Before The Golden Age - A SF Anthology of the 1930s

by Edited By Isaac Asimov

  With panting fear he slipped back into the woods and cruised over the ground looking for his one particular tree-trunk out of all those thousands. Seconds seemed like hours and his ears were strained back for some sign of his pursuers. Sweating, panting, heart pounding, he ran back and forwards in an agony of directionless movement.

  Then he became frantic and hurried faster and faster until his foot caught over some piece of stone and sent him sprawling. He rose to his knees and stopped there, frozen, for he heard voices! They were still distant, but he dared not rise. His eyes fell upon the stone over which he had stumbled. It was flat and thick and rather square in outline. Some marks appeared on the top—badly worn by weather. He brushed aside a few dead leaves listlessly, hopelessly and before his startled eyes there leaped the following:

  “Carstairs, a gardener lies here—faithful servant to the end—he was buried at this spot upon his own request.”

  Buried here at his own request—poor old Carstairs! Could it be? If this grave were directly above his underground chamber then there, only fifty feet to the south, must lie the entrance! He crawled with desperate hope over the soft ground and there, sure enough, was a familiar tree and a leaf-filled depression at its base! The voices were approaching now and he slithered desperately into the hole, pushing the drifted leaves before him with his feet. Then he gathered a great armful of leaves scraped from each side and sank out of sight, holding his screen in place with one hand. With the other hand he reached for some pieces of cut roots and commenced to weave a support for the leaves. He was half done when his heart stood still at the sound of voices close by. He could not make out the words and waited breathlessly second after second. Then he heard the voices again—receding!

  Winter came and the frogs found their sleeping places beneath the mud of the little pond that lay where once was the lake. And with the next spring the great tree had commenced spreading a new mat of roots to choke forever the entrance to that lead-lined chamber where, in utter blackness, a still figure lay on a couch. The sleepers last hazy thoughts had taken him back in his dreams to his own youth and the wax-white face wore a faint smile, as if Winters had at last found the secret of human happiness.

  * * * *

  Manning, like many science fiction writers, went through a spurt of production and stopped. There were fifteen stories between 1932 and 1935 and then nothing. Something similar happened in the cases of Meek and Tanner.

  The trouble was, I’m sure, that science fiction in those days paid virtually nothing, and that nothing only after long delays. Naturally, then, people weren’t going to spend time at it unless it was truly a labor of love.

  Manning was one of those I particularly missed, and, in the days before I understood about the economics of writing, I kept wondering, querulously, why he wrote no more. And don’t think “The Man Who Awoke” wasn’t appreciated. It went through five installments in successive issues of the magazine, each one carrying Norman Winters further forward in time and into another strange society.

  What I chiefly want to point out, though, is that in this first installment, Winters encountered a society that resented the consumption of coal and oil in reckless profusion by their ancestors, and that lived in a stringently cycled economy made necessary, in part, by ancestral waste.

  In the 1970s, everyone is aware of, and achingly involved in, the energy crisis. Manning was aware of it forty years ago, and because he was, I was, and so, I’m sure, were many thoughtful young science fiction readers.

  Escape?

  It was a funny kind of escape literature that had the youngsters who read it concerned about the consequences of the waste of fossil fuels forty years before all the self-styled normal and sensible human beings felt it necessary to become interested.

  I did not fail to notice, too, that Mannings view of the future involved not merely new inventions but new societies, new ways of thought, new modifications of language. I did not forget. When the time came for me to write my own time-travel novel, The End of Eternity, some twenty years later, I remembered.

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  * * * *

  The year 1933 was further enlivened for me by the appearance of a sequel to “Tumithak of the Corridors.” This was not unexpected. The story had been greeted with enthusiasm and a sequel had been demanded.

  Tanner, however, did not write quickly, apparently, and it was a year and a half before the sequel—”Tumithak in Shawm”—appeared, in the June 1933 Amazing Stories.

  * * * *

  TUMITHAK IN SHAWM

  by Charles R. Tanner

  Foreword

  Five thousand years have passed since the shelks, leaving their home planet of Venus, invaded the earth and drove mankind from the Surface into the Pits and Corridors that were to be his home for twenty centuries. When at last he did emerge, a new Heroic Age was born, and we of to-day look back upon the leaders of that great rebellion as little less than demigods.

  And of all the distorted, exaggerated traditions, perhaps the one most filled with magic and wonder is that of Tumithak of Loor. The first and actually the greatest of a long list of Shelk-slayers, men have, from the first, been tempted to attribute to him supernatural, or at least, superhuman powers, and to claim for him, even, the direct supervision of the Deity.

