The World Turned Upside Down Part 51

He spun the volume control k.n.o.b and asked: "Gerry Cross?"

"Yes," her brother answered, an undertone of tenseness to his reply. "The bad news-what is it?"

She answered for him, standing close behind him and leaning down a little toward the communicator, her hand resting small and cold on his shoulder.

"h.e.l.lo, Gerry." There was only a faint quaver to betray the careful casualness of her voice. "I wanted to see you-"

"Marilyn!" There was sudden and terrible apprehension in the way he spoke her name. "What are you doing on that EDS?"

"I wanted to see you," she said again. "I wanted to see you, so I hid on this s.h.i.+p-"

"Youhid on it?"

"I'm a stowaway. . . . I didn't know what it would mean-"

"Marilyn!"It was the cry of a man who calls hopeless and desperate to someone already and forever gone from him. "What have you done?"

"I. . . . it's not-" Then her own composure broke and the cold little hand gripped his shoulder convulsively. "Don't, Gerry-I only wanted to see you; I didn't intend to hurt you. Please, Gerry, don't feel like that-"

Something warm and wet splashed on his wrist and he slid out of the chair, to help her into it and swing the microphone down to her own level.

"Don't feel like that-Don't let me go knowing you feel like that-"

The sob she had tried to hold back choked in her throat and her brother spoke to her. "Don't cry, Marilyn." His voice was suddenly deep and infinitely gentle, with all the pain held out of it. "Don't cry, sis-you mustn't do that. It's all right, honey-everything is all right."

"I-" Her lower lip quivered and she bit into it. "I didn't want you to feel that way-I just wanted us to say good-by because I have to go in a minute."

"Sure-sure. That's the way it will be, sis. I didn't mean to sound the way I did." Then his voice changed to a tone of quick and urgent demand. "EDS-have you called theStardust ? Did you check with the computers?" "I called theStardust almost an hour ago. It can't turn back, there are no other cruisers within forty light-years, and there isn't enough fuel."

"Are you sure that the computers had the correct data-sure of everything?"

"Yes-do you think I could ever let it happen if I wasn't sure? I did everything I could do. If there was anything at all I could do now, I would do it."

"He tried to help me, Gerry." Her lower lip was no longer trembling and the short sleeves of her blouse were wet where she had dried her tears. "No one can help me and I'm not going to cry any more and everything will be all right with you and Daddy and Mama, won't it?"

"Sure-sure it will. We'll make out fine."

Her brother's words were beginning to come in more faintly and he turned the volume control to maximum. "He's going out of range," he said to her. "He'll be gone within another minute."

"You're fading out, Gerry," she said. "You're going out of range. I wanted to tell you-but I can't, now.

We must say good-by so soon-but maybe I'll see you again. Maybe I'll come to you in your dreams with my hair in braids and crying because the kitten in my arms is dead; maybe I'll be the touch of a breeze that whispers to you as it goes by; maybe I'll be one of those gold-winged larks you told me about, singing my silly head off to you; maybe, at times, I'll be nothing you can see but you will know I'm there beside you. Think of me like that, Gerry; always like that and not-the other way."

Dimmed to a whisper by the turning of Woden, the answer came back: "Always like that, Marilyn-always like that and never any other way."

"Our time is up, Gerry-I have to go, now. Good-" Her voice broke in mid-word and her mouth tried to twist into crying. She pressed her hand hard against it and when she spoke again the words came clear and true: "Good-by, Gerry."

Faint and ineffably poignant and tender, the last words came from the cold metal of the communicator: "Good-by, little sister-"

She sat motionless in the hush that followed, as though listening to the shadow-echoes of the words as they died away, then she turned away from the communicator, toward the air lock, and he pulled down the black lever beside him. The inner door of the air lock slid swiftly open, to reveal the bare little cell that was waiting for her, and she walked to it.

She walked with her head up and the brown curls brus.h.i.+ng her shoulders, with the white sandals stepping as sure and steady as the fractional gravity would permit and the gilded buckles twinkling with little lights of blue and red and crystal. He let her walk alone and made no move to help her, knowing she would not want it that way. She stepped into the air lock and turned to face him, only the pulse in her throat to betray the wild beating of her heart. "I'm ready," she said.

He pushed the lever up and the door slid its quick barrier between them, enclosing her in black and utter darkness for her last moments of life. It clicked as it locked in place and he jerked down the red lever.

