New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology] Read online

  * * * *

  New Writings in

  SF: 21

  Ed By John Carnell

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Diane Lloyd

  The Passing of the Dragons by Keith Roberts

  Algora One Six by Douglas R. Mason

  Commuter by James White

  The Possessed by Sydney J. Bounds

  What the Thunder Said by Colin Kapp

  Tangled Web by H. A. Hargreaves

  The Tertiary Justification by Michael G. Coney

  * * * *

  E. J. CARNELL

  This, the 21st volume of new writings in sf, is the last of the series to be edited by John Carnell. His death, on 23rd March, 1972, has left the world of science fiction with a void it will be impossible to fill... editor ... literary agent publisher’s reader and adviser ... founder member of nearly every club or society connected with SF ... patron and counsellor to young writers... and friend to everyone.

  I worked closely with Ted—the name he was generally known by—for eight years and during that time I came to recognise and admire his professionalism, his gentle manners, his business ability, his keen intuition, and his unfailing good humour in spite of pain and ill-health. Years of cooperating on new writings in sf taught me that I could rely implicitly on him. Every issue was delivered to me in good time, beautifully laid out, and (a sign of his years in the printing trade) with marked instructions to the printer on type faces, spacings, and special characters required.

  There was only one thing I could not rely on from Ted, and in time it came to be a joke between us. He was always late with his Foreword. I think, possibly, he was so pleased that the new issue had been successfully gathered together that he felt his Foreword was the least important part of the book. At the eleventh hour, after a great deal of good-natured backchat on both sides, the Foreword would arrive on my desk (except for one time-panicked occasion when it had to be sent straight to the printer!). This volume, new writings in sf 21, was no exception. Ten days before his death Ted phoned me to say the Foreword was going to be ‘his very next job’ and I could expect it shortly. He died before he could write it and that is why, although there are many famous figures in SF who would be honoured to write his Foreword for him, I am stealing this space and making it my own particular tribute to a well-loved colleague and friend.

  Brian Aldiss has given me permission to make use of the material he gathered while writing Ted’s obituary for the times and so, although the facts are already known to many, I list just a few of the contributions he made to SF.

  He was treasurer of the newly-formed Science Fiction Association and attended the very first convention in 1937. For a time he edited the British Interplanetary Society’s journals and then, after the war, he published the magazine which was to become so especially his own—NEW WORLDS. Later he added SCIENCE FANTASY and SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES. He was a founder member of the Science Fiction Book Club, and one of the four founders of the International Fantasy Award. He was the first British literary agent to specialise in SF and in his ‘Stable’ of authors at various times were many illustrious names, John Christopher, Damon Knight, Frederik Pohl, Michael Moorcock, J. G. Ballard, Samuel Delaney, Harry Harrison, Brian Aldiss.

  He was all these things, but I shall remember him for the help, advice, and encouragement he gave to a young Corgi editor eight years ago. I shall remember him seeing me through my first convention (a bizarre and bewildering experience as anyone who has ever been to an SF Convention will testify). I shall remember him for being the very first gentleman I had to entertain at a business lunch, and for the tactful way he helped over the embarrassing moment of paying the bill. I do not have to remember his worth as an editor and agent. My office and bookshelves are packed with solid evidence of his work.

  New writings in sf will continue. He saw it carefully through twenty-one issues and one of the many legacies Ted has left to SF is a well-established series which offers publishing outlets to writers who are just beginning, and also to experienced professionals.

  He has been called Britain’s great pioneer of science fiction. To that I can only add that he was a much loved pioneer—a gentle man and a friend. We shall miss him.

  DIANE LLOYD

  Science Fiction Editor

  Corgi Books

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  THE PASSING OF THE DRAGONS

  By Keith Roberts

  Here is a new and delightful Keith Roberts’ story, about aliens on an alien planet and human observers trying to rationalise behaviour patterns. Just how formidable a task it turns out to be is the crux of the story.

  * * * *

  There’s no real reason for an Epsilon Dragon to die. Nonetheless, they do.

  By ‘real reasons’ I don’t of course include atmosphere, soil and plant pollution, direct and indirect blast effects and ultrasonic fracture of the inner ear. Most of the things that will do for a human being will do for a Dragon. They are, or were, more than humanly affected by high frequencies; the tympani were numerous and large, situated in a row down each side of the body an inch or so above the lateral line. Which you can see for yourself if you can get off your butt long enough to get down to the museum of the Institute of Alien Biology.

  The other things that can kill a Dragon are more interesting, as I explained to Pilot (First Class) Scott-Braithwaite a few weeks after our arrival on (or coincidence with) Epsilon Cygnus VI. The specimen under consideration flowed and clattered into the clearing by the lab about thirteen hundred hours, Planetary Time. I was checking the daily meter readings, I didn’t pay too much attention till I saw the three sets of whips a Dragon carries on its back flatten out and immobilise. It made the thing look like a little green and gold helicopter squatting there on the grass.

