* * * *
The Year’s Greatest
Science Fiction and Fantasy 6
Ed by Judith Merril
Proofed By MadMaxAU
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CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Judith Merril
DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE
by Holley Cantine
THE NEVER ENDING PENNY
by Bernard Wolfe
THE FELLOW WHO MARRIED THE MAXILL GIRL
by Ward Moore
SOMETHING INVENTED ME
by R. C. Phelan
A SIGH FOR CYBERNETICS
by Felicia Lamport
OBVIOUS!
by Michael Ffolkes
I REMEMBER BABYLON
by Arthur C. Clarke
THE LAGGING PROFESSION
by Leonard Lockhard
THE DISTORTION
by Shel Silverstein
REPORT ON THE NATURE OF THE LUNAR SURFACE
by John Brunner
J.G.
by Roger Price
CHIEF
by Henry Slesar
PSALM
by Lester del Rey
THE LARGE ANT
by Howard Fast
A ROSE BY OTHER NAME
by Christopher Anvil
ENCHANTMENT
by Elizabeth Emmett
THIOTIMOLINE AND THE SPACE AGE
by Isaac Asimov
BEACH SCENE
by Marshall King
CREATURE OF THE SNOWS
by William Sambrot
ABOMINABLE
by Frederic Brown
THE MAN ON TOP
by R. Bretnor
DAVID’S DADDY
by Rosel George Brown
THE THINKERS
by Walt Kelly
SOMETHING BRIGHT
by Zenna Henderson
IN THE HOUSE, ANOTHER
by Joseph Whitehill
A SERIOUS SEARCH FOR WEIRD WORLDS
by Ray Bradbury
ED LEAR WASN’T SO CRAZY!
by Hilbert Schenck, Jr.
INSTRUCTOR
by Thelwell
THE BROTHERHOOD OF KEEPERS
by Dean McLaughlin
HEMINGWAY IN SPACE
by Kingsley Amis
MINE OWN WAYS
by Richard McKenna
OLD HUNDREDTH
by Brian W. Aldiss
BLUES AND BALLAD
Radiation Blues
by Theodore R. Cogswell
Blowup Blues
by Theodore R. Cogswell
Ballad of the Shoshonu
by Gordon R. Dickson
HOW TO THINK A SCIENCE FICTION STORY
by G. Harry Stine
SUMMATION
The Year in S-F
by Judith Merril
S-F Books—1960
by Anthony Boucher
HONORABLE MENTIONS
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INTRODUCTION
Science, they keep telling us. Is “catching up” with science fiction. This is happily (at long last) true—precisely as it must be true that on any new frontier (space, surface, political, or academic) surveyors will replace the early scouts, and settlers may tread heavily on the surveyors’ heels.
This succession is, indeed, the only sure way to determine the validity of the new frontier. And the more swift and certain the waves of succession, the better it speaks for the work of the scouts—and for the alertness and adventurous spirit of man’s society. The rhythm of progress has a fixed pattern, but its tempo is variable in the extreme. Not all frontiers are still new when they are explored.
It was almost 2,000 years from the speculations of Aristarchus of Santos to the mathematically verifiable hypotheses of Johannes Kepler; three hundred more before Goddard and Tsiolkovsky (half the world round from each other) began to apply the principles of physical reaction (first observed in China in Aristarchus’s time, and mathematically formulated by Newton in the century after Kepler) to that men could and would, a scant half century later, build vessels to carry them into space to test, with physical exploration, the “proven” theories of Kepler.
In any field of new knowledge, on all frontiers, concrete or physical, the fools must first rush out to see what the accepted angels of the day do not credit even enough to fear. The quixotic ass may be a “Somnium” or a glider at Kitty Hawk, a “Rights of Man,” a burning bush, a dream of passage to India, a Unified Field of Theory, or a story of space. Whatever its form, it must take shape first in the imagination of some, somehow, less fettered mind, and pass, through the speculations of philosophers, onto the lathe of logic; if it turns true (however slowly or swiftly), it has become Accepted Theory.
With Theory, the cycle begins anew: someone must “dream up” (literally, just about) a completely new way to lest a new theory. Belter disciplined, less dreaming, men must refine the techniques; mathematical symbols must be found to describe in precise language the verified experiment. And—
With a new technique In hand, a new idea in the mind’s storehouse, some new dreamer will first imagine the next step, and (barring final warfare) so on, and on, and—
J. M.
Milford, March, 1961
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DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE
by Holley Cantine
Between the purely imaginative and the solidly speculative, as between speculation and science, the boundaries can never be entirely resolved. Just now—when yesterday’s impossibles are so often today’s probables and tomorrow’s certainlys—the once sharp dividing line between “scientific” and “supernatural” (or “reason” and “mysticism” or “science-fiction” and “fantasy”) is especially hazy.
