Wavelets of cigarette smoke drifted across the comfortably lounging enlisted men in the air-conditioned compartment of the Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine, as they sat watching Barney. Sweat streaming from his swollen-veined forehead, hurried and grotesque in his black rubber diving suit, exploding triumphant curses like underwater demolition charges, Barney finished tightening the control cables of what resembled a torpedo with two open cockpits. " This time the little gal raises her hydroplanes!" At this contrast of men, the Murderer had to grin, but carefully in order not to sweat and ruin the insulating qualities of his three woolen layers of longjohns. The submariners seemed quiet-talking and cooperative, as well adjusted as sardines in a can. The diver, Barney, was foul-mouthed and fiercely individualistic, a wonderful guy—his diving buddy. A legend in his own time, Barney was reputed to have arisen from the mine-strewn waters of the Korean coast at the...
Nevertheless, I was so tired of the biting storm that I involuntarily stopped before the decayed and forbidding structure, and was, in truth, withdrawing my foot from the stirrup, when I heard an unexpected exclamation behind me, and turning, saw a chaise, from the open front of which leaned a gentleman of most attractive appearance. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "Hide my head from the storm," was my hurried rejoinder. "I am tired, and so is my horse, and the town, according to all appearances, must be at least two miles distant." "No matter if it is three miles! You must not take shelter in that charnel-house," he muttered; and moved along in his seat as if to show me there was room beside him. "Why," I exclaimed, struck with sudden curiosity, "is this one of the haunted houses we hear of? If so, I shall certainly...
It was at half-past ten in the forenoon of a Saturday in July that Mr. Cooper Silwood, precise in attire, composed in appearance, and punctual as usual to the minute, walked into his room on the first floor of 176 New Square, Lincoln's Inn, where were the offices of Eversleigh, Silwood and Eversleigh, the well-known and long-established firm of solicitors of which he was a partner. He was met, as was customary, on his entrance by the head-clerk, John Williamson, who had already opened and sorted out methodically the letters received over-night. An admirable specimen of his class, Williamson generally wore an air of great imperturbability, but this morning his face had a troubled expression. "Anything special, Mr. Williamson?" asked Silwood quietly, putting away his hat and gloves. "There are two or three important matters to attend to, sir," replied the man quickly. "The most important is a letter from...
The Secretary of Defense, flown in by special plane from the new Capitol Building in Denver, trotted down the ramp with his right hand outstretched before him. At the base of the ramp his hand was touched, clutched and hidden by the right hand of General "Smiley" Webb in a hearty parody of a casual handshake. General Webb did everything in a big way, and that included even little things like handshakes. Retrieving his hand once more, James Whitlow, the Secretary of Defense, smiled nervously with his tiny mouth, and said, "Well, here I am." This statement was taken down by a hovering circle of news reporters, dispatched by wireless and telephone to every town in the forty-nine states, expanded, contracted, quoted and misquoted, ignored and misconstrued, and then forgotten; all this in a matter of hours. The nation, hearing it, put aside its wonted trepidations, took an extra tranquilizer...
It started with a load of potatoes. Joe Loftus and I were driving the big semi-trailer back from Montauk that night after delivering a load of fishing gear to one of the big resorts out there and wondering if we'd be able to pick up a truckload of anything on the way back to increase the take when Joe spotted this sign. It was one of those standard hand-painted Return Load signs, so we pulled in and I climbed down from the cab while Joe remained behind the wheel, ready to roll if they had nothing for us. The sun was going down in a bank of heavy black clouds. I figured it might rain before the trip was over. I went over to the door of the farm house and knocked. Pretty soon I heard footsteps inside and a man chewing a mouthful of his supper opened the door...
Humdrum isn’t where you live; it’s what you are. Perhaps you are one of those whose lives are bound by neighbourly interests. Imaginatively, you never seek what lies under a gorgeous sunset; you are never stirred by any longing to investigate the ends of rainbows. You are more concerned by what your neighbour does every day than by what he might do if he were suddenly spun, whirled, jolted out of his poky orbit. The blank door of an empty house never intrigues you; you enter blind alleys without thrilling in the least; you hear a cry in the night and impute it to some marauding tom. Lord, what a life! And yet every move you make is governed by Chance—the Blind Madonna of the Pagan, as that great adventurer, Stevenson, called it. You never stop to consider that it is only by chance that you leave home and arrive...
