ELEVEN FANTASTIC VOYAGES INTO THE UNKNOWN
GREAT STORIES OF
SPACE TRAVEL
by
Science Fiction’s Greatest Writers:
Lester Del Rey
Jerome Bixby
Ray Bradbury
Jack Vance
A. E. Van Vogt
Murray Leinster
Damon Knight
Arthur C. Clarke
Isaac Asimov
Poul Anderson
Eric Frank Russell
New digital edition of:
Great Stories of Space Travel
by Groff Conklin (Editor)
© 1963 by Groff Conklin - Tempo Books
Copyright © 2017 - Edizioni Savine
email: [email protected]
web: www.edizionisavine.com
ISBN 978-88-99914-38-7
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE SOLAR SYSTEM
Lester Del Rey - THE WINGS OF NIGHT
Jerome Bixby - THE HOLES AROUND MARS
Ray Bradbury - KALEIDOSCOPE
Jack Vance - I’LL BUILD YOUR DREAM CASTLE
. . . AND BEYOND THE SOLAR SYSTEM
A. E. Van Vogt - FAR CENTAURUS
Murray Leinster - PROPAGANDIST
Damon Knight - CABIN BOY
Arthur C. Clarke - A WALK IN THE DARK
Isaac Asimov - BLIND ALLEY
Poul Anderson - THE HELPING HAND
Eric Frank Russell - ALLAMAGOOSA
INTRODUCTION
Most people who don’t know anything about either science or science fiction think that we have “conquered space” with the Russian Sputniks and our own space vehicles. Not a few of them have personally sympathized with me, as an editor of science fiction anthologies, because—as they put it—“science has caught up with science fiction,” so why bother reading science fiction anyhow?
Nothing could be wronger than that idea! I do not have to go deep into the science or technology of astronautics (cosmonautics, as the Russians more sensibly call it) to show you that we have some distance to go, yet, before we even know if it is feasible to send living beings safely through the possibly lethal Van Allen Radiation Belts, which englobe the . earth in a layer ranging between 5,000 and 15,000 miles high. That’s a long way up!—compared to our achievements in manned space travel as of the beginning of 1963. The maximum height of an orbiting manned satellite has been under 200 miles. Probably the highest at the time this book appears will still be the first manned one of all, the Soviet Vostok I, which reached a height of 187.66 miles in its single orbit around the earth with Yuri Gagarin aboard, April 12, 1961.
According to theoretical interpretations of data returned by our unmanned satellites in the Discoverer series and other types of information, the Van Allen Belt radiation hazards can be conquered. That is, the radiations (probably) can be shielded from human beings in a space ship at our present level of radiation protection technology—except when one of those almost unpredictable, monstrous, incomprehensibly powerful nuclear explosions known as solar flares occurs. The experts say they do not believe we can, as of now, protect a moon-going space ship from such a violent radiation attack. Undoubtedly, that particular hazard will be conquered eventually—but we really cannot say so for sure, yet. Meanwhile, science fiction explores not only the moon and our solar planets, but also other star systems. It finds not only new planets around those stars, but also new forms of life on those planets. In general, it runs fancy free and wonderfully wild in the unknowns of outer space.
In all likelihood, even the Solar System will remain science-fictional for some time after this book appears. As for the stars, they will be unapproachable for a period which I hesitate to estimate. However, it is most unlikely that even the younger readers of this book (not to mention myself, an old hand, born less than a year after the airplane was first shown to be practical when the Wright Brothers flew 852 feet in 59 seconds on December 17, 1903), will live to witness even the basic scientific discoveries which must be made before we can travel to the nearest star, 26 TRILLION (26,-000,000,000,000) miles, or four and a third lightyears, away from us. That the human race will eventually make that trip, I am convinced. That it will be soon, I am very, very doubtful indeed.
In the meantime, we can all explore the wonders of our galaxy through the disciplined imaginations of our scientifically-oriented science fiction writers, some of the best of whom you will find in the pages that follow. When I say “scientifically oriented,” though, I do not want you to assume that all of the “science” in these stories is real. If it were, they would not be science fiction. What I can say is that for the most part (with one or two exceptions) nothing in them is inherently impossible.
As a matter of fact, the “realm of the possible” in science fiction is expanding at an almost frightening rate. New discoveries, and amplifications of old discoveries, are coming up almost every other day: and they make it the utmost in foolishness for anyone to say that something that does not flatly violate proven facts of Nature and of Science is impossible. (And even some of those violations may turn out to be possible, in time, for some “facts” of Nature and of Science are changeable, too—as witness what happened to Newton’s laws after Einstein got hold of them!)
But the realm of the possible does have certain strict limitations. There are many people who believe in ghosts, I am told, and go along with superstitions about witches, werewolves, and other such creatures. These are the sort of primitive monsters that haunt some people’s dreams, but never bother scientists—when they are awake, at least. Scientists know that these nightmares cannot in any conceivable way be bent so that they will fit into some natural fact.
