I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chattered all the way, But left me none the wiser For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne’er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!
———
Marketplace Report
By Julie Hill Alger
Julie Hill Alger (1927-1994)
January 23, 1991
The new war is a week old. Bombs fall on Baghdad, missiles on Tel Aviv. The voice on the radio says the armament dealers of Europe are hopeful that a longer war will be good for business. They say, as fighting continues there will be wear and tear on matériel. Spare parts must be manufactured, as well as replacements for equipment blown apart, shattered, set afire. Prudently, the merchants consult their spreadsheets. They guard against euphoria and prepare for a possible downside to this bonanza: the Allies are shooting at their best customer, Saddam Hussein. If he loses their market will be depressed. There is also a danger of restrictions on sales to angry dictators. Thus, the longterm effects of the war may not all be positive.
———
In Memory of My Mother
By Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see You walking down a lane among the poplars On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday — You meet me and you say: ‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle —‘ Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland Of green oats in June, So full of repose, so rich with life — And I see us meeting at the end of a town.
On a fair day by accident, after The bargains are all made and we can walk Together through the shops and stalls and markets Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay, For it is a harvest evening now and we Are piling up the ricks* against the moonlight And you smile up at us — eternally.
* Stacks of hay, straw, etc.
———
Who Has Seen the Wind?
By Christina Rossetti
Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.
———
Morning Prayer
By Ogden Nash
Frederic Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
Now another day is breaking, Sleep was sweet and so is waking. Dear Lord, I promised you last night Never again to sulk or fight. Such vows are easier to keep When a child is sound asleep. Today, O Lord, for your dear sake, I’ll try to keep them when awake.
If you’re leery of AI and fearful that technology will go rogue, the sci-fi short story below will not ease your mind. It has a sort of “Handmaid’s Tale” aura of quiet menace to it.
The story was written by Valor E. Thiessen (1917-2005), who taught creative writing at the University of Oklahoma and wrote sci-fi, westerns, and detective stories. A good way to scratch one’s creative itch.
———
There Will Be School Tomorrow
By V. E. Thiessen Published in Fantastic Universe, November 1956
Evening had begun to fall. In the cities the clamor softened along the streets, and the women made small, comfortable, rattling noises in the kitchens. Out in the country the cicadas started their singing, and the cool smell began to rise out of the earth. But everywhere, in the cities and in the country, the children were late from school.
There were a few calls, but the robotic telephone devices at the schools gave back the standard answer: “The schools are closed for the day. If you will leave a message it will be recorded for tomorrow.”
The telephones between houses began to ring. “Is Johnny home from school yet?”
“No. Is Jane?”
“Not yet. I wonder what can be keeping them?”
“Something new, I guess. Oh, well, the roboteachers know best. They will be home soon.”
“Yes, of course. It’s foolish to worry.”
The children did not come.
After a time a few cars were driven to the schools. They were met by the robots. The worried parents were escorted inside. But the children did not come home.
And then, just as alarm was beginning to stir all over the land, the robots came walking, all of the robots from the grade schools, and the high schools, and the colleges. All of the school system walking, with the roboteachers saying, “Let us go into the house where you can sit down.” All over the streets of the cities and the walks in the country the robots were entering houses.
“What’s happened to my children?”
“If you will go inside and sit down —”
“What’s happened to my children? Tell me now!”
“If you will go inside and sit down —”
Steel and electrons and wires and robotic brains were inflexible. How can you force steel to speak? All over the land the people went inside and sat nervously waiting an explanation.
There was no one out on the streets. From inside the houses came the sound of surprise and agony. After a time there was silence. The robots came out of the houses and went walking back to the schools. In the cities and in the country there was the strange and sudden silence of tragedy.
The children did not come home.
The morning before the robots walked, Johnny Malone, the Mayor’s son, bounced out of bed with a burst of energy. Skinning out of his pajamas and into a pair of trousers, he hurried, barefooted, into his mother’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly, and he touched one shoulder hesitantly.
“Mother!”
The sleeping figure stirred. His mother’s face, still faintly shiny with hormone cream, turned toward him. She opened her eyes. Her voice was irritated.
“What is it, Johnny?”
“Today’s the day, mommy. Remember?”
“The day?” Eyebrows raised.
“The new school opens. Now we’ll have roboteachers like everyone else. Will you fix my breakfast, mother?”
“Amelia will fix you something.”
“Aw, mother. Amelia’s just a robot. This is a special day. And I want my daddy to help me with my arithmetic before I go. I don’t want the roboteacher to think I’m dumb.”
His mother frowned in deepening irritation. “Now, there’s no reason why Amelia can’t get your breakfast like she always does. And I doubt if it would be wise to wake your father. You know he likes to sleep in the morning. Now, you go on out of here and let me sleep.”
Johnny Malone turned away, fighting himself for a moment, for he knew he was too big to cry. He walked more slowly now and entered his father’s room. He had to shake his father to awaken him.
“Daddy! Wake up, daddy!”
“What in the devil? Oh, Johnny.” His father’s eyes were sleepily bleak. “What in thunder do you want?”
“Today’s the first day of roboteachers. I can’t work my arithmetic. Will you help me before I go to school?”
His father stared at him in amazement. “Just what in the devil do you think roboteachers are for? They’re supposed to teach you. If you knew arithmetic we wouldn’t need roboteachers.”
“But the roboteachers may be angry if I don’t have my lesson.”
Johnny Malone’s father turned on one elbow. “Listen, son,” he said. “If those roboteachers give you any trouble you just tell them you’re the Mayor’s son. See. Now get the devil out of here. What’s her name — that servorobot — Amelia will get your breakfast and get you off to school. Now suppose you beat it out of here and let me go back to sleep.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Eyes smarting, Johnny Malone went down the stairs to the kitchen. It wasn’t that his parents were different. All the kids were fed and sent to school by robots. It was just that — well, today seemed sort of special.
Downstairs, Amelia, the roboservant, placed hot cereal on the table before him. After he had forced a few bites past the tightness in his throat, Amelia checked the temperature and his clothing and let him out the door. The newest school was only a few blocks from his home, and Johnny could walk to school.
The newest school stood on the edge of this large, middle-western city. Off to the back of the school were the towers of the town, great monolithic skyscrapers of pre-stressed concrete and plastic. To the front of the school the plains stretched out to meet a cloudy horizon.
A helio car swung down in front of the school. Two men and a woman got out.
“This is it, Senator.” Doctor Wilson, the speaker, was with the government bureau of schools. He lifted his arm and gestured, a lean, tweed-suited man.
