars or Carson of Venus?”
“We all prefer Star Trek.” Bjo got to her feet. Jimmy could see that she was going to take charge. This movement was in her hands now. If she could get Star Trek renewed for one year, if she could organize fandom and prove there was a strong audience for science fiction, it would certainly get the ball rolling.
“We don’t have much time,” Bjo said.
“None of us does,” Jimmy admitted.
He longed to stay with the fans and meet some of his favorite old authors, but he had far more important things to do. Saving the human race had to take precedent over the dealers’ room.
Jimmy pedaled his bicycle on the MGM Studio lot, gawking at the standing sets like a tourist. He was dressed as a script runner, but the papers in his bicycle basket were all blank. Timing now had to be impeccable.
He headed toward the main building just as a young man with dark hair and a neat beard emerged, shoulders slumped, his gaze downward. The cloud over his head was like a billboard announcing that he’d had another defeat.
Pedaling furiously, Jimmy brought the bike over to the sidewalk, skidded to a stop, and jingled his bell, startling the man. “Excuse me! You’re Mr. Lucas, aren’t you? George Lucas? I loved your student film.”
The bearded man looked at him. “My student film? You mean the futuristic one?”
“Yes, THX 1138. I especially loved the robot policemen.”
Lucas heaved a heavy sigh. “The only thing of mine anybody seems to know is American Graffiti. I swear their attention span is only two months long.” He forced an unconvincing smile. “What can you do? American Graffiti earned a lot of money, but now that I want to make something different and dear to my heart, I keep getting turned down.”
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Lucas?”
“When I was a kid growing up in Modesto, I used to read comic books and pulp science fiction magazines.” He turned and looked at Jimmy. “I’m willing to bet there’s a whole generation who’d love to see an ambitious movie with interesting special effects, not just giant rubber monsters on strings. Unfortunately, studios aren’t willing to bet on it. I’ve pitched and pitched my new movie, The Star Wars. They can’t imagine giving me the budget I want—ten million dollars!—to make a sci-fi movie they ‘know’ won’t make money.”
“Oh, I bet it could be one of the biggest money-makers of all time.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but even I’m not that naïve.” Lucas shook his head. “Why am I talking to a script runner about this?”
“Because I’ll listen,” Jimmy said. “I love science fiction, too.”
“Great, then I’ll have an audience of one if I make The Star Wars. I’m trying to do a really big science fiction movie, but the execs don’t see what I see, no matter how I describe it to them.”
Jimmy pounced with his suggestion. “A picture’s worth a thousand words, Mr. Lucas—and film is a visual medium. Instead of just giving a verbal pitch, maybe . . . bring some illustrations. Do you know any artists who can paint something spectacular and imaginative? Give them a real eye-full of what they’re going to be investing in. That could make all the difference.”
Lucas raised his eyebrows. “I do have a friend who works at Boeing painting pictures of new aircraft designs, Ralph McQuarrie. I’ve seen him doodle and play with ideas. Maybe I should give him my movie treatment, commission him to do a set of paintings of my alien landscapes, strange ships, creatures, and characters.” Now the man stood taller, his shoulders square with new confidence. “That just might do it! I was about to cancel my pitch at Twentieth-Century Fox because I didn’t think I had a chance. Ralph can do some paintings for me in time.” Already intent, deeply focused, Lucas hurried off after saying a curt goodbye.
Sitting on his bicycle, Jimmy watched the man go. This was the last cruxpoint he and Dr. Hawking had been able to select. He hoped he had done enough, sparked enough imagination, fertilized a field that would bear fruit beyond mundane concerns. If he succeeded, there would be an entire cultural shift, a social mindset that made mankind think forward, look to the skies, and boldly go where no man had gone before.
Maybe that version of Earth would have a chance against an alien invasion, since Jimmy’s original Earth had no chance at all. When the time machine activated again, he didn’t know what kind of world he was going back to.
When the marauding invasion fleet cruised into the solar system, they scanned Earth broadcasts. The alien subcommander had been hoping for easy pickings. The economics of conqueri
ng planet after planet simply did not allow for a long, drawn-out siege against vigorous resistance.
“Such a fertile world,” the subcommander said. “We have made no prior contact with this . . . Earth?”