On the other hand, voyaging to the stars, discovering life forms there which are entirely inconceivable to us oxygen-breathers, and many of the other science-fictional ideas encountered in this book, are thoroughly believable. They are not in violation of any “natural law” (so-called), nor are they impossible from the point of view of science as we know it.
I’ll make it even clearer. Space travel, as I have said, violates no known facts of nature or of science. Time travel, either backwards or forwards, does—except for that strange oddity of time which Einstein imagined when he theorized about people traveling near the speed of light: they could “travel in time” to the extent that they would find a marked difference between “subjective” time in their space ship, and the “objective” passage of time back home. (This is too complicated for me either to explain or, as a matter of fact, to understand; we will just take Einstein’s word for it!)
But space travel is scientifically, technologically, and psychologically possible. This we know from even the limited orbital flights which have been made thus far, Therefore we can only believe that before anothei decade or so Man will have reached the Moon and perhaps Mars and Venus. These goals we have already set ourselves as a nation, as have the Russians. When we achieve them, the stories in Part One of this book will perhaps be proved false. (Perhaps not!)
As for travel to the stars: the stories in Part Two of this collection will remain “possible” for many generations to come. They may, indeed, eventually turn out to be real. I hope Arthur C. Clarke does not sue me— he is the famous English expert on space travel and, aqualunging (he knows and writes about the former, and practices and writes about the latter), who is also author of one of the best stories in this book—for saying he once felt that travel beyond the speed of light has not yet been proved impossible. With such travel speeds, exploration of some of the stars will become at least feasible—and if it is feasible, some members of the human race unquestionably will try it! How it will b
e done, no one knows. That it ever will be done is highly uncertain today. That it is impossible, only the unimaginative and the scientifically bigoted will state.
But more than scientific extrapolation is involved in this book: and that is, quite simply, entertainment. Every story, I think you will agree, is fun to read— even when it may turn out to be terrifying or even tragic. Each one is an enlargement of the world we know, performed by adventurous human beings. Each tale expands our horizons, spreads the wings of our imaginations, and gives us a chance to fly high—while sitting in our easy chairs or lying on our beds.
After all, the first requirement of any book of fiction, be it novel or collection of short stories, is: It must keep you interested. And that, I guarantee, this book will do!
Groff Conklin
THE SOLAR SYSTEM
Lester Del Rey - THE WINGS OF NIGHT
This sharply to-the-point story of the discovery of the last surviving member of a strange, non-human, intelligent race on the Moon was published over twenty-one years ago, in March, 1942. It has since become one of the classics of space travel science fiction, and for more than one reason. First, its daring dream of a subterranean moon life form is thrilling—and also still a not impossible concept. Second, the story’s strong plea for a hard-boiled idealism (which pays off), an absence of prejudice, racial or human-alien (which also earns its own rewards), and a philosophy of live-and-let-live (which actually saves the lives of the earth protagonists) is particularly apt for our times.
Read this story then, and think—hard!
“Damn all Martians!” Fats Welch’s thin mouth bit out the words with all the malice of an offended member of a superior race. “Here we are, loaded down with as sweet a high-rate cargo of iridium as ever came out of the asteroids, just barely over the Moon, and that injector starts mis-metering again. If I ever see that bulbous Marshy—”
“Yeah.” Slim Lane groped back with his right hand for the flexible-shaft wrench, found it, and began wriggling and grunting forward into the mess of machinery again. “Yeah. I know. You’ll make mince meat out of him. Did you ever figure that maybe you were making your own trouble? That maybe Martians are people after all? Lyro Bmachis told you it would take two days to make the overhaul of the injector control hookup, so you knocked him across the field, called his ancestors dirty dogs, and gave him just eight hours to finish repairs. Now you expect his rush job to be a labor of love for you— Oh, skip it, Fats, and give me the screwdriver.”
What was the use? He’d been over it all with Fats a dozen times before, and it never got him anywhere. Fats was a good rocket man, but he couldn’t stretch his imagination far enough to forget the hogwash the Reconstruction Empire was dishing out about the Destiny of Man and the Divine Plan whereby humans were created to exploit all other races. Not that it would do Fats much good if he did. Slim knew the value of idealism—none better.
He’d come out of college with a bad dose of it and an inherited fortune big enough for three men, filled with the old crusading spirit. He’d written and published books, made speeches, interviewed administrators, lobbied, joined and organized societies, and been called things that weren’t complimentary. Now he was pushing freight from Mars to Earth for a living, quarter owner of a space-worn freighter. And Fats, who’d come up from a tube cleaner without the help of ideals, owned the other three quarters.
Fats watched him climb out of the hold. “Well?” “Nothing. I can’t fix it—don’t know enough about electronics. There’s something wrong with the relays that control the time interval, but the indicators don’t show where, and I’d hate to experiment out here.” “Make it to Earth—maybe?”
Slim shook his head. “I doubt it, Fats. Better set us down on Luna somewhere, if you can handle her that far. Then maybe we can find out what’s wrong before we run out of air.”