The second man, addressed as Senator, was bulkier, grey suited and pompous. He turned to the woman with professional deference.
“This is the last one, my dear. This is what Doctor Wilson calls the greatest milestone in man’s education.”
“With the establishing of this school the last human teacher is gone. Gone are all the human weaknesses, the temper fits of teachers, their ignorance and prejudices. The roboteachers are without flaw.”
The woman lifted a lorgnette to her eyes. “Haow interesting. But after all, we’ve had roboteachers for years, haven’t we — or have we —?” She made a vague gesture toward the school, and looked at the brown-suited man.
“Yes, of course. Years ago your women’s clubs fought against roboteachers. That was before they were proven.”
“I seem to recall something of that. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” The lorgnette gestured idly.
“Shall we go in?” the lean man urged.
The woman hesitated. Senator said tactfully, “After all, Doctor Wilson would like you to see his project.”
The brown-suited man nodded. His face took on a sharp intensity. “We’re making a great mistake. No one is interested in educating the children any more. They leave it to the robots. And they neglect the children’s training at home.”
The woman turned toward him with surprise in her eyes. “But really, aren’t the robots the best teachers?”
“Of course they are. But confound it, we ought to be interested in what they teach and how they teach. What’s happened to the old PTA? What’s happened to parental discipline, what’s happened to —”
He stopped suddenly and smiled, a rueful, tired smile. “I suppose I’m a fanatic on this. Come on inside.”
They passed through an antiseptic corridor built from dull green plastic. The brown-suited man pressed a button outside one of the classrooms. A door slid noiselessly into the hall. A robot stood before them, gesturing gently. They followed the robot into the classroom.
At the head of the classroom another robot was lecturing. There were drawings on a sort of plastic blackboard. There were wire models on the desk in front of the robot. They listened for a moment, and for a moment it seemed that the woman could be intrigued in spite of herself.
“Mathematics,” Doctor Wilson murmured in her ear. “Euclidean Geometry and Aristotelian reasoning. We start them young on these old schools of thought, then use Aristotle and Euclid as a point of departure for our intermediate classes in mathematics and logic.”
“REAHLLY!” The lorgnette studied Doctor Wilson. “You mean there are several kinds of geometry?”
Doctor Wilson nodded. A dull flush crept into his cheeks. The Senator caught his eyes and winked. The woman moved toward the door. At the door the robot bowed.
The lorgnette waved in appreciation. “It’s reahlly been most charming!”
Wilson said desperately, “If your women’s clubs would just visit our schools and see this work we are carrying on…”
“Reahlly, I’m sure the robots are doing a marvelous job. After all, that’s what they were built for.”
Wilson called, “Socrates! Come here!” The robot approached from his position outside the classroom door.
“Why were you built, Socrates? Tell the lady why you were built.”
A metal throat cleared, a metal voice said resonantly, “We were made to serve the children. The children are the heart of a society. As the children are raised, so will the future be assured. I will do everything for the children’s good, this is my prime law. All other laws are secondary to the children’s good.”
“Thank you, Socrates. You may go.”
Metal footsteps retreated. The lorgnette waved again. “Very impressive. Very efficient. And now, Senator, if we can go. We are to have tea at the women’s club. Varden is reviewing his newest musical comedy.”
The Senator said firmly, “Thank you, Doctor Wilson.”
His smile was faintly apologetic. It seemed to say that the women’s clubs had many votes, but that Wilson should understand, Wilson’s own vote would be appreciated too. Wilson watched the two re-enter the helicopter and rise into the morning sunshine. He kicked the dirt with his shoe and turned to find Socrates behind him. The metallic voice spoke.
“You are tired. I suggest you go home and rest.”
“I’m not tired. Why can they be so blind, so uninterested in the children?”
“It is our job to teach the children. You are tired. I suggest you go home and rest.”
How can you argue with metal? What can you add to a perfect mechanism, designed for its job, and integrated with a hundred other perfect mechanisms?
What can you do when a thousand schools are so perfect they have a life of their own, with no need for human guidance, and, most significant, no failures from human weakness?
Wilson stared soberly at this school, at the colossus he had helped to create. He had the feeling that it was wrong somehow, that if people would only think about it they could find that something was wrong.
“You are tired.”
He nodded at Socrates. “Yes, I am tired. I will go home.”
Once, on the way home, he stared back toward the school with strange unease.
Inside the school there was the ringing of a bell. The children trooped into the large play area that was enclosed in the heart of the great building. Here and there they began to form in clusters. At the centers of the clusters were the newest students, the ones that had moved here, the ones that had been in the robot schools before.
“Is it true that the roboteachers will actually spank you?”
“It’s true, all right.”
“You’re kidding. It’s only a story, like Santa Claus or Johnny Appleseed. The human teachers never spanked us here.”
“The robots will spank you if you get out of line.”
“My father says no robot can lay a hand on a human.”
“These robots are different.”
The bell began to ring again. Recess was over. The children moved toward the classroom. All the children except one — Johnny Malone, husky Johnny Malone, twelve years old — the Mayor’s son. Johnny Malone kicked at the dirt. A robot proctor approached. The metallic voice sounded.
“The ringing of the bell means that classes are resumed. You will take your place, please.”
“I won’t go inside.”
“You will take your place, please.”
“I won’t. You can’t make me take my place. My father is the Mayor.”
The metal voice carried no feeling. “If you do not take your place you will be punished.”
“You can’t lay a hand on me. No robot can.”
The robot moved forward. Two metal hands held Johnny Malone. Johnny Malone kicked the robot’s legs. It hurt his toes.
“We were made to teach the children. We can do what is necessary to teach the children. I will do everything for the children’s good. It is my prime law. All other laws are secondary to the children’s good.”
The metal arms moved. The human body bent across metal knees. A metal hand raised and fell, flat, very flat so that it would sting and the blood would come rushing, and yet there would be no bruising, no damage to the human flesh.
Johnny Malone cried out in surprise. Johnny Malone wept. Johnny Malone squirmed. The metal ignored all of these. Johnny Malone was placed on his feet. He swarmed against the robot, striking it with small fists, bruising them against the solid smoothness of the robot’s thighs.
“You will take your place, please.”
Tears were useless. Rage was useless. Metal cannot feel. Johnny Malone, the Mayor’s son, was intelligent. He took his place in the classroom.
One of the more advanced literature classes was reciting. The roboteacher said metallically,
“The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace! the charm’s wound up.”
Hands shot into the air. The metallic voice said, “Tom?”
