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

by Edited By Isaac Asimov

  The voice from the box ceased, and as I continued to read the mind of the man whose back was toward me, I saw that he was deeply absorbed in the news he had heard. And the mind of this person was something of a puzzle to me. He was above the average intelligence of those on this world, and was possessed of a certain amount of fundamental scientific knowledge; but I could see immediately that his was not a scientifically trained mind. By profession he was a writer – one who recorded fictitious ‘happenings’ in the written language, so that others might absorb and enjoy them.

  And as I probed into his mind I was amazed at the depth of the imagination there, a trait almost wholly lacking in those others I had encountered, the scientists. And I knew that at last here was one with whose mind I might contact … here was one who was different from the others … who went deeper … who seemed on the very edge of the truth. Here was one who thought: “– this strange creature, which has landed here … alien to anything we have ever known … might it not be alien even to our universe? … the strange shrinking … from that phenomenon alone we might conclude that it has come an inconceivable distance … its shrinking may have begun hundreds, thousands of years ago … and if we could but communicate with it, before it passes from Earth forever, what strange sights might it not tell us!”

  The voice came from the box again, interrupting these thoughts in his mind.

  “Attention! Flash! The report comes that the alien space-creature, which was taken to the Scientific Research Institute for observation by scientists, has escaped, after projecting a kind of invisible mind force which rendered unconscious all those within reach. The creature was reported seen by a number of persons after it left the building. A police squad car was wrecked as a direct result of the creature’s ‘mind force,’ and three policemen were injured, none seriously. It was last seen leaving the city by the north-east, and all persons are ordered to be on the lookout and to report immediately if it is sighted.”

  * * * *

  Again the report from the box ceased, and again I probed into the man’s mind, this time deeper, hoping to establish a contact with it which would allow for thought-communication.

  I must have at least aroused some hidden mind-instinct, for he whirled to face me, overturning his chair. Surprise was on his face, and something in his eyes that must have been fear.

  “Do not be alarmed,” I flashed. “Be seated again.”

  I could see that his mind had not received my thought. But he must have known from my manner that I meant no harm, for he resumed his seat. I advanced further into the room, standing before him. The fear had gone out of his eyes and he only sat tensely staring at me, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  “I know that you would like to learn things about myself,” I telepathed; “things which those others – your scientists – would have liked to know.”

  Reading his mind, I could see that he had not received the thought, so I probed even deeper and again flashed the same thought. This time he did receive it, and there was an answering light in his eyes.

  He said “Yes,” aloud.

  “Those others, your scientists,” I went on, “would never have believed nor even understood my story, even if their minds were of the type to receive my thoughts, which they are not.”

  He received and comprehended that thought, too, but I could see that this was a great strain on his mind and could not go on for long.

  “Yours is the only mind I have encountered here with which I could establish thought,” I continued, “but even now it is becoming weakened under the unaccustomed strain. I wish to leave my record and story with you, but it cannot be by this means. I can put your mind under a hypnotic influence and impress my thoughts upon your subconscious mind, if you have some means of recording them. But you must hurry; I have only a few more hours here at the most, and in your entire lifetime it would be impossible for me to record all that I could tell.”

  I could read doubt in his mind. But only for one instant did he hesitate. Then he rose and went to a table where there was a pile of smooth white paper and a sharp pointed instrument – pen – for recording my thoughts in words of his own language.

  “I am ready,” was the thought in his mind.

  * * * *

  So I have told my story. Why? I do not know, except that I wanted to. Of all the universes I have passed into, only on this blue sphere have I found creatures even remotely resembling myself. And they are a disappointment; and now I know that I shall never find others of my kind. Never, unless –

  I have a theory. Where is the beginning or the end of the eternal All I have been traversing? Suppose there is none? Suppose that, after traversing a few more atomic cycles, I should enter a universe which seemed somehow familiar to me; and that I should enter a certain familiar galaxy, and approach a certain sun, a certain planet – and find that I was back where I started from so long ago: back on my own planet, where I should find the Professor in the laboratory, still receiving my sight and sound impressions! An insane theory; an impossible one. It shall never be.

  Well, then, suppose that after leaving this sphere –after descending into another atomic universe – I should choose not to alight on any planet? Suppose I should remain in empty space, my size constantly diminishing? That would be one way of ending it all, I suppose. Or would it? Is not my body matter, and is not matter infinite, limitless, eternal? How, then, could I ever reach a ‘nothingness’? It is hopeless. I am eternal. My mind, too, must be eternal, or it would surely have snapped long ago at such concepts.