  I picked up the stethoscope and the Rontgen viewer and walked outside. A Dragon has eight hearts, situated in two rows of four between the eighth and twelfth body segments. I attached the stethoscope sensors, studied the display. As I’d expected, the first cardiac pair had become inoperative. Pairs two and four seemed to be showing reduced activity; pair three, presumably, were sustaining residual body functions. Since breathing is by spiracles and tracheae, body function isn’t all that easy to confirm. I used the viewer and stood up, leaned my hands on the knobbly back-armour. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘our friend here is headed for the Happy Chewing Grounds. Or wherever they go.’

  The Pilot (First Class) frowned. He said, ‘How can you tell?’

  I shrugged and walked round the Dragon. There was a slight injury, in the soft membrane between two body segments; a little fluid had wept across the armour, but it didn’t seem critical. If Dragons were arthropods, as their appearance suggests, collapse from a minor abrasion would be understandable; but the body is no fluid-sac, they have a blood-vascular system as well defined as that of a mammal. On the other hand the possibility of infection couldn’t be ruled out. I fetched a hypodermic from the lab, drew off a fluid sample. Later I’d take tissue cuttings. They’d be clean, of course. They always are.

  I’d brought the surgical kit out with me. I rigged a pair of pacemakers, set the collars on the probes to the standard twenty five centimetre penetration. I measured a handspan from the median lines, pushed the needles down through the joint membrane, used the stethoscope again. The trace bounced around a bit, and steadied.

  He leaned over me. I suppose one might say ‘keen face intent’. He said, ‘Working?’

  I shrugged. I said, ‘Any fool can make a heart pump. It isn’t much of a trick.’

  He said, ‘Then it’ll be
OK.’

  I shook my head. I said, ‘It’ll die.’

  He said, ‘When?’

  I lifted one of the whips, let it droop back. I said, ‘In thirty hours, twenty-eight minutes Terrestrial.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  I said kindly, ‘Planetary revolution.’

  I walked back to the lab. I’d decided to run a cardiograph. Not that it would tell us any more than the thousand or two already in file at IAB. But it’s one of the things one does. It’s called Making an Effort. Or Showing the Flag.

  He was still standing where I’d left him. He said, ‘I can’t understand these damn things.’

  Most of his conversation was like that. Incisive. Really kept you on your toes.

  I started attaching the sensors of the cardiogram. You should listen to a Dragon’s hearts sometime. It’s like the pulse of a star. Or maybe you’re a fan of the Hottentots. They based their style on IAB recordings, so I’m told; so the Dragons, you see, have been of service to mankind.

  He said, ‘Why planetary revolution?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Do you know, Pilot, First Class,’ I said, ‘I have no idea.’

  He frowned. He said, ‘I thought you scientists had all the answers.’

  His repartee certainly was a joy to the ear.

  I said, ‘I’m not a scientist. Just a Behaviourist.’ I smiled again. ‘Technician,’ I said. ‘Second Class.’

  He didn’t answer that one. They don’t encourage morbid self-analysis at Space School.

  I walked back through the specimen lock. I’d had it rigged some time now. I’d been asked to take a living Dragon back to Earth. Not that it would survive phaseout. They never do. But that’s what science is all about for most of us; a lot of little people doing what’s been done before, and not succeeding either.

  He followed me. He had that trick. He said, ‘Can I help?’

  I said, ‘No, thanks.’ I was thinking how difficult it must be for him, lumbered with a type like me. My teeth are less than pearly, my body is less than sylphlike; I don’t play pelota, I drink my ale by the pint, and what I say sometimes has some relation to what I think. It must have been hell.

  He lit a cigarette. At least he had one insanitary habit. Maybe there were more. You can never tell, by appearances.

  I switched the recorder on. The traces started zipping along the display. I turned the replay volume up. The sound thudded at us. He winced. He said, ‘Do we have to have that?’

  I said, ‘It soothes me.’ I gave the volume another notch. I said, ‘You must have heard the Hottentots.’

  He said, ‘That’s different.’

  Man, was his conversation up tight. This was being a great tour.

  I listened to the heartbeats. The rhythms phased in and out of each other like drums; or bells underground, ringing a Change that was endless.

  He said, ‘And that thing’s going to die?’

  I didn’t answer. I was thinking about the Dragon. Difficult to dissociate the notion of purpose from things that take exactly a day to die. Neither a second more nor less. But it’s difficult to dissociate the notion of purpose from anything a Dragon does. Or did. For instance, they built cities. Or we thought they were cities. We were never too sure, one way or the other.