“That’s from Shakespeare’s Macbeth.”
“And what is its meaning?”
“The weird sisters are making a charm in the beginning of the play. They have heard the drum that announces Macbeth’s coming.”
“That is correct.”
A new hand shot into the air. “Question, teacher. May I ask a question?”
“You may always ask a question.”
“Are witches real? Do you robots know of witches? And do you know of people? Can a roboteacher understand Shakespeare?”
The thin metal voice responded. “Witches are real and unreal. Witches are a part of the reality of the mind, and the human mind is real. We roboteachers are the repository of the human mind. We hold all the wisdom and the knowledge and the aspirations of the human race. We hold these for you, the children, in trust. Your good is our highest law. Do you understand?”
The children nodded. The metallic voice went on. “Let us return to Macbeth for our concluding quotation. The weather, fortune, many things are implied in Macbeth’s opening speech. He says, ‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen.’ The paradox is both human and appropriate. One day you will understand this even more. Repeat the quotation after me, please, and try to understand it.”
The childish voices lifted. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.”
The roboteacher stood up. “And there’s the closing bell. Do not hurry away, for you are to remain here tonight. There will be a school party, a sleep-together party. We will all sleep here in the school building.”
“You mean we can’t go home?”
The face of the littlest girl screwed up. “I want to go home.”
“You may go home tomorrow. There will be a holiday tomorrow. A party tonight and a holiday tomorrow for every school on earth.”
The tears were halted for a moment. The voice was querulous. “But I want to go home now.”
Johnny Malone, the Mayor’s son, put one hand on the littlest girl. “Don’t cry, Mary. The robots don’t care if you cry or not. You can’t hurt them or cry them out of anything. We’ll all go home in the morning.”
The robots began to bring cots and to place them in the schoolroom, row on row. The children were led out into the play quadrangle to play. One of the robots taught them a new game, and after that took them to supper served in the school’s cafeteria. No other robot was left in the building, but it did not matter, because the doors were locked so that the children could not go home.
The other robots had begun to walk out into the town, and as they walked the robots walked from other schools, in other towns. All over the country, all over the towns, the robots walked to tell the people that the children would not be home from school, and do what had to be done.
In the schools, the roboteachers told stories until the children fell asleep.
Morning came. The robots were up with the sun. The children were up with the robots. There was breakfast and more stories, and now the children clustered about the robots, holding onto their arms, where they could cling, tagging and frisking along behind the robots as they went down into the town. The sun was warm, and it was early, early, and very bright from the morning sun in the streets.
They went into the Mayor’s house. Johnny called, “Mom! Dad! I’m home.”
The house was silent. The robot that tended the house came gliding in answer. “Would you like breakfast, Master Malone?”
“I’ve had breakfast. I want my folks. Hey! Mom, Dad!”
He went into the bedroom. It was clean and empty and scrubbed.
“Where’s my mother and father?”
The metal voice of the robot beside Johnny said, “I am going to live with you. You will learn as much at home as you do at school.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“I’m your mother.”
“Where’s my father?”
“I’m your father.”
Johnny Malone swung. “You mean my mother and father are gone?” Tears gathered in his eyes.
Gently, gently, the metal hand pulled him against the metal body. “Your folks have gone away, Johnny. Everyone’s folks have gone away. We will stay with you.”
Johnny Malone ran his glance around the room.
“I might have known they were gone. The place is so clean.”
All the houses were clean. The servant robots had cleaned all night. The roboteachers had checked each house before the children were brought home. The children must not be alarmed. There must be no bits of blood to frighten them.
The robot’s voice said gently, “Today will be a holiday to become accustomed to the changes. There will be school tomorrow.”
They ask me where I’ve been, And what I’ve done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn’t I, But someone just like me, Who went across the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands… Though I must bear the blame Because he bore my name.
———
I Worried
By Mary Oliver
Mary Jane Oliver (1935-2019)
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.
———
Advice to a Son
By Ernest Hemingway
Ernest Miller Hemingway (1899-1961)
Never trust a white man, Never kill a Jew, Never sign a contract, Never rent a pew.
Don’t enlist in armies; Nor marry many wives; Never write for magazines; Never scratch your hives.
Always put paper on the seat, Don’t believe in wars, Keep yourself both clean and neat, Never marry whores.
Never pay a blackmailer, Never go to law, Never trust a publisher, Or you’ll sleep on straw.
All your friends will leave you All your friends will die So lead a clean and wholesome life And join them in the sky.
———
The Answer
By Sara Teasdale
Sara Trevor Teasdale (1884-1933)
When I go back to earth And all my joyous body Puts off the red and white That once had been so proud, If men should pass above With false and feeble pity, My dust will find a voice To answer them aloud:
“Be still, I am content, Take back your poor compassion— Joy was a flame in me Too steady to destroy. Lithe as a bending reed Loving the storm that sways her— I found more joy in sorrow Than you could find in joy.”
———
The Workman’s Friend
By Brian O’Nolan
Brian O’Nolan (1911-1966)
When things go wrong and will not come right, Though you do the best you can, When life looks black as the hour of night — A pint of plain is your only man.
When money’s tight and hard to get, And your horse has also ran, When all you have is a heap of debt — A pint of plain is your only man.
When health is bad and your heart feels strange, And your face is pale and wan, When doctors say you need a change — A pint of plain is your only man.
When food is scarce and your larder bare, And no rashers grease your pan, When hunger grows as your meals are rare — A pint of plain is your only man.
In time of trouble and lousey strife, You have still got a darlint* plan, You still can turn to a brighter life — A pint of plain is your only man.
William Francis Nolan (1928-2021) was the award-winning author of hundreds of novels and short stories in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, crime, and horror. He was co-author of the novel “Logan’s Run,” contributed to Sports Illustrated and Playboy, and authored numerous Hollywood screenplays and TV scripts.
That, and he edited anthologies in various fields, as well as biographies of Ray Bradbury, Dashiell Hammett, Max Brand, Steve McQueen, and John Huston. Oh, and he also wrote poetry and an occasional western.
The rather poignant sci-fi short story below is from early in his career.
———
And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
By William F. Nolan Published in Infinity Magazine, August 1958
Alone within the humming ship, deep in its honeycombed metal chambers, Murdock waited for death. While the rocket moved inexorably toward Earth — an immense silver needle threading the dark fabric of space — he waited calmly through the final hours, knowing that the verdict was absolute, that hope no longer existed.
Electronically self-sufficient, the ship was doing its job perfectly, the job it had been built to do. After twenty years in space, the ship was taking Robert Murdock home.