There was a slight waver to the s.h.i.+p as the air gushed from the lock, a vibration to the wall as though something had b.u.mped the outer door in pa.s.sing, then there was nothing and the s.h.i.+p was dropping true and steady again. He shoved the red lever back to close the door on the empty air lock and turned away, to walk to the pilot's chair with the slow steps of a man old and weary.

Back in the pilot's chair he pressed the signal b.u.t.ton of the normal-s.p.a.ce transmitter. There was no response; he had expected none. Her brother would have to wait through the night until the turning of Woden permitted contact through Group One.

It was not yet time to resume deceleration and he waited while the s.h.i.+p dropped endlessly downward with him and the drives purred softly. He saw that the white hand of the supplies closet temperature gauge was on zero. A cold equation had been balanced and he was alone on the s.h.i.+p. Something shapeless and ugly was hurrying ahead of him, going to Woden where its brother was waiting through the night, but the empty s.h.i.+p still lived for a little while with the presence of the girl who had not known about the forces that killed with neither hatred nor malice. It seemed, almost, that she still sat small and bewildered and frightened on the metal box beside him, her words echoing hauntingly clear in the void she had left behind her: I didn't do anything to die for-I didn't do anything-

Afterword by Eric Flint There are smart writers, and there are dumb writers, and one of the things that distinguishes them is that smart writers pay attention to what their editors tell them. Mind you, I don't always agree with my editors, but I never ignore them either-because, more often than not, they're likely to be right and I'm likely to be wrong.

The reason is simple. One of the occupational hazards of being a writer is that you invariably get a little too close to a story to see it clearly in its broadest dimensions. An editor-a good one, anyway-can provide you with that perspective.

I mention this because it bears on our decision to include this story in the anthology. When Jim first proposed it, I wasn't at all keen on the idea. For all its well-deserved fame, I've neverliked "The Cold Equations." Dammit.

My dislike for it has nothing to do with the fact that it has an unhappy ending. It's enough to mention that I'm a lifelong fan of Fyodor Dostoyevsky to make clear that I'm not addicted to happy endings. What aggravates me about "The Cold Equations" is that the blasted plot makes no sense. The powerful impact of the story-and it is powerful, no question about it-is based entirely on a premise which I find completely implausible: to wit, that a s.p.a.cecraft delivering critical supplies would be designed withno safety margin at all. Oh, pfui. They don't make tricycles without a hefty safety margin. And I'm quite sure that if you traveled back in time and interviewed Ugh the Neanderthal, he'd explain to you that his wooden club is plenty thick enough to survive any impact he can foresee. He made d.a.m.n sure of that before he ventured out of his cave. He may have a sloping forehead, but he's not anidiot.

Grumble, grumble. But . . .

Well, Jim's right. The problem is that any profession has certain occupational hazards, and one of those for a writer is that since you work all the time with plots you tend to get hypersensitive about their logic.

It's the writer's equivalent of the well-known movie reviewer's syndrome: people who make a living reviewing moviesalways hate car chases. That's because they see too many of them.

But movies aren't made for critics, and stories aren't written to satisfy other writers. Jim's point was that, in the end, it just doesn'tmatter if the plot of "The Cold Equations" won't bear up to close scrutiny.

Does . . . not . . . matter.

And, it doesn't. I've now read the story many times, and the illogic of the plot always drives me nuts. Still, every time, that ending grabs me by the throat.

So, when all's said and done, I'm glad we included it. Whatever its flaws, "The Cold Equations" remains one of the most powerful SF stories ever written. But I would urge any reader with the interest to take a look at G.o.dwin's other great story-his short novelThe Survivors , which I first read at the age of twelve and which, many years later, I made the lead story in the G.o.dwin volume I edited for Baen Books. (The Cold Equations & Other Stories,now available in paperback. Yes, that's a shameless plug. I get to do that. If being a writer has its occupational hazards, it also has its perks.)

Shambleau

by C. L. Moore

Preface by David Drake Catherine L. Moore is rightly regarded as one of the most remarkable stylists in the SF field. She once described the basic thread of her fiction as, "Love is the most dangerous thing."

"Shambleau" is a perfect ill.u.s.tration of both the above statements. It's about hard-bitten adventurers ranging the s.p.a.ceways, meeting violence with violence . . . and it's nothing like any of the many other stories using the same elements being written then or written since then.