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Dear Ben: It breaks my heart you didn't sign on for this trip. Your replacement, who calls himself an ichthyologist, has only one talent that pertains to fish—he drinks like one. There are nine of us in the expedition, and every one of us is fed up with this joker, Cleveland, already. We've only been on the island a week, and he's gone native, complete with beard, bare feet and bone laziness. He slops around the lagoon like a beachcomber and hasn't brought in a decent specimen yet. The island is a bit of paradise, though. Wouldn't be hard to let yourself relax under the palms all day instead of collecting blisters and coral gashes out in the bright sun...
He didn’t expect to be last—but neither did he anticipate the horror of being the first! NEARLY TWO hundred years of habit carried the chairman of Exodus Corporation through the morning ritual of crossing the executive floor. Giles made the expected comments, smiled the proper smiles and greeted his staff by the right names, but it was purely automatic. Somehow, thinking had grown difficult in the mornings recently. Inside his private office, he dropped all pretense and slumped into the padding of his chair, gasping for breath and feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He’d been a fool to come to work, he realized. But with the Procyon shuttle arriving yesterday, there was no telling what might turn up. Besides, that fool of a medicist had sworn the shot would cure any allergy or asthma. Giles heard his secretary come in, but it wasn’t until the smell of the...
THE PREFACE OF TIMOTHY McSHANUS, JOURNALIST. It would have been at the Fancy Fair and Fête at Kensington Town Hall that my friend, Dr. Fabos, first met Miss Fordibras. Very well do I recollect that he paid the price of it for the honourable company of the Goldsmith Club. “McShanus,” said he, “if there’s anyone knows his way to a good supper, ’tis yourself and no other. Lead forth to the masquerade, and I follow. Spare no expense, McShanus. Your friends are my friends. I would have this a memorable night—the last I may be in London for many a year.” There were seven of us who took him at his word and got into the cab together. You must know that he had paid for a little dinner at the Goldsmith Club already, and never a man who did not justice to his handsome hospitality. The night was clear,...
rom inside the dome, the night sky is a beautiful thing, even though Deimos and Phobos are nothing to brag about. If you walk outside, maybe as far as the rocket field, you notice a difference. Past the narrow developed strip around the dome, the desert land lies as chilled and brittle as it did for eons before Earthmen reached Mars. The sky is suddenly raw and cruel. You pull your furs around your nose and check your oxygen mask, and wish you were inside something, even a thin wall of clear plastic. I like to stand here, though, and look out at it, just thinking about how far those ships grope out into the dark nowadays, and about the men who have gone out there on a few jets and a lot of guts. I knew a bunch of them ... some still out there, I guess. There was...
The phonovision bell rang. Reed Kendall reached for the switch, not taking his eyes off the blueprint that lay on his desk. He spoke absently. "Yes?" The reply came sharp and cold. "I'd suggest you stop what you're doing and pay attention to me." Kendall raised his head and looked at the screen. The image that faced him was that of a man; a tall man in ordinary street clothes, but wearing an odd silver mask over his face. Kendall made no effort to hide his annoyance. This was no time for jokes. Some lab comedian with time on his hands. "Now listen here! I'm busy and I'm in no mood to—" "Shut up!" The tone was sharp, brutal, contemptuous. It stiffened Kendall, then eased him slowly back into his chair. "What do you want?" "That's better." "Take that absurd mask off." "I'll leave it on." "Then get this over...
Illustrated by Kelly Freas "If you called me here to tell me to have a child," Mary Pornsen said, "you can just forget about it. We girls have made up our minds." Hugh Farrel, Chief Medical Officer of the Exodus VII, sighed and leaned back in his chair. He looked at Mary's husband. "And you, Ralph," he said. "How do you feel?" Ralph Pornsen looked at Mary uncomfortably, started to speak and then hesitated. Hugh Farrel sighed again and closed his eyes. It was that way with all the boys. The wives had the whip hand. If the husbands put up an argument, they'd simply get turned down flat: no sex at all, children or otherwise. The threat, Farrel thought wryly, made the boys softer than watered putty. His own wife, Alice, was one of the ringleaders of the "no babies" movement, and since he had openly declared warfare on...