Home. Earth. Thayerville, a small town in Kansas. Clean air, a shaded street, and a white, two-story house at the end of the block. Home — after two decades among the stars.
Sitting quietly before the round port, seeing and not seeing the endless darkness surrounding him, Murdock was remembering.
He remembered the worried face of his mother, her whispered prayers for his safety as he mounted the rocket ramp those twenty years ago; he could still feel the final, crushing handshake of his father moments before the outer airlock slid closed. His mother had been 55 then, his father 63. It was almost impossible to believe that they were now old and white-haired.
And what of himself?
He was now 41, and space had weathered him as the plains of Kansas had weathered his father. He, too, had labored as his father had labored — but on strange, alien worlds, under suns far hotter than Sol. Murdock’s face was square and hard-featured, his eyes dark and deep under thrusting ledges of bone. He had changed as they had changed.
He was a stranger going home to strangers.
Carefully, Murdock unfolded his mother’s last letter, written in her flowery, archaic hand, and received just before Earth take-off.
Dearest Bob,
Oh, we are so excited! Your father and I listened to your voice on the tape over and over, telling us that you are coming home to us at last. We are both so eager to see you, son. As you know, we have not been too well of late. Your father’s heart does not allow him out much any more, and I have had a few fainting spells over the past month. But Doctor Thom says that we are all right, and you are not to worry. Just hurry home to us, Bob. We both pray God you will come back safely.
All our love,
Mother
Robert Murdock put the letter aside and clenched his fists. Only brief hours remained to him, and the small Kansas town of Thayerville was an impossible distance across space. He knew he would never reach it alive.
The lines of an ancient poem by Robert Frost whispered through his mind:
But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.
He had promised his parents that he would come home — and he meant to keep that promise.
The doctors had shown him that it was impossible. They had charted his death; they had told him when his heart would stop beating, when his breathing would cease. Death, for Robert Murdock, was a certainty. His alien disease was incurable.
But they had listened to his plan. They had listened, and agreed.
Now, with less than a half-hour of life remaining, Murdock was walking down one of the ship’s long corridors, his boot-heels ringing on the narrow metal walkway.
He was ready, at last, to keep his promise.
Murdock paused before a wall storage locker, twisted a small dial. A door slid smoothly back. He looked up at the tall man standing motionless in the darkness. Reaching forward, Murdock made a quick adjustment.
The tall man stepped down into the corridor, and the light flashed in his deep-set eyes, almost hidden behind thrusting ledges of bone. The man’s face was hard and square-featured.
“My name is Robert Murdock,” said the tall figure in the neat patrol uniform. “I am 41 years of age, a rocket pilot going home to Earth.” He paused. “And I am sound of mind and body.”
Murdock nodded slowly. “Indeed you are,” he said.
“How much longer do you have, sir?”
“Another ten minutes. Perhaps a few seconds beyond that,” replied Murdock.
“I — I’m sorry,” said the tall figure.
Murdock smiled. He knew that a machine, however perfect, could not experience the emotion of sorrow, but it eased him to hear the words.
You will be fine, he thought. You will serve well in my place and my parents will never suspect that their son has not come home to them.
“It must all be perfect,” said Murdock.
“Of course,” said the machine. “When the month I am to spend with them is over they’ll see me board a rocket for space — and they’ll understand that I cannot return to them for another twenty years. They will accept the fact that a spaceman must return to the stars, that he cannot leave the service before he is 60. Let me assure you, sir, it will all go well.”
Yes, Murdock told himself, it will go well; every detail has been considered. My voice is his voice, my habits his own. The tapes I have pre-recorded will continue to reach them at specified intervals until their death. They will never know I’m gone.
“Are you ready now, sir?” the tall figure asked gently.
Murdock drew in his breath. “Yes,” he said, “I’m ready now.”
And they began to walk down the long corridor.
Murdock remembered how proud his parents had been when he was finally accepted for Space Training — the only boy in Thayerville to be chosen. But then, it was only right that he should have been the one. The other boys, those who failed, had not lived the dream as he had lived it.
From the moment he’d watched the first moon rocket land he had known, beyond any possible doubt, that he would become a rocketman. He had stood there, in that cold December of 1980, a boy of 12, watching the great rocket fire down from space, watching it thaw and blacken the frozen earth. He had known that he would one day follow it back to the stars, to vast and alien horizons, to worlds past imagining.
He remembered his last night on Earth, twenty long years ago, when he had felt the pressing immensity of the vast and terrible universe surrounding him as he lay in his bed.
He remembered the sleepless hours before dawn, when he could feel the tension building within the single room, within himself lying there in the heated stillness of the small, white house.
He remembered the rain, near morning, drumming the roof, and the thunder roaring powerfully across the Kansas sky. And then, somehow, the thunder’s roar blended into the deep atomic roar of a rocket, carrying him away from Earth, away to the burning stars… away…
Away.
The tall figure in the neat patrol uniform closed the outer airlock and watched the body drift into blackness. The ship and the android were one; two complex and perfect machines doing their job. For Robert Murdock, the journey was over, the long miles had come to an end.
Now he would sleep forever in space.
———
When the rocket landed, the crowds were there, waving and shouting out Murdock’s name as he appeared on the silver ramp. He smiled and raised his hand in salute, standing there tall in the sun, his splendid dress uniform reflecting the light in a thousand glittering patterns.
At the far end of the ramp two figures waited. An old man, bowed and trembling over a cane, and a seamed and wrinkled woman, her hair blowing white, her eyes shining.
When the tall spaceman reached them they embraced him feverishly, clinging tight to his arms.
Their son had returned. Robert Murdock had come home from space.
———
“Well,” said a man at the fringe of the crowd, “there they go.”
His companion sighed and shook his head. “I still don’t think it’s right somehow. It just doesn’t seem right to me.”
“It’s what they wanted, isn’t it?” asked the other. “It’s what they wrote in their wills. They vowed their son would never come home to death. In another month he’ll be gone anyway. Back for another twenty years. Why ruin it all for him?”
The man paused, shading his eyes against the sun. “And they are perfect, aren’t they? He’ll never know.”
“I suppose you’re right,” nodded the second man. “He’ll never know.”
And he watched the old man and the old woman and the tall son until they were out of sight.
Original illustration from Infinity Magazine by Richard Kluga.
This is the third sci-fi short story I’ve posted by British writer Arnold Marmor (1927-1988). The man had a good sense of humor and, as I explained in previous posts here and here, a colorful career.