  However, by using the knowledge that we have gained through recent archeological research, it is possible to roughly rebuild the life of that great hero into a rational possible story. Shorn of its prophecies, its miracles and its wonder, it becomes the tale of a young man who, inspired by stories of the great deeds of the past, determined to risk his life to prove that the shelks were vulnerable and could yet be conquered. The story of how he proved that to his people, the writer has already presented to the public—the story of the deeds that followed, he now presents in this continuation of the adventures of “Tumithak of the Corridors.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER I - Shawm

  The long corridor stretched almost as far as eye could see its beautiful marble sides gleaming under the many varicolored lights which, carefully concealed in the walls, cast over the hall an effect of creamy mellowness. The pictures and geometrical figures that were carved in the soft white stone of which the walls were composed seemed to have been designed to cooperate with the lights to produce a single harmonious effect of surpassing beauty. Here and there, ornate doorways appeared, with great bronze doors on which scenes and figures had been cast that rivaled those of the walls for beauty. A few of the doorways lacked these doors, and these were covered instead with great drapes and tapestries, heavy with threads of gold and silver, and dyed with every color of the spectrum.

  But the beauties of this splendid hallway were wasted, for in all its length not a human being appeared to appreciate them, and indeed, the thick dust that covered the floor and the many spider webs on the walls gave evidence of the months that must have elapsed since it had been deserted. Not for several years, in f act, had anyone entered this part of the corridor, not since one from far below had emerged from a well-like opening in one of the apartments and passed through this ball on his way to the Surface of the earth, far above. Even before his coming, the ponderous dwellers of this corridor had always feared this hall of the pit and avoided it, for it led to the pits of the “wild men,” and in the sybaritic life of the Esthetts, the least suggestion of danger was a thing to shun. And so this hail, in spite of its exceptional beauty, was always utterly deserted.

  But now, after so long a time, sounds were breaking into the silence of the corridor. Soft rustlings, guarded whispers and muttered ejaculations were coming from one of the apartments, and after a few moments, a savage face peered out of the doorway; then, seeing the hallway quite deserted, its owner stepped into view, he looked up and down the hallway as though fearing an attack by some unseen enemy, but, after looking searchingly through several of the apartments and convincing himself that the passage was really deserted, he sheathed the huge sword which he had held in h
is hand and returned to the door from which he had emerged.

  * * * *

  The Interlopers of the Corridor

  He was a huge, savage-looking fellow, this inter­loper, over six feet in height, with a great hairy chest and huge shoulders and with a chin that was covered with an immense growth of red beard. He wore a single garment, a rough burlap-like tunic that fell to his knees, into the cloth of which were sewn dozens of bits of metal and of bone, the latter stained in various colors, and worked into a crude pattern. His rusty-red hair was worn long and around his neck was a neck­lace made of dozens of human finger bones threaded on a thin strip of skin.

  He stood for a moment longer before leaving the hallway and then, reentering the apartment, he called softly.

  He was answered by a low hoot and then another man joined him, a taller, younger man who was dressed quite differently. This newcomer wore a tunic made of cloth of the finest texture imaginable, sheer gauze that was dyed in the most delicate shades of nacreous pinks and green and blues. It was not a new garment, but worn and torn and sewn, as though it were highly prized by the owner, who had determined to wear it until it fell apart from old age. It was caught up about the middle by a wide, many-pocketed belt with an enormous buckle, a belt from which dangled a sword and—strange anachronism—a pistol! Around the head of its wearer was a metal band not unlike a crown, a band such as was worn by the chiefs of those enemies of mankind, the shelks. Although this second man had not the other’s tremendous strength and physical perfection, he was far above the average man in size and muscular power, and the poorest reader of character could tell at a glance that he was the more intellectual of the two. And one could feel, too, that together these two would make a combination capable of facing anything with a good chance of winning.

  They stood silently staring up and down the passage for a while and then at last the second man spoke to his companion.

  * * * *

  Tumithak of the Corridors

  “What think you of the Halls of the Esthetts, Datto?” he asked. “Are they not as wonderful and as beautiful as I have described them?”

  “They are truly wonderful, Tumithak,” the other answered. “Though of what use these strange pictures can be, I cannot tell. Nor can I understand why the curtains of the doors should be so elaborate.” He paused and then his eyes brightened as he went on: “But there is a splendid idea in those metal doors. We must carry some of them back to the lower corridors. With one of them in his doorway, a man might well defend himself against a hundred enemies.”

  “Our only enemies now are the shelks,” reminded Tumithak. “And do not think that metal doors would keep those savage beasts out, Datto.”

  Datto grunted and continued his disparaging ap­praisal of the corridor. It was obvious that he lacked the sense of beauty that stirred, even though feebly, in Tumithak’s breast.

  “Which way leads to the Surface?” Datto asked, tersely, and when Tumithak pointed it out, he continued: “Let us call the others. No doubt they are waiting impatiently for the signal.” Tumithak agreed, whereupon his companion reentered the apartment and gave again the low call that he had given before. There was a pause, and then men began to emerge from the rear room, men who had been waiting eagerly at the bottom of the pit concealed in that room, and who now, at Datto’s call hurried up the ladder to the level on which their leaders stood.

  The first to emerge was a lean young man with a hawk-like face, a young man whose close-cropped hair and wide, pocketed belt marked him as a citizen of the same town as Tumithak. Nikadur, this young man’s name was, and as Tumithak’s boyhood companion, he had been the first to swear to follow the Shelk-slayer wherever he might lead. This young man was closely followed by another, and if Nikadur bore evidence of being a follower of Tumithak, this other as obviously showed a similar relationship to Datto. Thorpf was this one’s name, and he was the nephew of Datto, and helped him to rule the halls of the city of Yakra far below the surface.