Ellaby's society was a perfect democracy, where all men were equal. But some still wanted more personal attention, and they got it, like— ust looking at Ellaby, you could tell he was going places. He was five feet nine inches tall and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. He had an I. Q. of ninety-eight point five-seven, less than four hundredths off the mode. His hair was mousey and worn slightly long for a man, slightly short for a woman. Back in High Falls, where he was born, he was physically weaker than sixty percent of the men but stronger than sixty percent of the women. He had been in training since his twentieth birthday to assassinate the Dictator. Ellaby was now thirty years old. Dorcas Sinclair met Ellaby at the pneumo-station. She was too big and strapping for a woman, but otherwise not unattractive with her lusterless hair,...
The fierce sunlight of a sultry afternoon in the early part of July forced its way through every crevice and cranny of the closely drawn shutters in the luxurious private offices of Mainwaring & Co., Stock Brokers, and slender shafts of light, darting here and there, lent a rich glow of color to the otherwise subdued tones of the elegant apartments. A glance at the four occupants of one of these rooms, who had disposed themselves in various attitudes according to their individual inclinations, revealed the fact that three out of the four were Englishmen, while the fourth might have been denominated as a typical American from the professional class. Of rather slender form, with a face of rare sensitiveness and delicacy, and restless, penetrating eyes, his every movement indicated energy and alertness. On the present occasion he had little to say, but was engaged in listening attentively to the...
THE FAMILY THAT GOES ABROAD BECAUSE IT'S THE THING TO DO. That men and women should leave their homes at the end of summer and go somewhere,—though it be only to Margate,—has become a thing so fixed that incomes the most limited are made to stretch themselves to fit the rule, and habits the most domestic allow themselves to be interrupted and set at naught. That we gain much in health there can be no doubt. Our ancestors, with their wives and children, could do without their autumn tour; but our ancestors did not work so hard as we work. And we gain much also in general knowledge, though such knowledge is for the most part superficial, and our mode of acquiring it too often absurd. But the English world is the better for the practice. "Home-staying youths have ever homely wits," and we may fairly suppose that our youths...
It wasn't that Pete Cooper didn't love his wives, or that he wanted to see them hurry on into the next world. He always felt real grief when he found himself a widower. But a man must be practical. They were all healthy young women, or at least middle aged when he married them, good insurance risks, and no insurance agent was turning down the business when Pete asked for a policy that big, especially when Pete was putting the cash on the line to pay up the policy when he bought it. That was the most sensible way for a man in the interstellar service to invest his money, Pete said. When he was out in space traveling at near light speed, and time slowed almost to a stop for him, the few months he spent on an expedition meant that nine years passed for a wife on Earth...
The bed woke them. "Time to get up, dears," it cooed. "Time to get up and greet the sun ... time to get up...." Then the supporting magnetism faded and let their mattress drift gently to the soft warm floor. Janet turned and opened her eyes, pouting at Les. He scowled back, grumbled something, and rolled away. She shook his film-coated shoulder. "Come on, Les. Come on, you'll feel better after coffee." "Don't want any," he snarled. But the damage had been done. At the word "coffee" a grotesque marionette opened the bedroom door and minced in with two steaming cups on a tray, swinging them artfully so that they appeared likely to spill, but didn't. For some years, now, that dance had left Janet unamused. She was about to say so when Les growled, "These darned dolls are a nuisance. I wish you'd order a plain, automatic dispenser!" "...
It happened just before he reached the zero point, the no-man's land in space where the attenuated gravity fields of two planets meet and cancel out. Maynard was dividing his attention equally between the transparent bubble that housed the Meinz pendulum and the two ports, forward and aft, that broke the steel panelling of the control cubicle. He listened critically to the measured clicking of the Geiger counters and the quiet sibilance of the air purifiers, and in spite of his weightlessness and his total loss of equilibrium he was quite calm. But deep inside him, under his trained calmness, Maynard felt a steadily growing triumph, a swelling exultation that was a thing quite apart from scientific pride. The feeling that he was a pioneer, an advance guard for a conquering people, elated him and multiplied the eagerness in him when he turned his eyes to the forward port where...