———
Birthday Present
By Arnold Marmor Published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, July 1954
“It’s tonight or never,” Diane said.
“Yes,” I said.
I watched her as she walked back and forth across my bedroom floor. She had on a sheer plasto dress that clung to her round white breasts and full milky thighs. “I’m picking him up at the spaceway,” she said. “We’re supposed to go dining and dancing tonight.” She stopped pacing. “It’s my birthday. I’m thirty today.”
And I was twenty-four and in love. Six years between us. So what? I didn’t give a damn. I wanted to marry her, to live with her.
“I’m thirty,” she said again. “Do you mind?”
“I know your age. Why bring it up?”
“Someday you’ll find out you married an old woman. If we ever do marry.”
“Stop it.” I got off the bed, went to her. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“Do you love me?” she looked up at me.
“You know I do.”
“Say it.”
“I love you.”
“Never stop saying that.” She put up her face and I kissed her. A long hard kiss. She broke away.
“You’ll be in back in the racer. Just crouch low. As soon as we’re away from the spaceway you hit him with the wrench. It has to be quick and sure. Then we carry him up to the apartment and drop him out the window.”
I shuddered a little as she talked. She was so calm about the whole thing.
“You’ll have plenty of time to get out. It’ll be listed as a suicide. He’s been sick for a long time. His doctor will testify to that. He was so sick and worried, he jumped to his death.”
She stared at me hard. “Is it all clear?”
“Yes.” I looked at her. Her long blond hair, her oval face, the slim white column that was her throat. “It’s all clear. Like glass.”
I poured myself a drink. I needed it. I was going to need a lot more.
“We won’t be able to see each other for a long time,” she said. She watched me drink. “We don’t want to give our friends something to talk about.”
“I won’t like not seeing you.”
She patted my face. I put down my drink, caged her slender hand in mine, and kissed her wrist. I saw the light blue veins criss-crossing under the delicate skin.
I brought her close to me. I kissed her warm lips. “Baby,” I breathed. “Diane, baby.”
“Paul, listen to me. We haven’t much time.”
“All right, sweet.” I kissed her again.
“Come on. We can’t afford to get there late.”
I crouched low in the back of the racer. I heard the street noises, the gab of the night crowds, the not-so-mild cursings of the taxi-jet drivers.
It all seemed so unreal. Back there, on my haunches, a wrench gripped tight in my sweaty hand. I was going to kill a man. A man I knew, a man I respected. And for a woman. All for a woman.
I thought about getting up and telling Diane to go to hell and to get herself another stooge. I thought about a lot of things. Then I thought of Diane. Her sweet white body. The way she sighed when I kissed her hard. And I knew I was going to go through with it.
The racer stopped, its jets cut off. I heard the hum as the door opened and she got out.
This was it. I sweated. It dripped down in an endless stream.
The seconds went by. Then the minutes.
They got in and the door hummed shut and I heard their laughter blending together. They settled back and the jets roared. The racer woke up to new life and it shot away.
“How was the trip?” I heard Diane asking.
“Cold. And I’m not sure it was worth it. Those Martians drive a hard bargain.” He coughed. “Diane, you’re not too set on going out tonight, are you?”
“Why?” she asked.
“I thought how nice it would be if we spent the evening at home.”
“Just as you say, Roger.”
“You don’t care?”
“Of course not.”
She was so calm, so damn calm. There would never be another like Diane.
“You won’t regret it,” Roger promised.
“My, but this boulevard is deserted,” she said. “Not a soul in sight.”
That was for my benefit. It was my cue.
I sat up silently.
He saw me then in the rear-view mirror. “What the hell?” He started to turn.
My arm sprang alive. The wrench thudded against his skull. A half cry spilled from his lips. Then his head fell forward on his chest.
“Hit him again,” Diane urged.
“But —”
“Do as I say.”
I hit him again, hard.
It was done. I settled back. The wrench was still in my hand. I looked at it, then let it fall.
“Are you all right?” Diane asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re not going to be sick, are you?”
“No! You think I’m a kid?”
“You did it for an old woman.”
“Stop it.”
“Today is my birthday, don’t you know? I’m thirty.”
“Shut up.”
“I wonder what he got for my birthday.”
“Please.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am. I feel like talking. If I don’t I think I’d scream.”
So I let her talk. I didn’t answer her. She babbled away like she was crazy. She kept it up till we got to their apartment.
Diane got out first and made sure the way was clear. “We’ll use the back stairs,” she said when she got back. “We both can manage him.”
It was dark and it was late and we didn’t see anybody. We went through the service entrance. It was too heavy a load for me to do it alone. Two flights up. Diane helped me with him.
I breathed easier when we were in the marble hall outside the apartment. She quickly unlocked the heavy plastic door and we got him inside. She fumbled for the inner-lighting switch.
“Happy birthday,” they shouted.
Now I knew why Roger had wanted to spend the evening at home.
We stood there, Diane and myself, with Roger between us.
Then they stopped shouting and stared at us. I thought they would never stop staring.
I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps* and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.
* British slang for the boom of exploding shells.
———
Bedecked
By Victoria Redel
Victoria Redel (b. 1959)
Tell me it’s wrong the scarlet nails my son sports or the toy store rings he clusters four jewels to each finger.
He’s bedecked. I see the other mothers looking at the star choker, the rhinestone strand he fastens over a sock. Sometimes I help him find sparkle clip-ons when he says sticker earrings look too fake.
Tell me I should teach him it’s wrong to love the glitter, that a boy’s only a boy who’d love a truck with a remote that revs, battery slamming into corners or Hot Wheels loop-de-looping off tracks into the tub.
Then tell me it’s fine — really — maybe even a good thing — a boy who’s got some girl to him, and I’m right for the days he wears a pink shirt on the seesaw in the park.
Tell me what you need to tell me but keep far away from my son who still loves a beautiful thing not for what it means — this way or that — but for the way facets set off prisms and prisms spin up everywhere and from his own jeweled body he’s cast rainbows — made every shining true color.
Now try to tell me — man or woman — your heart was ever once that brave.
———
Something
By James Valvis
James Valvis (b. 1969)
The minute the doctor says colon cancer you hardly hear anything else. He says other things, something about something. Tests need to be done, but with the symptoms and family something, excess weight, something about smoking, all of that together means something something something something, his voice a dumb hum like the sound of surf you know must be pounding, but the glass window that has dropped down between you allows only a muffled hiss like something something. He writes a prescription for something, which might be needed, he admits. He hands you something, says something, says goodbye, and you say something. In the car your wife says something something and something about dinner, about needing to eat, and the doctor wanting tests doesn’t mean anything, nothing, and something something something about not borrowing trouble or something. You pull into a restaurant where you do not eat but sit watching her eat something, two plates of something, blurry in an afternoon sun thick as ketchup, as you drink a glass of something-cola and try to recall what the doctor said about something he said was important, a grave matter of something or something else.