Hypnosis, for instance, is such a respectable adjunct of medicine today that it is difficult to recall how recently the words’ mesmerist and charlatan were almost synonymous. “Faith healing,” of course, is still medically suspect—but “psychosomatic” is a vital part of every GP’s new vocabulary. And while ultra-scientific pharamaceutical laboratories are rediscovering, renaming (and peddling) the curative agents in long-discredited witch-doctor drugs, a startling number of solid conservative public utilities are making use of “water witching” techniques for everyday chores.
It does seem about time to reopen the question (imaginative or speculative) of magic in general...
* * * *
The essential nature of my mind is more than ordinarily rational and scientific, but there has always been a wild strain in it—magic fascinated me from early childhood. I couldn’t entirely bring myself to believe in it, but there were times when I could suspend my disbelief until I could almost feel the thrill of upsetting the laws of nature, and had there been a reputable sorcerer available during such moments, I might very well have asked to be taken on as an apprentice. For the most part, however, I laughed at such fancies, and applied myself earnestly to the study of science.
I never did get properly launched on a scientific career, but this had nothing to do with my curious penchant for witchcraft. During my student days, I became so deeply involved in radical activity that I presently abandoned all thought of seeking a berth in a university or research foundation—either of which would necessarily be subsidized and therefore, to my mind, controlled, by a status quo I had come to despise. Without waiting to graduate, I plunged myself completely into that complex world of intrigue and sectarian strife that passed for revolutionary politics in New York during the thirties and forties.
For some years
, I lived for the cause, working sporadically at poorly paid, part-time jobs to keep myself in food and a cheap furnished room, so I could spend most of my time at the exciting game of plotting and counter-plotting, drawing up manifestoes, polemics and learned Marxist dissertations, and holding endless discussions with my comrades. It all seemed terribly important and significant. We believed that the Revolution was imminent, and that our miniscule, ill-trained and badly informed groups—or one of them, at any rate—would shortly be wielding power over vast masses of people. It wasn’t a bad life, in many ways—it was certainly stimulating, and enormously gratifying to the ego, as long as one could continue to believe that we were the true elect—but there came a time when it began to pall on me.
To be perfectly honest, I suppose what woke me up was the arrival of a small legacy—not really very much money, but more than I had ever possessed at one time before. I knew that if I remained in the movement, it would soon be dissipated on printer’s bills and rent for meeting halls, and I would be back where I was before it came. I was selfish enough to resent this, and for the first time began to take serious stock of myself.
The group to which I then belonged—it was called the Ultra-Revolutionary Left Socialist Workers’ council, or something equally grandiose and pretentious—had been reduced by internal dissension to about 14 members, and there were rumors of an impending faction fight which might well split it still further. My comrades were all either narrow fanatics or callow youths, and their intemperance and wordiness increasingly had been getting on my nerves. Furthermore, the status quo seemed as solidly entrenched as ever. All in all, it seemed like an excellent time to pull out, and retire to the country to think things through. I knew I could never achieve any sort of mental balance as long as I remained in the hectic, frenetic atmosphere of the movement. At least, these were my rationalizations—I guess I’m still enough of a Marxist to believe that the money was the real reason for my defection.
I bought a few acres of unimproved land on the side of a mountain, a hundred miles from the city, and at least two from the nearest neighbor; a second-hand jeep, which was the only kind of car that could negotiate the rough wagon trail that led to my property, and enough building material and equipment for a small cabin. The cabin was pretty crude—I hadn’t much skill at that sort of work, but I learned a lot as I went along, and it kept out the weather, after a fashion.
By the time I had the cabin ready to live in, my money was all gone, but I was able to pick up enough odd jobs in the neighborhood to satisfy my simple needs, and still have plenty of free time. I found that by leaving the city, I had shed the radical movement like a bad dream. While I still believed vaguely in the desirability of socialism, once I had the chance to achieve some perspective, it became perfectly obvious that the wrangling little sects that had consumed so large a part of my life would never amount to anything and I was well quit of them.
To fill the void in my life left by the cessation of political activity, I began to revive my old interest in magic. I had acquired, over the years, a fair collection of books on magical lore—like all radicals I was an inveterate browser in second-hand bookstores—which I had not previously found time to look into seriously.