  I ejected the sample into a centrifuge, locked the case and switched on. He watched me for a bit. Then he yawned. He said, ‘I’m going to have a kip till contact time. Call me if you need me.’

  I kept my back turned till the door had shut. With the din I’d set up he was going to be lucky. But some people can sleep through anything. Probably to do with leading a healthy life.

  * * * *

  He started on the subject again at supper time. He’d got a radio running; music was playing, from the room next door. The room we call Earth. My Dragon’s jazz was still thumping in the lab. I changed channels, got the Hottentots. It made an interesting counterpoint. He changed back. He said, ‘How many of those things do you reckon there are out there?’

  ‘What things? Pop groups?’

  He said, ‘Dragons.’

  I let a can of soup preheat, picked it up, burned my fingers and opened it. I said, ‘A hundred, hundred and fifty. That was at the last count. Probably halved by now.’

  He frowned. He said, ‘What’s killing them?’

  I did rather take that as a silly question. Epsilon Cygnus VI just happens to have a mineral-rich crust containing about everything Homo Sapiens has ever found a use for, from gold to lithium. My species had blown in ten years back; now the rest of the planet was an automated slagtip.

  I started ticking points on my fingers. I said, ‘Ecological imbalance triggered by water-borne effluent. Toxic concentration of broad-spectrum herbicides------’

  He waved a hand, irritably. He said, ‘They’ve got a whole damn subcontinent to live in. There’s no mining here.’

  I said, ‘So they die from minor abrasions. Maybe they’re making a gesture.’

  He looked at me narrowly. He said, ‘You’ve got some damn queer ideas.’

  I said, ‘I’m an observer. I’m not paid to have ideas.’

  ‘But you said------’

  ‘I pointed out psychological factors may exist. Or there again, they may not. Either way, we shall never know. Hence my engrossment.’

  He frowned again. He said, ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘There’s not much to follow. I’m fascinated by failure. It runs in the family.’

  He shook his head. I think he was grappling with a concept. He said, ‘You mean------’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just making light conversation. As per handbook.’

  He flushed. He said, ‘You don’t have to be so bloody rude about it.’

  I slung the can at the disposal unit. For once, I hit it. I said, ‘I’m sorry, Space Pilot.’ I smiled. I said, ‘Us civvies, you know. Nerves wear a bit thin. Don’t have your cast-iron constitutions.’

  I don’t have the stoicism of the upper bourgeoisie either. If I cut my finger, I usually whimper.

  He flashed me a white grin. That’s the most offensive sentence I can think of, so I’ll leave it in. It describes what he did so well. He said, ‘Forget it, Researcher. I’m a bit on edge myself.’

  Oh, those lines! I was starting to wonder whether he had an inexhaustible stockpile of them. There must be an end somewhere, even to aphorisms.

  I walked to the blinds, lifted the slats. Night on Epsilon VI is greenish, like the days. Like a thick pea soup, with turquoise overtones. The heartbeat thudded, in the next room.

  I picked up a handlamp. I said, ‘I’m going out to check the patient.’ The comic opera habit was evidently catching.

  He said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  I think his nerves were getting bad. He had an automatic strapped to his hip; on the way through the lab he collected a rocket pistol as well. There are no dangerous fauna on Epsilon VI; in fact at the time of writing I’m predisposed to believe there are no fauna at all. There used to be some pretty big lepidoptera though. I said, ‘You should have brought a scattergun. They’re difficult to hit with ball.’

  He said, ‘What?’

  I said, ‘The moths.’

  He didn’t deign to answer.

  The Dragon squatted where we had left it. I turned the lamp on. The halogen-quartz cut a white cone through the murk. Furry flying things blundered across the light. I swung the beam round. The jungle was empty.

  He was standing with his hands on his hips, the holster flap tucked back. He said, ‘What are you looking for?’

  I said, ‘The mourners should be arriving pretty soon.’

  ‘The what?’

  I said, ‘Mourners. But again, I’m theorising without data.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  I said, ‘Nothing. Stand around. Generally they eat the corpse.’

  He made a disgusted noise.

  I said, ‘Autre temps, autre mondes...’ I switched the light off. I said, ‘I like
these field jobs you know. They broaden one.’

  He walked back ahead of me to the lab. I closed the door and bolted it, for his peace of mind.

  I don’t sleep too well these days. Like the poet says, old bones are hard to please. I lay and read awhile. Afterwards I drank whisky. The site storeroom had a cellar like nobody’s business. It should have had; IAB observer teams had been stocking it surreptitiously for a decade. I poured myself another good slug. No point leaving the stuff to rot; there wouldn’t be any more folk coming this way. They’d cleaned up all the easy deposits on Epsilon VI; the archipelago on which we’d landed, a big curve of islands stretching into the southern ocean, was about the only land surface left unraped. It was also the last stronghold of the Dragons.