  I am so very small that my mind is losing contact with the mind of him who sits here before me writing these thoughts in words of his own language, though his mind is under the hypnotic spell of my own and he is oblivious to the words he writes. I have clambered upon the top of the table beside the pile of pages he has written, to bring my mind closer to his. But why should I want to continue the thought-contact for another instant? My story is finished; there is nothing more to tell.

  I shall never find others of my kind … I am alone … I think that soon, in some manner, I shall try to put an end to it …

  I am so very small now … the hypnosis is passing from his mind … I can no longer control it … the thought-contact is slipping …

  * * * *

  EPILOGUE

  National Press-Radio Service, Sept. 29, 1937 (through Cleveland Daily Clarion): – Exactly one year ago today was a day never to be forgotten in the history of this planet. On that day a strange visitor arrived – and departed.

  On September 29, 1936, at 3:31 P.M., that thing from outer space known henceforth only as ‘The Alien’ landed in Lake Eerie near Cleveland, causing not so much destruction and terror as great bewilderment and awe, scientists being baffled in their attempts to determine whence it came and the secret of its strange steady shrinkage.

  Now, on the anniversary of that memorable day, we are presenting to the public a most unusual and interesting document purported to be a true account and history of that strange being, The Alien. This document was presented to us only a few days ago by Stanton Cobb Lentz, renowned author of ‘The Answer to the Ages and other serious books, as well as scores of short stories and books of the widely popular type of literature known as science-fiction.

  You have read the above document. While our opinion as to its authenticity is frankly sceptical, we shall print Mr. Lentz’s comment and let you, the reader, judge for yourself whether the story was related to Mr. Lentz by The Alien in the manner described, or whether it is only a product of Mr. Lentz’s most fertile imagination.

  “On the afternoon of September 29 a year ago,” states Mr. Lentz, “I fled the city as did many others, heeding the warning of a possible tidal wave, should The Alien land in the lake. Thousands of persons had gathered five or six miles to the south, and from there we watched the huge shape overhead, so expansive that it blotted out the sunlight and plunged that section of the country into a partial eclipse. It seemed to draw nearer b
y slow degrees until, about 3:30 o’clock, it began its downward rush. The sound of contact as it struck the lake was audible for miles, but it was not until later that we learned the extent of the flood. After the landing all was confusion and excitement as combat planes arrived and very foolishly began to bombard the creature and crowds began to advance upon the scene. The entire countryside being in such crowded turmoil, it took me several difficult hours to return to my home. There I listened to the varied reports of the happenings of the past several hours.

  “When I had that strange feeling that someone was behind me, and when I whirled to see The Alien standing there in the room, I do not presume to say that I was not scared. I was. I was very much scared. I had seen The Alien when it was five or six hundred feet tall – but that had been from afar. Now it was only eleven or twelve feet tall, but was standing right before me. But my sacredness was only momentary, for something seemed to enter and calm my mind.

  “Then, although there was no audible sound, I became aware of the thought: ‘I know that you would like to learn things about myself, things which those others – your scientists – would have liked to know.’

  “This was mental telepathy! I had often used the theory in my stories, but never had I dreamed that I would experience such a medium of thought in real fact. But here it was.

  “‘Those others, your scientists,’ came the next thought, ‘would never have believed nor even understood my story, even if their minds were of the type to receive my thoughts, which they are not.’ And then I began to feel a strain upon my mind, and knew that I could not stand much more of it.

  “Then came the thought that he would relate his story through my subconscious mind if I had some means of recording it in my own language. For an instant I hesitated; then I realised that time was fleeing and never again would I have such an opportunity as this. I went to my desk, where only that morning I had been working on a manuscript. There was paper and ink in plenty.

  “My last impression was of some force seeming to spread over my mind; then a terrific dizziness, and the ceiling seemed to crash upon me.

  “No time at all had seemed to elapse, when my mind regained its normal faculties; but before me on the desk was a pile of manuscript paper closely written in my own longhand. And – what many persons will find it hard to believe – standing upon that pile of written paper upon my desk top was The Alien – now scarcely two inches in height – and steadily and surely diminishing! In utter fascination I watched the transformation that was taking place before my eyes – watched until The Alien had become entirely invisible. Had descended down into the topmost sheet of paper there on my desk …

  “Now I realise that the foregoing document and my explanation of it will be received in many ways. I have waited a full year before making it public. Accept it now as fiction if you wish. There may be some few who will see the truth of it, or at least the possibility; but the vast majority will leap at once to the conclusion that the whole thing is a concoction of my own imagination; that, taking advantage of The Alien’s landing on this planet, I wrote the story to fit the occasion, very appropriately using The Alien as the main theme. To many this will seem all the more to be true, in face of the fact that in most of my science-fiction stories I have poked ridicule and derision and satire at mankind and all its high vaunted science and civilisation and achievements – always more or less with my tongue in my cheek, however, as the expression has it. And then along comes this Alien, takes a look at us and concludes that he is very disappointed, not to mention disgusted.