  And behind these two came many others: Tumlook, the father of Tumithak; Nennapuss, the chief of the city of Nonone, with his sons and nephews; and then man after man of lesser importance in the cities of the lower corridors, men who had never distinguished themselves, and whose only claim to fame lay in their undoubted loyalty to their chiefs. And here and there among them were members of a tribe upon whom the people of the lower corridors still looked askance: the savages of the dark corridors, their eyes wrapped in fold after fold of cloth, to keep out the brilliant light which was so painful to their sensitive optic nerves. These latter were slaves now, only recently subdued by the men of the lower corridors, but already the plentitude of food had made them willing servants.

  * * * *

  Tumithak’s Company of Warriors

  In all, over two hundred men emerged from the pit and drew up in formation in the corridor, awaiting the word from Tumithak that was to start them on their raid on the Esthetts. They stood silent while Tumithak outlined to them briefly what he knew of the halls and corridors of this vicinity and then, at a softly spoken word, the entire party moved swiftly down the passage.

  This raid on the Esthetts was the first of its kind that the people of the lower corridors had attempted. Since Tumithak had returned from the Surface to become their chief, two years before, he had spent most of his time in consolidating his government. There were some malcontents among the Yakrans and even among the Loorians and these had been made to feel the heavy hand of the new ruler, and, when the three cities were at last one in their allegiance, there were many little groups or “villages” in the side corridors that had to be brought under the Loorian’s sway.

  And when, at last, all the lower corridors unhesi­tatingly acknowledged Tumithak as their chief, the people had swept into the dark corridors, and in a short while the savages were conquered and enslaved, and all the pits below the Halls of the Esthetts bowed to the new leader.

  It was then that Tumithak decided that the time was almost at hand to begin the raid on the halls of that race of ponderous artists that gave their worship and allegiance to the shelks. The Loorian was under no illusions as to what this meant. Although he failed to realize the exact relationship that existed between the Esthetts and the shelks, he knew that these obese creatures looked upon the shelks as their masters, and would not hesitate to call them to their aid if danger threatened. And Tumithak realized, therefore, that an attack on the Esthetts was equivalent to an attack on their masters.

  The shelks had “domesticated” the Esthetts and used them as we do cattle, lulling their suspicions with hypocritical lies and flattery and breeding them for bovine stupidity and trustfulness.

  * * * *

  A Raid on the Domesticated Esthetts

  Tumithak had postponed this raid, therefore, until the entire lower corridors were united, but once that was accomplished, he saw no reason for hesitating longer. He called for two classes of volun­teers, those who were brave enough to aid in an attack on these creatures of the shelks, and those who would follow wherever led, even to the Surface. Tumithak knew that a volunteer army was the only type that he could take with him, and so when, of the thousands of people in the lower corridors, only some two hundred warriors responded, he perforce satisfied himself with this group, and started on his way. Fortunately, it seemed to him, the two classes of volunteers were identical, almost to a man.

  And now this dauntless two hundred were swarming through the Halls of the Esthetts, their swords bared and their war cries trembling on their lips, waiting for the moment when Tumithak should give the word to attack. That leader, however, saw no cause for hurry, he led them on and on through the corridor, his chief desire being to get as close to the center of the town as he could before he was discovered. And then at last, satisfying himself that he was not far from the Great Square of the Esthetts, he gave the word, and, in a trice, pandemonium broke loose in the Halls of the Esthetts.

  * * * *

  The Raid Was a Massacre

&
nbsp; There is little need to describe the ensuing battle. After all, it was not a battle but a massacre and, were it not for the absolute necessity of it, Tumithak would have dispensed with fighting the Esthetts at all. But he remembered Lathrumidor, the artist who had attempted to betray him on his way to the surface before, and so, realizing the treacherous nature of the huge Esthetts, he determined that they must die.

  And die they did, to the last one; and when the band of victors assembled at the upper end of the Esthetts’ corridor some forty hours later, it was a motley crew indeed. Many wore the delicate gauzes of the Esthetts, others still dressed in the rough tunic of their native halls. Some carried the swords they had brought with them, some carried other weapons, swords and spears that the Esthetts had fashioned, not indeed for weapons, but merely for their artistic beauty. And they were weapons now, as were many other of the creations of the artists. One man even held in his hand a delicate statuette of bronze, its end clotted with blood and hair where he had struck down some Esthett with it.

  And to these men Tumithak spoke, and again told them of the necessity of immediately going on. The shelks often visited the Esthetts, he said. No one could tell at what moment they might come again. And rather than have the shelks surprise the pitmen, it were well if the pitmen at once moved to the Surface to surprise the shelks! “And so,” he finished, “all who would follow me, be ready after the very next sleep, for then I intend to lead my party out to the attack.” He dismissed the warriors and retired, himself, to try to secure a much needed rest.