It was Moore's first story, written in a bank vault during the Depression because she had a typewriter and no work to do.

Herfirst story.

Shambleau! Ha . . . Shambleau!" The wild hysteria of the mob rocketed from wall to wall of Lakkdarol's narrow streets and the storming of heavy boots over the slag-red pavement made an ominous undernote to that swelling bay, "Shambleau! Shambleau!"

Northwest Smith heard it coming and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun's grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were common enough in the streets of Earth's latest colony on Mars-a raw, red little town where anything might happen, and very often did.

But Northwest Smith, whose name is known and respected in every dive and wild outpost on a dozen wild planets, was a cautious man, despite his reputation. He set his back against the wall and gripped his pistol, and heard the rising shout come nearer and nearer.

Then into his range of vision flashed a red running figure, dodging like a hunted hare from shelter to shelter in the narrow street. It was a girl-a berry-brown girl in a single tattered garment whose scarlet burnt the eyes with its brilliance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesitate and lean one hand against the wall for support, and glance wildly around for shelter. She must not have seen him in the depths of the doorway, for as the bay of the mob grew louder and the pounding of feet sounded almost at the corner she gave a despairing little moan and dodged into the recess at his very side.

When she saw him standing there, tall and leather-brown, hand on his heat-gun, she sobbed once, inarticulately, and collapsed at his feet, a huddle of burning scarlet and bare, brown limbs.

Smith had not seen her face, but she was a girl, and sweetly made and in danger; and though he had not the reputation of a chivalrous man, something in her hopeless huddle at his feet touched that chord of sympathy for the underdog that stirs in every Earthman, and he pushed her gently into the corner behind him and jerked out his gun, just as the first of the running mob rounded the corner.

It was a motley crowd, Earthmen and Martians and a sprinkling of Venusian swampmen and strange, nameless denizens of unnamed planets-a typical Lakkdarol mob. When the first of them turned the corner and saw the empty street before them there was a faltering in the rush and the foremost spread out and began to search the doorways on both sides of the street.

"Looking for something?" Smith's sardonic call sounded clear above the clamor of the mob.

They turned. The shouting died for a moment as they took in the scene before them-tall Earthman in the s.p.a.ce-explorer's leathern garb, all one color from the burning of savage suns save for the sinister pallor of his no-colored eyes in a scarred and resolute face, gun in his steady hand and the scarlet girl crouched behind him, panting.

The foremost of the crowd-a burly Earthman in tattered leather from which the Patrol insignia had been ripped away-stared for a moment with a strange expression of incredulity on his face overspreading the savage exultation of the chase. Then he let loose a deep-throated bellow, "Shambleau!" and lunged forward. Behind him the mob took up the cry again. "Shambleau! Shambleau! Shambleau!" and surged after.

Smith, lounging negligently against the wall, arms folded and gun-hand draped over his left forearm, looked incapable of swift motion, but at the leader's first forward step the pistol swept in a practicedhalf-circle and the dazzle of blue-white heat leaping from its muzzle seared an arc in the slag pavement at his feet. It was an old gesture, and not a man in the crowd but understood it. The foremost recoiled swiftly against the surge of those in the rear, and for a moment there was confusion as the two tides met and struggled. Smith's mouth curled into a grim curve as he watched. The man in the mutilated Patrol uniform lifted a threatening fist and stepped to the very edge of the deadline, while the crowd rocked to and fro behind him.

"Are you crossing that line?" queried Smith in an ominously gentle voice.

"We want that girl!"

"Come and get her!" Recklessly Smith grinned into his face. He saw danger there, but his defiance was not the foolhardy gesture it seemed. An expert psychologist of mobs from long experience, he sensed no murder here. Not a gun had appeared in any hand in the crowd. They desired the girl with an inexplicable bloodthirstiness he was at a loss to understand, but toward himself he sensed no such fury. A mauling he might expect, but his life was in no danger. Guns would have appeared before now if they were coming out at all. So he grinned in the man's angry face and leaned lazily against the wall.

Behind their self-appointed leader the crowd milled impatiently, and threatening voices began to rise again. Smith heard the girl moan at his feet.

"What do you want with her?" he demanded.

"She's Shambleau! Shambleau, you fool! Kick her out of there-we'll take care of her!"

"I'm taking care of her," drawled Smith.

"She's Shambleau, I tell you! d.a.m.n your hide, man, we never let those things live! Kick her out here!"