  “However, I wish to represent a few facts to help substantiate the authenticity of the script. Firstly: for some time after awakening from my hypnosis I was beset by a curious dizziness, though my mind was quite clear. Shortly after The Alien had disappeared I called my physician, Dr. C.M. Rollins. After an examination and a few mental tests he was greatly puzzled. He could not diagnose my case; my dizziness was the after-effect of a hypnosis of a type he had never before encountered. I offered no explanation except to say that I had not been feeling well for the past several days.

  “Secondly: the muscles of my right hand were so cramped from the long period of steady writing that I could not open my fingers. As an explanation I said that I had been writing for hours on the final chapters of my latest book, and Dr. Rollins said: ‘Man, you must be crazy.’ The process of relaxing the muscles was painful.

  “Upon my request, Dr. Rollins will vouch for the truth of the above statements.

  “Thirdly: when I read the manuscript, the writing was easily recognisable as my own free, swinging longhand up to the last few paragraphs, when the writing became shaky, the last few words terminating in an almost undecipherable scrawl as The Alien’s contact with my mind slipped away.

  Fourthly: I presented the manuscript to Mr. Howard A. Byerson, fiction editor of the National Newspaper Syndicate Service, and at once he misunderstood the entire idea. ‘I have read your story, Mr. Lentz,’ he said a few days later, ‘and it certainly comes at an appropriate time, right on the anniversary of The Alien’s landing. A neat idea about the origin of The Alien, but a bit farfetched. Now, let’s see about the price; of course, we shall syndicate your story through our National Newspaper chain and –’

  “‘You have the wrong idea,’ I said. ‘It is not a story, but a true history of The Alien as related to me by The Alien, and I wish that fact emphasised: if necessary, I will write a letter of explanation to be published with the manuscript. And I am not selling you the publication rights; I am merely giving you the document as the quickest and surest way of presenting it to the public.’

  “‘But surely you are not serious? An appropriate story by Stanton Cobb Lentz, on the eve of the anniversary of The Alien’s landing, is a scoop; and you –’

  “‘I do not ask and will not take a cent for the document,’ I said; ‘you have it now; it is yours, so do with it as you see fit.’

  “A memory that will live with me always is the sight of The Alien as last seen by me – as last seen on this earth – as it disappeared into infinite smallness there upon my desk – waving two arms upward as if in farewell …

  “And whether the above true account and history of The Alien be received as such, or as fiction, there can be no doubt that on a not far off September, a thing from some infinite sphere above landed on this earth – and departed.”

  * * * *

  The beautiful elaborateness of “He Who Shrank” was one of the factors that kept me convinced that science fiction was beyond me, that only demigods could write such material.

  And, of course, what fascinated me most about “He Who Shrank” was the notion of taking an idea to its ultimate and having it close the circle.

  I never forgot. The time came when I had the chance to do it, and the result was my short story “The Last Question,” my personal favorite of all the short stories I have ever written.

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  * * * *

  By the time I had a chance to read “He Who Shrank,” I had completed my freshman year at college. And Seth Low Junior College had completed its tenth and last year. Columbia University had, for some reason, cut its throat. (No, I am not paranoid enough to think it was on account of me.)

  That didn’t leave me homeless, you understand. It merely meant that, rather than waiting till my junior year, I would go up to the Morningside Heights campus in my sophomore year. There I would take my course with the Columbia College elite.

  There was still the matter of raising money for tuition. The one-hundred-dollar scholarship I had received the year before had been a one-shot, for the freshman year only. My father therefore managed to persuade one of his customers to arrange a summer job for me in 1936. I got it at the cost of lying a little about my age.

  It was a thoroughly unskilled job. What I had to do was to help pull out lengths of rubberized fabric, cut measured lengths of it, pile one length on top of another, and fold them into rolls.

  It was very dull,
but it brought in the breath-taking sum of fifteen dollars per week. (A full fifteen dollars, for there were no deductions in those days.) I might have earned more, but I had to beg off overtime, since, job or no job, I had to put in as much time as possible in the candy store.