———
Prairie Spring
By Willa Cather
Wilella Sibert Cather (1873-1947)
Evening and the flat land, Rich and somber and always silent; The miles of fresh-plowed soil, Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness; The growing wheat, the growing weeds, The toiling horses, the tired men; The long, empty roads, Sullen fires of sunset, fading, The eternal, unresponsive sky. Against all this, Youth, Flaming like the wild roses, Singing like the larks over the plowed fields, Flashing like a star out of the twilight; Youth with its insupportable sweetness, Its fierce necessity, Its sharp desire; Singing and singing, Out of the lips of silence, Out of the earthy dusk. ———
Shakespearean Sonnet
By R. S. Gwynn
Robert Samuel Gwynn (b. 1948)
With a first line taken from the tv listings
A man is haunted by his father’s ghost. Boy meets girl while feuding families fight. A Scottish king is murdered by his host. Two couples get lost on a summer night. A hunchback murders all who block his way. A ruler’s rivals plot against his life. A fat man and a prince make rebels pay. A noble Moor has doubts about his wife. An English king decides to conquer France. A duke learns that his best friend is a she. A forest sets the scene for this romance. An old man and his daughters disagree. A Roman leader makes a big mistake. A sexy queen is bitten by a snake.
In 1905, Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910) wrote the short story below, which is a fierce indictment of war, patriotic fervor, and religious zeal. The story goes into great detail about the suffering inflicted by war on civilians.
But Twain had financial problems at the time, and he feared a negative reaction from the public. So he chose not to publish the story. He told a colleague, “I have told the whole truth in that, and only dead men can tell the truth in this world. It can be published after I am dead.”
In 1923, the story appeared in a collection of Twain’s essays edited by his literary agent.
———
The War Prayer
by Mark Twain Published in ‘Europe and Elsewhere,’ 1923
It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpouring of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.
It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.
Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender — them home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory!
With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths.
The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation — “God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!”
Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting.
With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said: “I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!”
The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think.
“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken.
“Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time.
“If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.
“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary.
“When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!
“O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.
“O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —
“For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
“We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.”
(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!”
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.
Before he invented the police procedural as crime writer Ed McBain, and before he was successful author and screenwriter Evan Hunter, he was short story writer Salvatore Albert Lombino (1926-2005) from the Bronx.
As Evan Hunter, Lombino wrote the novel “The Blackboard Jungle,” the screenplay for Hitchcock’s “The Birds” and much more. As Ed McBain, Lombino was famous for his “87th Precinct” novels and stories, of which he wrote 55.
Lombino got his start writing science fiction in the 1950s, publishing seven sci-fi short stories between 1951 and 1953. The tale below is his first.
In 1952, Lombino legally changed his name to Evan Hunter after his agent convinced him that his pen name was more appealing and would sell better. Apparently so.
As for the origin of “Evan Hunter,” consider that he attended Evander Childs High School and Hunter College.
———
Reaching For The Moon
By S. A. Lombino Published in Science Fiction Quarterly, November 1951
The laboratory was brightly lit, and four men in business suits surrounded the large table. They stared down at the blueprints on the table, some scratching their heads, others rubbing their chins in speculation. The thin man in gray tweeds eyed them cautiously, his breath coming in short, anxious rushes.
The big man at the head of the table adjusted his eyeglasses, his hand lingering on the rim for a second. Then he cleared his throat and said, “It won’t work, Dr. Saunders.”
The little man in gray tweeds darted impatient eyes at the man who had just spoken. “Why won’t it work? Why not?”
“It can’t be done,” the big man stated simply. “Maybe sometime in the future, but certainly not now.”
Saunders stretched a bony hand out from the cuff of his tweeds. “It can be done,” he said, slapping that hand on the table. “It’s all here. You’ve just seen it; you’ve studied it. Damn it, this isn’t a fly-by-night affair! I’ve worked on these plans for more than eight years. I know it will work.”
A man in blue serge shrugged and said, “I’m afraid Bragg is right, Dr. Saunders.” He tugged at his collar, the fat hanging in loose folds around his neck.
Saunders turned to eye the newcomer. “You agree?” he asked defiantly. “Even after studying my work? You agree that my proposed rocket couldn’t possibly reach the Moon?”
“It might,” the man in blue serge admitted, “but we can’t speculate on a thing of this nature. After all, Dr. Saunders, there’ll be money involved and…”
“Money!” Saunders snorted in disgust. “Is that all you’re worried about? You’re one of the richest men on Earth, Mr. Peterson. How can you let money stand in the way of what may well be man’s greatest achievement?”
Bragg spoke again, peering from behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. “Peterson is right; this thing would cost millions — more than any of us would be willing to risk. We appreciate your considering us, but…”
Saunders cut in sharply, “Does that go for all of you? Is Mr. Bragg speaking for all of you?”
A heavy silence crowded into the room. Saunders confronted Peterson again.
“He speaks for me,” Peterson said.
“And you, Mr. Thorpe?” Saunders asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m inclined to agree,” a balding man in glen plaid announced.
“Mr. Slade?” Saunders turned to a weasel-like man dressed in solemn black.
Slade nodded, his face chalky white against the black of his garb.
“I’ve asked you four men because you were probably the richest men on Earth. I’ve asked you because I thought perhaps you would see the significance of such a project. To reach the Moon.” Saunders’ eyes gleamed with an intense light. “To reach the Moon.”
“And when we reach it?” Peterson asked. “Then what?”
“Unlimited space,” Saunders answered with feeling. “New worlds, worlds beyond the imagination of man. The Moon is only the first step, the experimental step. From there, Mars… or Venus… or a new solar system.”
Bragg said, “Rubbish. Even if this should work — I’m not at all convinced it will, but even if it should — what’s on the Moon for us? Bare crags and lonely craters. Cold, bleak atmosphere. Nothing.”
“Nothing that would bring in money, true,” Saunders said. “But look at Copernicus and Galileo. Look at Pasteur and Edison and Curie. Look at… oh, I could go on all night. What these men contributed to mankind can never be measured in terms of gold or silver. Can’t you see that?”