The repeated name had no meaning to him, but Smith's innate stubbornness rose defiantly as the crowd surged forward to the very edge of the arc, their clamor growing louder. "Shambleau! Kick her out here!

Give us Shambleau! Shambleau!"

Smith dropped his indolent pose like a cloak and planted both feet wide, swinging up his gun threatening.

"Keep back!" he yelled. "She's mine! Keep back!"

He had no intention of using that heat-beam. He knew by now that they would not kill him unless he started the gunplay himself, and he did not mean to give up his life for any girl alive. But a severe mauling he expected, and he braced himself instinctively as the mob heaved within itself.

To his astonishment a thing happened then that he had never known to happen before. At his shouted defiance the foremost of the mob-those who had heard him clearly-drew back a little, not in alarm but evidently surprised. The ex-Patrolman said, "Yours! She'syours? " in a voice from which puzzlement crowded out the anger.

Smith spread his booted legs wide before the crouching figure and flourished his gun.

"Yes," he said. "And I'm keeping her! Stand back there!"

The man stared at him wordlessly, and horror and disgust and incredulity mingled on his weather-beaten face. The incredulity triumphed for a moment and he said again, "Yours!"

Smith nodded defiance.

The man stepped back suddenly, unutterable contempt in his very pose. He waved an arm to the crowd and said loudly, "It's-his!" and the press melted away, gone silent, too, and the look of contempt spread from face to face.

The ex-Patrolman spat on the slag-paved street and turned his back indifferently. "Keep her, then," he advised briefly over one shoulder. "But don't let her out again in this town!"

Smith stared in perplexity almost open-mouthed as the suddenly scornful mob began to break up. His mind was in a whirl. That such bloodthirsty animosity should vanish in a breath he could not believe. And the curious mingling of contempt and disgust on the faces he saw baffled him even more. Lakkdarol was anything but a puritan town-it did not enter his head for a moment that his claiming the brown girl as his own had caused that strangely shocked revulsion to spread through the crowd. No, it was something deeper-rooted than that. Instinctive, instant disgust had been in the faces he saw-they would have looked less so if he had admitted cannibalism orPharol -wors.h.i.+p.

And they were leaving his vicinity as swiftly as if whatever unknowing sin he had committed were contagious. The street was emptying as rapidly as it had filled. He saw a sleek Venusian glance back over his shoulder as he turned the corner and sneer, "Shambleau!" and the word awoke a new line of speculation in Smith's mind. Shambleau! Vaguely of French origin, it must be. And strange enough to hear it from the lips of Venusian and Martian drylanders, but it was their use of it that puzzled him more.

"We never let those things live," the ex-Patrolman had said. It reminded him dimly of something . . . an ancient line from some writing in his own tongue . . . "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." He smiled to himself at the similarity, and simultaneously was aware of the girl at his elbow.

She had risen soundlessly. He turned to face her, sheathing his gun and stared at first with curiosity and then in the entirely frank openness with which men regard that which is not wholly human. For she was not. He knew it at a glance, though the brown, sweet body was shaped like a woman's and she wore the garment of scarlet-he saw it was leather-with an ease that few unhuman beings achieve toward clothing. He knew it from the moment he looked into her eyes, and a s.h.i.+ver of unrest went over him as he met them. They were frankly green as young gra.s.s, with slit-like, feline pupils that pulsed unceasingly, and there was a look of dark, animal wisdom in their depths-that look of the beast which sees more than man.

There was no hair upon her face-neither brows nor lashes, and he would have sworn that the tight scarlet turban bound around her head covered baldness. She had three fingers and a thumb, and her feet had four digits apiece too, and all sixteen of them were tipped with round claws that sheathed back into the flesh like a cat's. She ran her tongue over her lips-a thin, pink, flat tongue as feline as her eyes-and spoke with difficulty. He felt that that throat and tongue had never been shaped for human speech.

"Not-afraid now," she said softly, and her little teeth were white and polished as a kitten's.

"What did they want you for?" he asked her curiously. "What have you done? Shambleau . . . is that your name?" "I-not talk your-speech," she demurred hesitantly.

"Well, try to-I want to know. Why were they chasing you? Will you be safe on the street now, or hadn't you better get indoors somewhere? They looked dangerous."

"I-go with you." She brought it out with difficulty.

"Say you!" Smith grinned. "What are you, anyhow? You look like a kitten to me."

"Shambleau." She said it somberly.