The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  "Are ye all in?" he said, sharply. "Where's Cousin Rebecca?"

  "Here I be!" came a voice from below. "I'm jest lockin' the door tight."

  "Well, hurry up--hurry! Come up here an' lay down. I'm goin' to start."

  In a few moments all was in readiness. Droop pulled the lever, and with a roar and a mighty bound the Panchronicon, revived by its long period of waiting, sped upward into the night.

  As the four fugitives sat upright again, and Droop, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, was about to speak, the door of one of the bedchambers was opened, and a stranger dressed in nineteenth-century attire stepped forward, shading his blinking eyes with his hand.

  The two women screamed, but Droop only dropped amazed into a chair.

  "Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed.

  Then, leaping forward eagerly, he cried aloud:

  "Gimme them clothes!"

  * * * * *

  Of the return trip of the five, little need be said save to record one untoward incident which has been the occasion of a most unfortunate historic controversy.

  The date-recording instrument must have been deranged in some way, for when, after a great number of eastward turns around the pole, it marked the year 1898, they had really only reached 1857. Supposing themselves to have actually reached the year erroneously indicated by the recorder, they set off southward and made a first landing in Hartford, Connecticut.

  Here they discovered their mistake, and returned to the pole to complete their journey in time. All but Francis Bacon. He declared that so much whirling made him giddy, and remained in Connecticut. Alas! Had Phoebe known the result of this desertion, she would never have consented to it.

  Bacon, who had read much of Shakespeare while in the Panchronicon, found on returning thus accidentally to modern America, that this playwright was esteemed the first and greatest of poets and dramatists by the modern world. Then and there he planned a conspiracy to rob the greatest character in literary history of his just fame; and, under the pseudonym of "Delia Bacon," advanced those theories of his own concealed authorship which have ever since deluded the uncritical and disgusted all lovers of common-sense and of justice.

  Copernicus Droop, on returning his three remaining passengers to their proper dates and addresses, discovered that his sole remaining phonograph, with certain valuable records of Elizabethan origin, had disappeared. As he owed a grudge to Francis Bacon, that worthy fell at once under suspicion, and accordingly Droop promptly returned to 1857, sought out the deserter, and charged him with having stolen these instruments.

  It was not until the accused man had indignantly denied all knowledge of Droop's property that the crestfallen Yankee recollected that he had left the apparatus in question in the deserted mansion of Newington, where he had stored it for greater safety after Bacon's first unexpected visit.

  Without hesitation, he determined to return to 1598 and reclaim his own. Bacon, who had learned from modern historical works of the brilliant future in store for himself in England, begged Droop to take him back; and as an atonement for his unjust accusation, Droop consented.

  It is not generally known that, contrary to common report, Francis Bacon was not arrested for debt in 1598; but that, during the time he was supposed to have been in prison, he was actually engaged in building up in his own behalf the greatest hoax in history.

  * * * * *

  Let those who may be inclined to discredit this scrupulously authentic chronicle proceed forthwith to Peltonville, New Hampshire, and there ask for Mr. and Mrs. Guy Fenton. From them will be gained complete corroboration of this history, not only in the account which they will give of their own past adventures, but in the unmistakable Elizabethan flavor distinguishable to this day in their speech and manner. Indeed, the single fact that both ale and beer are to be found behind their wood-pile should be convincing evidence on this point.

  As for Rebecca, fully convinced at last of the marvellous qualities of the Panchronicon, she never tires of taking her little nephew, Isaac Burton Wise Fenton, on her knee and telling him of her amazing adventures in the palace of "Miss Tudor."

  * * *

  Contents

  VOYAGE TO ETERNITY

  By Stephen Marlowe

  Temple faced leaving Earth--and the girl he loved--if his country drafted him. But the hard part was in knowing he'd never return!...

  When the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues of Center City with green, the riots started.

  The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility. Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they might be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers--and knives.

  But Center City, like most communities in United North America, had survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On past performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever deviated.

  And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.

  "Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please."

  The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, "Oh, it's a long way to nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never, never...." A wailing trumpet represented flight.

  "They'll exploit anything, Kit."

  "It's just a song."

  "Turn it off, please."

  Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. "They'll announce the names in ten minutes," he said, and felt the corners of his mouth draw taut.

  "Tell me again, Kit," Stephanie pleaded. "How old are you?"

  "You know I'm twenty-six."

  "Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time, you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it."

  "Nine minutes," said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.

  "Tell me again, Kit."

  "What."

  "You know what."

  He let her come to him, let her hug him fiercely and whimper against his chest. He remained passive although it hurt, occasionally stroking her hair. He could not assert himself for another--he looked at his strap chrono--for another eight minutes. He might regret it, if he did, for a lifetime.

  "Tell me, Kit."

  "I'll marry you, Steffy. In eight minutes, less than eight minutes, I'll go down and get the license. We'll marry as soon as it's legal."

  "This is the last time they have a chance for you. I mean, they won't change the law?"

  Temple shook his head. "They don't have to. They meet their quota this way."

  "I'm scared."

  "You and everyone else in North America, Steffy."

  She was trembling against him. "It's cold for June."

  "It's warm in here." He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.

  "Oh God, Kit. Five minutes."