“They have never seen us, have no reason to expect us,” said the strategic advisor, lifting a tentacle. “We have enough ships to intimidate them, though we cannot sustain a long battle.”
“They will crumble easily,” predicted the subcommander.
“Excuse me,” said the communications officer. “I have deconstructed their broadcasts and tapped into their library databases. I found a disturbing cultural trend. It seems these humans have been anticipating something like us for the past century. Observe.” He played clips of movies he had plucked from the cacophony of transmissions.
“The inhabitants of Earth have a popular entertainment category called science fiction. Their best-selling novel in the genre describes a harsh desert planet and a vigorous resistance against a large galactic empire similar to our own. One of their longest running and most successful televised entertainment series concerns their own exploration and expansion into the galaxy. Among their most lucrative filmed entertainments is tellingly titled Star Wars, filled with images of spectacular space battles. Subcommander, if even a fraction of these images is true, our fleet stands no chance.”
“So these humans are ready for us. Somehow they were forewarned.” After a few long and silent moments, the subcommander turned to his strategic advisor. “Do you concur?”
The advisor looked extremely troubled. “Given this information, Subcommander, I cannot recommend that we proceed. We do not have the military capability to withstand a protracted resistance.”
The subcommander growled, then nodded. He could not afford another failure. He was sure to be executed this time unless he easily and inexpensively conquered a new world. If these creatures could imagine such things for entertainment, how much more prepared must their military be!
“Very well, target another solar system,” he said. “There will be plenty of others to choose from. Let us go find an unimaginative race instead.”
Note: Frank Herbert’s Dune, the best-selling science fiction novel of all time, was rejected more than twenty times before it was finally published by a company that produced auto-repair manuals.
Star Trek was originally cancelled after only two seasons, until a group of science fiction fans led by Bjo Trimble launched a massive letter-writing campaign such as the networks had never before seen, and the show was renewed.
Even after the success of his film American Graffitti, George Lucas could not find a studio willing to invest in his science fiction movie Star Wars. However, when he commissioned his artist friend Ralph McQuarrie to paint extravagant scenes from the proposed movie, 20th Century Fox immediately picked up the project.
MY NAME IS LEGION
Lester del Rey
Hitler should, no doubt, be given something special in the way of exile when we finish this war. Our personal choice would be this one; we like the idea.
Bresseldorf lay quiet under the late-morning sun-too quiet. In the streets there was no sign of activity, though a few faint banners of smoke spread upward from the chimneys, and the dropped tools of agriculture lay all about, scattered as if from sudden flight. A thin pig wandered slowly and suspiciously down Friedrichstrasse, turned into an open door cautiously grunted in grudging satisfaction, and disappeared within. But there were no cries of children, no bustle of men in the surrounding fields, nor women gossiping or making preparations for the noon meal. The few shops, apparently gutted of foodstuffs, were bare, their doors flopping open. Even the dogs were gone.
Major King dropped the binoculars to his side, tight lines about his eyes that contrasted in suspicion with his ruddy British face. “Something funny here, Wolfe. Think it’s an ambush?”
Wolfe studied the scene. “Doesn’t smell like it, major,” he answered. “In the Colonials, we developed something of a sixth sense for that, and I don’t get a hunch here. Looks more like a sudden and complete retreat to me, sir.”
“We’d have had reports from the observation planes if even a dozen men were on the roads. I don’t like this.” The major put the binoculars up again. But the scene was unchanged, save that the solitary pig had come out again and was rooting his way down the street in lazy assurance that nothing now menaced him. King Shrugged, flipped his hand forward in a quick jerk, and his command moved ahead again, light tanks in front, troop cars and equipment at a safe distance behind, but ready to move forward instantly to hold what ground the tanks might gain. In the village, nothing stirred.
Major King found himself holding his breath as the tanks reached antitank-fire distance, but as prearranged, half of them lumbered forward at a deceptive speed, maneuvered to two abreast to shuttle across Friedrichstrasse toward the village square, and halted. Still, there was no sign of resistance. Wolfe looked at the quiet houses along the street and grinned sourly.