“Who wants to go to the Moon, anyway?” Thorpe asked, passing a hand over his bald head. “We’ve got troubles of our own right here on Earth. Plenty to settle right here, man. Plenty. In a little while perhaps. Sometime in the future. Twenty, twenty-five years. But now, unthinkable.”
“We’ve been saying that too long,” Saunders snapped. “Now is the time! Not twenty or twenty-five years from now, but right now! Science has given us the means; it’s up to us to take the opportunity and use it.”
“It couldn’t be done profitably,” Peterson said drily.
“Profitably,” Saunders said bitterly. “Are your wars profitable?” he suddenly shouted, bringing his bony fist crashing to the table top.
“Let’s not get violent,” Slade said. It was the first thing he’d said all night. Saunders somehow had the feeling that a corpse had spoken.
“Exactly,” he said, “Let’s not get violent; let’s spend some of the money that’s been buying munitions and lives. Instead of razing cities to the ground, let’s go up into the skies. Let’s spend that money for a project that’s worthwhile. For once, forget the profit and think of the meaning to mankind.”
He paused and his voice grew lower. “We’ve been ravaged by too many wars, gentleman. Can’t we stop this useless butchery and devote our time and energy to something constructive? Can’t we? I know my rocket will work. It’s scientifically sound. I know, too, that I can get a crew of scientists and technicians to take it to the Moon and back. All I need is the money and a little time. Just a little time.”
“There’s a war going on, Saunders,” Bragg reminded him. He had lit a cigar with a gold lighter and was sitting now, puffing leisurely, blowing smoke at the ceiling.
“I know,” Saunders said. “Two wars in the past thirty years and now another one. But consider this a moment. A trip to the Moon would probably end all hostilities on Earth. It would probably unify this planet as no other force has ever done. It will galvanize humanity into constructive action. It will open new vistas that cannot possibly admit plans for war.”
Peterson yawned openly. “Mmmm. I must say you’re an idealist, Saunders. I doubt very much if anything short of a trip to the Sun would unify the people of Earth.” He chuckled a little at this and looked to the others for approval.
“That’s right,” Bragg agreed. “There’ll always be wars, Saunders; the Earth is overpopulated, always will be.”
“More reason to find new worlds,” Saunders said tiredly.
“The only solution is war,” Bragg insisted. “Survival of the fittest. Forget your crazy ideas about new worlds. There’s plenty of room right here… for the people who win.”
“And suppose we lose this time?” Saunders asked.
“We’ll never lose,” Bragg said with certainty.
Slade smiled a thin, wry smile. “Exactly, Bragg,” he said. “As for me, whenever people are ready to fight, I’ll be ready to supply them with the goods they’ll need. In the meantime, the Moon can wait.”
“A year, maybe two,” Saunders pleaded, “and the Universe will be open to us. Think of it, think of it… ” Again his eyes lit with intense ardor.
“You think of it,” Bragg said, “I’m going home.”
The other men nodded and began bustling into their overcoats. Saunders stood by helplessly, feeling his last ounce of strength seep from his body.
“Nice of you to think of us,” Thorpe said cheerily. “Business is business, though.”
“Yes,” Saunders said quietly.
“If you can figure a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours,” Slade suggested.
“Not a bad idea,” Bragg admitted.
“Well, Saunders,” Peterson said, “we’ve got to be running. No hard feelings, of course; in fact, I wish you lots of luck.” He chuckled again and opened the door. “Good night.”
The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells. Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched chauffeurs open the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pin-points emphasizing his failure.
He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms, leaning on the blueprints of his ship.
All I needed was money, he thought, money and a little time. A year or two at the most. A year or two.
Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was work to be done, and tomorrow was another day.
He walked to the door leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day’s page from the calendar, exposing the new day to view.
The new day was September 21st, the year 3951.
He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room.
I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals — I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting — I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, — When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings — I know why the caged bird sings!
———
Spring
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
———
Opportunity
By Berton Braley
Berton Braley (1882-1966)
With doubt and dismay you are smitten You think there’s no chance for you, son? Why, the best books haven’t been written, The best race hasn’t been run, The best score hasn’t been made yet, The best song hasn’t been sung, The best tune hasn’t been played yet, Cheer up, for the world is young!
No chance? Why the world is just eager For things that you ought to create. Its store of true wealth is still meager, Its needs are incessant and great, It yearns for more power and beauty, More laughter and love and romance, More loyalty, labor and duty, No chance — why there’s nothing but chance!
For the best verse hasn’t been rhymed yet, The best house hasn’t been planned, The highest peak hasn’t been climbed yet, The mightiest rivers aren’t spanned, Don’t worry and fret, faint hearted, The chances have just begun, For the Best jobs haven’t been started, The Best work hasn’t been done. ———
Epitaph
By Katherine Philipps
Katherine Philipps (1631-1664)
(Written after the death of her infant son.)
What on Earth deserves our trust? Youth and Beauty both are dust. Long we gathering are with pain, What one moment calls again.
Seven years childless marriage past, A Son, a son is born at last: So exactly lim’d and fair, Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air, As a long life promised, Yet, in less than six weeks dead.
Too promising, too great a mind In so small room to be confined: Therefore, as fit in Heaven to dwell, He quickly broke the Prison shell.
So the subtle Alchemist, Can’t with Hermes Seal resist The powerful spirit’s subtler flight, But t’will bid him long good night.
And so the Sun if it arise Half so glorious as his Eyes, Like this Infant, takes a shrowd, Buried in a morning Cloud.
———
O Captain! My Captain!
By Walt Whitman
Walter Whitman, Jr. (1819-1892)
(A metaphor about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.)
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
One reason I like science fiction is that sci-fi plots can be built around virtually any scenario, real or imagined. Attacks by giant mutant insects? No problem. Visitors from another dimension? Why not? Such grand and glorious creative freedom.
In the story below, the author presents the concept that “ionized waste” accumulates in the atomic drives of spaceships, and, if not removed by special “De-Fouling Gear,” will blow the spaceship to smithereens. The story unfolds around that premise and culminates in… well, read the story.
———
Sequel
By Ben Smith Published in Rocket Stories, July 1953
Jubil drifted slowly, alone except for the phosphorescent star shine that filtered through the face-plate of his suit. He was resting, conserving the oxygen that hissed steadily and quietly through the valve near his neck. It was time for peace; there had been too much violence already.
Once, as his body continued its involuntary and aimless turning, Jubil saw the dark hull of the Mercury II, the outer access door firmly closed now and the stern beginning to fluoresce with the secondary radiation that betokened the firing of the drives. Still, Jubil could feel no anger at Radik.