  "Five minutes to freedom," he said jauntily. He did not feel that way at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful fingers, almost making it difficult for him to breathe.

  "Turn it on, Kit."

  * * * * *

  He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile. Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.

  "Every seven-hundred eighty days," said the announcer,
"two-hundred of Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system."

  "Liar!" Stephanie cried. "No one ever comes back. It's been thirty years since the first group and not one of them...."

  "Shh," Temple raised a finger to his lips.

  "This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly referred to as the Nowhere Journey," said the announcer. "Obviously, the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere. That is quite meaningless."

  "Hooray for him," Temple laughed.

  "I wish he'd get on with it."

  "No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it impossible to...."

  "Yes, yes," said Stephanie impatiently. "Go on."

  "... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely and not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation and not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.

  "If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center City is naturally obligated...."

  "No one ever said it isn't our duty," Stephanie argued, as if the announcer could indeed hear her. "We only wish we knew something about it--and we wish it weren't forever."

  "It isn't forever," Temple reminded her. "Not officially."

  "Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever."

  "... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time...."

  "No one would want to sponsor that," Temple whispered cheerfully.

  "Kit," said Stephanie, "I--I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time, too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free."

  "He's starting," Temple told her.

  A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly, from bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams, Gerald. Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners. Black horror for Adams.

  The drum rotated.

  "They're up to F, Kit."

  Fabian, Gregory G....

  Names circled the drum slowly, like viscous alphabet soup. Meaningless, unless you happened to know them.

  "Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany."

  N, O, P....

  "It's hot in here."

  "I thought you were cold."

  "I'm suffocating now."

  R, S....

  "T!" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the bottom of the drum.

  Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....

  Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed nervously. Now--or never. Never?

  Now.

  Stephanie whimpered despairingly.

  TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.

  * * * * *

  "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones."

  "Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late."

  "I've come in response to your ad."

  "I know. You look old."

  "I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?"

  "Not if you don't, Mr. Smith. Let me look at you. Umm, you seem the right height, the right build."

  "I meet the specifications exactly."

  "Good, Mr. Smith. And your price."

  "No haggling," said Smith. "I have a price which must be met."

  "Your price, Mr. Smith?"

  "Ten million dollars."

  The man called Jones coughed nervously. "That's high."

  "Very. Take it or leave it."

  "In cash?"

  "Definitely. Small unmarked bills."

  "You'd need a moving van!"

  "Then I'll get one."

  "Ten million dollars," said Jones, "is quite a price. Admittedly, I haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but--"

  "But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might ask less."

  "Sir?"

  "You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith."

  "Sir?" Jones gasped again.

  Smith coughed discreetly. "But I have one advantage. I know you. You don't know me, Mr. Arkalion."

  "Eh? Eh?"

  "Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?"

  "How did you know?" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion asked the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been.

  "When I saw your ad," said not-Smith, "I said to myself, 'now here must be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to study a series of photographs readily obtainable--I have a fine memory for that, Mr. Arkalion--and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet King."

  "What will you do with the ten million dollars?" demanded Arkalion, not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his fortune.

  "Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it. Invest it. Spend it."

  "I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my--" Arkalion bit his tongue.

  "Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third. Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty when I studied their family ties?"

  "Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young--"

  "Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said something about the flower of our young manhood?"

  "Shakespeare?" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting importance came from the bard.

  "Sophocles," said Smith. "But, no matter. I will take young Alaric's place for ten million dollars."

  Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might have been a dangerous conversation. "You'll never get a chance to spend it on the Nowhere Journey."

  "Let me worry about that."

  "No one ever returns."

  "My worry, not yours."

  "It is forever--as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so young."

  "I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to me. Is that clear?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll want it in writing, of course."

  "Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr. Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how can I put it in writing?"

  Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly legal. My name is John X. Smith--now."

  "That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III--now."

  The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely with the casual expertness that comes with experience.

  "Have to shorten the cheek bones."

  "For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things out altogether and hang them on your wall."

  * * * * *

  Sophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed her ersatz cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.

  "What do you want?" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.

  Sophia showed her party card.

  "Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman."

  "You're terribly observant, Comrade," said Sophia coldly. "I am here to volunteer."

  "But a woman."

  "There is nothing in the law whic
h says a woman cannot volunteer."

  "We don't make women volunteer."

  "I mean really volunteer, of her own free will."

  "Her--own--free will?" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles, scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. "You mean volunteer without--"

  "Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want to sign on for the next Stalintrek."

  "Stalintrek, a woman?"

  "That is what I said."

  "We don't force women to volunteer." The man scratched some more.

  "Oh, really," said Sophia. "This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade. Did not Premier Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious destiny of Mother Russia with her mate?'" Sophia created the quote randomly.

  "Yes, if Stalin said--"

  "He did."

  "Still, I do not recall--"

  "What?" Sophia cried. "Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?"

  "Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember."

  "What is your name."

  "Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful young woman like you--"

  "Shut your mouth and hand me those papers."

  There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek? Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn out grimly.

  But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of gushing emotions, his worldliness. Pfooey!

  It was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved, the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth, the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move. No one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume no one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there was nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted to return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating, trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades, more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of her breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything but the Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted but not her or any other person for that matter.