Fats had figured as much and was already braking the ship down, working against the spasmodic flutter of the blasts, and swearing at the effects of even the Moon’s weak gravity. But the screens showed that he was making progress toward the spot he’d chosen—a small flat plain with an area in the center that seemed unusually clear of debris and pockmarks.
“Wish they’d at least put up an emergency station out here,” he muttered.
“They had one once,” Slim said. “But nobody ever goes to Luna, and there’s no reason for passenger ships to land there; takes less fuel for them to coast down on their fins through Earth’s atmosphere than to jet down here. Freighters like us don’t count, anyway. Funny how regular and flat that place is; we can’t be over a mile up, and I don’t see even a meteor scar.”
“Luck’s with us, then. I’d hate to hit a baby crater and rip off a tube or poke a hole in the shell.” Fats glanced at the radio altimeter and fall indicator. “We’re gonna hit plenty hard. If— Hey, what the deuce?” Slim’s eyes flicked to the screen just in time to see the flat plain split into two halves and slide smoothly out from under them as they seemed about to touch it; then they were dropping slowly into a crater of some sort, seemingly bottomless and widening out rapidly; the roar of the tubes picked up suddenly. Above them, the overscreens showed a pair of translucent slides closing together again. His eyes stared at the height indicator, neither believing nor doubting.
“Hundred and sixty miles down, and trapped in! Tube sounds show air in some amount, at least, even up here. This crazy trap can’t be here; there’s no reason for it.”
“Right now, who cares? We can’t go through that slide up there again, so we go down and find out, I guess. Damn, no tolling what kind of landing field we’ll find when we reach bottom.” Fats’ lack of excess imagination came in handy in cases like this. He went about the business of jockeying down the enormous crater as if he were docking at York port, too busy with the uncertain blast to worry about what he might find at the bottom. Slim gazed at him in wonder, then fell back to staring at the screens for some indication of the reason behind this obviously artificial trap.
Lhin scratched idly through the pile of dirt and rotten shale, pried out a thin scrap of reddened stone his eyes had missed the first time, and rose slowly to his I feet. The Great Ones had been good to him, sending a rockslide just when the old beds were wearing thin and poor from repeated digging. His sensitive nostrils told him there was magnesium, ferrous matter, and sulphur in abundance, all more than welcome. Of course, he’d hoped there might be copper, even as little as the end of his finger, but of that there seemed no sign. And without copper—
He shrugged the thought aside as he had done a thousand times before, and picked up his crude basket, now filled half with broken rock and half with the lichenlike growth that filled this end of the crater. One of his hands ground a bit of rottenstone together with shreds of lichen and he popped the mixture into his mouth. Grace to the Great Ones who had sent the slide; the pleasant flavor of magnesium tickled his tongue, and the lichens were full-flavored from the new richness of the soil around them. Now, with a trace of copper, there would have been nothing left to wish for.
With a rueful twitch of his supple tail, Lhin grunted and turned back toward his cave, casting a cursory glance up at the roof of the cavern. Up there, long miles away, a bright glare lanced down, diffusing out as it pierced through the layers of air, showing that the long lunar day was nearing noon, when the sun would lance down directly through the small guarding gate. It was too high to see, but he knew of the covered opening where the sloping walls of the huge valley ended and the roof began. Through all the millennia of his race’s slow defeat, that great roof had stood, unsupported except for the walls that stretched out around in a circle of perhaps fifty miles diameter, strong and more lasting than even the crater itself; the one abiding monument to the greatness that had been his people’s.
He knew without having to think of it, that the roof was artificial, built when the last thin air was deserting the Moon, and the race had sought a final refuge here in the deepest crater, where oxygen could be trapped and
kept from leaking away. In a vague way, he could sense the ages that had passed since then and wonder at the permanence of the domed roof, proof against all time.
Once, as the whole space about him testified, his had been a mighty race. But time had worked on them, aging the race as it had individuals, removing the vigor of their youth and sending in the slow creepers of hopelessness. What good was existence here, cooped up in one small colony, away from their world? Their numbers had diminished and some of their skill had gone from them. Their machines had crumbled and vanished, unreplaced, and they had fallen back to the primitive, digging out the rocks of the crater walls and the lichens they had cultured to draw energy from the heat and radioactive phosphorescence of the valley instead of sunlight. Fewer young were planted each year, and of the few, a smaller percentage proved fertile, so that their original million fell to thousands, then to hundreds, and finally to a few grubbing individuals.
Only then had they awakened to the danger of extinction, to find it too late. There had been three elders when Lhin was grown, his seed being the only fertile one. Now the elders were gone long years since, and Lhin had the entire length and breadth of the crater to himself. And life was a long series of sleeps and food forages, relieved only by the same thoughts that had been in his mind while his dead world turned to the light and away more than a thousand times. Monotony had slowly killed off his race, but now that its work was nearly done, it had ended. Lhin was content with his type of life; he was habituated, and immune to boredom.
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