“If it’s an ambush, major, they’ve got sense. They’re waiting until we send in our men in the trucks to pick them off then, and letting the tanks alone. But I still don’t believe it; not with such an army as he could throw together.”
“Hm-m-m.” King scowled, and again gave the advance signal.
The trucks moved ahead this time, traveling over the rough road at a clip that threatened to jar the teeth out of the men’s heads, and the remaining tanks swung in briskly as a rear guard. The pig stuck his head out of a door as the major’s car swept past, squealed, and slipped back inside in haste. Then all were in the little square, barely big enough to hold them, and the tanks were arranged facing out, their thirty-seven millimeters raking across the houses that bordered, ready for an instant’s notice. Smoke continued to rise peacefully, and the town slumbered on, unmindful of this strange invasion.
“Hell!” King’s neck felt tense, as if the hair were standing on end. He swung to the men, moved his hands outward. “Out and search! And remember—take him alive if you can! If you can’t, plug his guts and save his face—we’ll have to bring back proof!”
They broke into units and stalked out of the square toward the houses with grim efficiency and rifles ready, expecting guerrilla fire at any second; none came. The small advance guard of the Army of Occupation kicked open such doors as were closed and went in and sidewise, their comrades covering them. No shots came, and the only sound was the cries of the men as they reported “Empty!”
Then, as they continued around the square, one of the doors opened quietly and a single man came out, glanced at the rifles centered on him, and threw up his hands, a slight smile on his face. “Kamerad!” he shouted toward the major; then in English with only the faintest of accents: “There is no other here, in the whole village.” Holding onto the door, he moved aside slightly to let a search detail go in, waited for them to come out. “You see? I am alone in Bresseldorf; the Leader you seek is gone, and his troops with him.”
Judging by the man’s facial expression that he was in no condition to come forward, King advanced; Wolfe was at his side, automatic at ready. “I’m Major King, Army of Occupation. We received intelligence from some of the peasants who fled from here yesterday that your returned Führer was hiding here. You say—”
“That he is quite gone, yes; and that you will never find him, though you comb the earth until eternity, Major King. I am Karl Meyers, once of Heidelberg.”
“When did he leave?”
“A matter of half an hour or so—what matter? I assure you, sir, he is too far now to trace. Much too far!”
“In half an hour?” King grimaced. “You underestimate the covering power of a modern battalion. Which direction?”
“Yesterday,” Meyers answered, and his drawn face lighted slightly. “But tell me, did the peasants report but one Führer?”
King stared at the man in surprise, taking in the basically pleasant face, intelligent eyes, and the pride that lay, somehow, in the bent figur
e; this was no ordinary villager, but a man of obvious breeding. Nor did he seem anything but completely frank and honest. “No,” the major conceded, “there were stories. But when a band of peasants reports a thousand Führers heading fifty thousand troops, we’d be a little slow in believing it, after all.”
“Quite so, major. Peasant minds exaggerate.” Again there was the sudden lighting of expression. “Yes, so they did—the troops. And in other ways, rather than exaggerating, they minimized. But come inside, sirs, and I’ll explain over a bottle of the rather poor wine I’ve found here. I’ll show you the body of the Leader, and even explain why he’s gone—and when.”
“But you said—” King shrugged. Let the man be as mysterious as he chose, if his claim of the body was correct. He motioned Wolfe forward with him and followed Meyers into a room that had once been kitchen and dining room, but was now in wild disarray, its normal holdings crammed into the corners to make room for a small piece of mechanism in the center and a sheeted bundle at one side. The machine was apparently in the process of being disassembled.
Meyers lifted the sheet. “Der Führer,” he said, simply, and King dropped with a gasp to examine the dead figure revealed.
There were no shoes, and the calluses on the feet said quite plainly that it was customary; such few clothes as remained had apparently been pieced together from odds and ends of peasant clothing, sewed crudely. Yet on them, pinned over the breast, were the two medals that the Leader alone bore. One side of the head had been blown away by one of the new issue German explosive bullets, and what remained was incredibly filthy, matted hair falling below the shoulders, scraggy, tangled beard covering all but the eye and nose. On the left cheek, however, the irregular reversed question-mark scar from the recent attempt at assassination showed plainly, but faded and blended with the normal skin where it should I have been still sharp after only two months’ healing.