My only other hobby was early New Orleans jazz, an interest I had shared with several of my younger comrades in the city. I had a number of worn, but still playable phonograph records—chiefly marching band music of the Bunk Johnson-George Lewis school—and with part of my legacy I had bought a beat-up old slide trombone. When I wasn’t poring over my books on magic, I spent my free time listening to records and teaching myself to play the horn. I made very few acquaintances in the area—the extreme gregariousness of the movement had surfeited my desire for social life, and at the same time, its prevailing attitude of suspicion, according to which every stranger was a potential police spy, had so entered my system that I was wary about letting anyone get to know me intimately. I imagine my reserve might have broken down had there been an amateur brass band somewhere around, for once I bad mastered the rudiments of the trombone, I longed for an opportunity to play with others, but the local town band had been disbanded some forty years earlier, and no one but myself seemed at all interested in reviving it.
The lonely, hermitlike existence I was leading, so much resembling that of a medieval alchemist, made it easier for me to take magic seriously, or perhaps the accumulated frustrations of my thwarted scientific and revolutionary careers had reduced my mind to an approximation of the prelogical stage. In any case, I found myself more and more receptive to the spells and incantations in my books, and soon began to try some of them, still half-believingly, but with scrupulous attention to the details of the formulae. At first, I had no more success than I had expected, but it amused me to continue, and I became obsessed with the idea that if only I could get everything exactly right for once, it might really work.
Magic is a tricky subject: there are so many factors involved that are next to impossible to control—so much depends on chance. One can never be sure of finding the right quantity and quality of a certain herb or root when the moon is exactly at the right phase and angle, and many of the ingredients were so loosely described that I could go by guesswork only. A lot depends on mood, too, and I could seldom count on keeping myself in the proper frame of mind long enough to complete all the preparations. I suspect that this has always been true, and that is why so few really potent spells have been cast through the ages, and why magic has fallen into such disrepute.
However, I did eventually succeed, if only once. At some point in my investigations, I worked the formula for doubling correctly, and while I was never able to get any other formula to go right, it convinced me that with sufficient perseverance, I could accomplish almost anything. However, something kept me from persevering. I think I was chiefly frightened at the realization that I was dealing with something entirely serious, instead of idly amusing myself with a rather eccentric hobby. There was no telling where it might lead me. As it was, the one gift I had acquired was enough to change my whole life, and I don’t know how many others. But I’m getting ahead of my story.
My way of life did not change much immediately. After so many years of skepticism, it was difficult for me to assimilate my new acquisition, and I used it sparingly. I continued to go out to work, but less frequently, since by doubling my provisions—at least those that didn’t spoil: canned goods, bottled beer, salt fish and flour, which constituted the bulk of my diet—I could make them last indefinitely. For a comparatively small initial outlay, I could have lived on champagne, caviar and truffles, but I preferred beer and beans.
I avoided the doubling of money. I figured that a large number of bills with identical serial numbers would inevitably give rise to suspicions of counterfeiting, and if I paid all my bills with coins, that would look peculiar too. Occasionally, when I felt too lazy to go out and look for work, and was down to my last fifty cents—I kept a half dollar in permanent reserve—I’d double it a few times as a delaying action, but never enough to be conspicuous. I didn’t want to make trouble for myself with the locals. Anyhow, a few hours of work every week sufficed to provide all the cash I needed, and that was no hardship for me.
As a matter of fact, once I stopped my magical researches, I had more time than I knew what to do with. Two hours of daily practice on the horn was about all I could sustain, without any outside stimulation, and there wasn’t much of anything else I could find to occupy me. I considered resuming my interrupted scientific studies, but so many years had elapsed since I left the university that I dreaded to find out how much I. had forgotten. Besides, I felt uncomfortable about going back to science after having trafficked in the black arts, rather as a whore must feel at the prospect of associating with respectable married women. I could probably have carried it off all right, but I couldn’t help feeling a curious mixture of scorn for the innocence of my potential colleagues, and shame for having violated their code. I did quite a lot of desultor
y reading, to help pass the time, but I had never had much interest in literature, and it soon palled.
* * * *
Then one night I woke up after dreaming of being a member of a band—a perennial wish-fulfillment dream of mine— and it suddenly dawned on me that I could employ my gift to satisfy that desire. I got right out of bed—I knew if I waited for morning, I’d probably lack the nerve to try it; I was scared enough half asleep—and doubled myself. I hadn’t tried to double anything more complicated than a salt herring until then, and while I had never failed at anything I had attempted, I had no way of knowing if I’d come out of the experience alive. I was just desperate enough to take the chance, though, and the result was, or seemed to be, perfect. The two of us looked at each other, laughed sort of hysterically, then we shook hands, and both of us doubled and redoubled. We all decided that eight was plenty for a start, and set about doubling enough food and drink to feed us. We had a feast, with plenty of beer, after which we doubled the mattress and bedclothes into enough for- all—they pretty nearly filled the cabin—and tried to get back to sleep. But we were too excited and over-stimulated; we kept giggling and skylarking like a bunch of schoolboys in a dormitory when the proctor is away.
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology] Page 1