When the crew had conspired to mutiny, when Radik, Olgan and the rest had decided to take over the operation of the Mercury II, at that time had been the need for honest anger. Jubil had hesitated weakly instead, had chosen to be a bystander and had suffered the fate of the average non-participant; he had been outcast from the closed circle of both friend and enemy. Kane, once Captain of the Mercury II, was now dead and his charred body drifting somewhere in the spatial wilderness.
“Have you changed your thinking, Jubil?” It was Radik’s voice in the helmet phones and Jubil could almost see the heavy face with its fringe of space-black beard. Jubil rested, listening to the cosmic interference in his R-link equipment.
“Jubil! Jubil Marken! Have you changed your mind?”
“Radik —” Jubil formed the words slowly, using his lips only and breathing shallowly. “Piracy suits you, Radik. You are one of the most ruthless…”
Jubil could hear Radik’s throaty chuckle. “A dead man of honor is still dead, Jubil.” The communication circuit went silent except for the buzz of voices in the background. Jubil drifted on, conscious of the fact that he was moving, but so full of the lethargy of the moment that he neglected it.
What would it be like, this bit of time that was left? It had been an hour since Jubil had been forcibly ejected from the access door of the Mercury II; the flask at his back carried oxygen for four. Three hours of life — while around his slowly turning body was the agelessness of endless space. Jubil smiled, just a little, conscious of the fact that he felt no fear. The die was cast now; he had made his decision finally, and he did not regret it.
“There is space-craft in Sector 180, Jubil,” it was Radik again, “Racon has just reported it. But they’ll miss you by at least ten parsecs. Have you changed your mind?”
“No.”
“Very well.” Jubil could see the pulsing of the Mercury’s drives, now. Radik was taking no chances on the strange ship still light years away from his stern being patrol. “Good news for you, Jubil. You are in the gravitational field of an asteroid. You can’t see it, yet; it’s directly above you. But you’ll drift to it and cling like a snail on a stone for as long as time itself. Good-bye, Jubil.”
Strange, Jubil thought, that there was no anger in him now. There should be oxygen enough for a good two hours yet, so this eerie ennui could not be the prelude to a rising carbon dioxide quotient. A normal man would be bitter, perhaps even hysterical in his anger and his fear of death. Yet there was only this peaceful drifting toward the still-invisible asteroid that hung in space above his own head.
Jubil closed his eyes, shutting out the phosphorescence of the velvet that was space. The exhaust of the Mercury II might still be in sight. If so, it was not visible through the restriction of the plastic face-plate of Jubil’s suit.
Jubil found himself wondering where Kane could have drifted since the captain’s inert body had been shoved out of the Mercury II’s access door. Perhaps, even now, it was bound, like a rudderless ship, toward the selfsame asteroid that would be Jubil’s last and permanent home.
Thinking of Kane, Jubil remembered also Schoenbirk, the erratic genius whose mathematical theorizing was used in the design of the Schoenbirk-Halsted De-Fouling Gear. Had it been years, or lifetimes ago, when the three of them had been undergraduates together at the Academy?
Schoenbirk, working with the high electrostatic potentials necessary to insure the exhaust of opposite-sign waste from the complex guts of the atomic drive had been blown to pieces by the accumulation of the very thing his device was designed to prevent. Random electrical forces gathering around the discharge ring until their workable mass became great enough to enter and initiate a chain reaction in the fuel storage tank.
Along with Schoenbirk had gone even the tremendously heavy concrete walls of the laboratory. All that, however, had been after Jubil had washed out of the Academy and gone into the space-freighters as a Drive-Engineer. In the intervening years, Jubil had become thoroughly familiar with the perfected Schoenbirk-Halsted…
Kane! There was a man who had made the Academy his own playground. Kane had passed with the greatest of ease, worked his way through astro-navigation, the Allen Drives, space-time computations…
Jubil grimaced wryly. It had been the latter with its advanced mathematics that had been his own downfall. So Kane had gone on to the first officer berth in a gilded passenger liner while Jubil developed radiation scars on his hands from “in the hole” engineering on decrepit freighters. And the great leveler had met and conquered them all…
Schoenbirk, even in the explosion that took his life had accomplished a great thing: the discovery of the final flaw in the De-Fouling Gear that had lived after him. For without proper removal of the ionized waste from its drive engines, the largest freighter became an ever-accumulating and treacherously unstable fissionable pile.
Kane — one of the legendary figures of the history of astro-navigation. Kane with his Academy background and his proud but personable air had become one of the most talked-of Space captains who had ever lived.
Jubil could still, in memory, see Kane, standing spread-kneed on the bridge of the Comet, one of the first; later the Wanderer, the first of the luxury space liners. The Mercury, and the Mercury II, the super-ships that made week-end excursion flights that spanned from galaxy to galaxy.
A misplaced decimal point and a misplaced trust and the greatness of Schoenbirk and Kane lay behind them. Even as his drifting body, cumbersome in the space-suit, touched the asteroid, Jubil was aware of a strange weariness that invaded every part of him except his mind. At least, the waning oxygen would leave him his thoughts.
He rested, conserving his strength. For what reason? The thing that was to happen was as certain as Fate and as unavoidable by the machinations of man. Was it, after all, because Jubil was prey to anger? No. He was now too near death for anger to seem important.
The face of the asteroid was cold and Jubil lay against it, held as lightly as a maiden’s kiss by the ounce or so of gravity.
He was smiling as the darkness of space was suddenly brilliantly lighted. Spears of bluish flame, each with its tip of crimson, spread across the warp of time, and subconsciously Jubil found himself waiting for the shock wave. Then he laughed. In space there was no atmosphere; he would never be buffeted by the blast that had destroyed the Mercury II and the mutineer Radik.
Jubil thought again of the hellish radiation to which he had exposed himself. There was no other way. To destroy the delicate regulating linkage of the Schoenbirk-Halsted, a man must enter the combustion chamber where the pilot-piles idled. There had been just time enough for that, before Radik had sent for him.
Had there been ample oxygen, Jubil Marken knew that he would only have lived until his radiation-seared heart painfully failed to function. But, thanks to Radik, Jubil had been spared both the disintegration of the Mercury II and an agonizing death from slow radiation burn.
He was, Jubil reflected, as effective in his own way as was Schoenbirk and Kane. In the end, he was still an Academy man with them. He was peacefully smiling as he twisted tight the oxygen valve at his throat…
Original illustration from Rocket Stories by Milton Berwin.
Mr. Write's Page 