“Just in time, wasn’t it?” asked Mary Arkroyd. “Two days before the—the ceremony! Mercifully it had all been kept very quiet, because it was only three months since poor Gilly was killed. I forget whether you ever met Gilly? My half-brother, you know?” “Only once—in Collingham Gardens. He had an exeat , and dashed in one Saturday morning when we were just finishing our work. Don’t you remember?” “Yes, I think I do. But since my engagement I’d gone into colors. Oh, of course I’ve gone back into mourning now! And everything was ready—settlements and so on, you know. And rooms taken at Bournemouth. And then it all came out!” “How?” “Well, Eustace—Captain Cranster, I mean. Oh, I think he really must have had shell-shock, as he said, even though the doctor seemed to doubt it! He gave the Colonel as a reference in some shop, and—and the bank wouldn’t...
By accident Bobby discovered the rocket was about to be shot to the Moon. Naturally he wanted to go along. But could he smuggle himself aboard? Dad had already gone when Bobby got up. This disappointed Bobby a little but then he remembered— this was the big day . Naturally Dad would get over to the project early. And at four o'clock— Bobby shivered deliciously at the thought of it. He ate his breakfast in silence with Mom across the table drinking a cup of coffee and looking at a fashion catalogue. He was glad she was occupied because he didn't want to talk; not today he didn't. Might spill something secret. Might even let out the big secret . That would be terrible. Of course, all things were secret at Buffalo Flats. So secret top scientists like Dad didn't even discuss them with wives like Mom. And wives like...
HUNT THE MAN DOWN! The carrier came first—a flimsy two-passenger craft, unsuited for even the shortest of interplanetary jumps. Swooping down too fast out of the eternal dust-clouds that shrouded the Venusian sky, it crested a hillock by such a narrow margin as to spray sand high into the never-ending wind, then veered right in a crazy arc. Another hillock. The carrier struck it a glancing blow that churned up new clouds of sand and dust as it skated diagonally down the slope beyond. Ahead, jutting from the endless waste of powdery grit that stretched as far as eye could see, loomed low outcroppings of fantastically-eroded rock. The carrier plowed into them with a rending crash. Claw-like crags gouged at the craft's thin metal skin. A hiss of escaping air played sudden gusty counterpoint to the whistle of the wind. Line-welds popped. Seams split. Bucking and shuddering, the carrier jolted...
Ferris was in the tiny cupola, admiring the immense sphere of Earth above him, when the bell sounded. Galsworth again, no doubt. It had been Galsworth every time for twenty-four hours. What did he want now? Ferris went below, preparing himself for the same ugly face, the usual grating voice. He sat before the screens and snapped a switch. The screen colored, took form. He was right. Galsworth said: "Fuel Station 12?" As if he didn't know. When Ferris nodded, the company head announced: "Replacement will be in effect within ten hours. You'll prepare for the trip." "Replacement!" Ferris gasped. "For what reason—" "You'll have the details when you reach Earth, Ferris. Be ready when Brooks arrives. He'll be there shortly." "Brooks! Who's he? The kid?" "You're asking too many questions, Ferris. Brooks is young, yes, but he'll fill the position. We'll explain later. That's all." It took a few...
Why me? Why, out of 300 billion people on earth, why did they have to pick on me ? And if it had to happen, why couldn't it have happened before I met Betty and fell in love with her? You see, Betty and I were to be married tomorrow. We were to have been married. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, indeed! What a ghastly thought that is! How can I explain to Betty—to anyone! I can't face her, and what could I say on the telephone? "Sorry, Betty, I can't marry you. I'm no longer—quite human." Quit joking, Kelley! This is for real. You're sober and awake and it did happen. Marrying Betty is out of the question even if she'd have you the way you are. You're not that two-faced! Quit standing in front of the mirror, naked and shaking, looking for scars, counting your fingers and toes. You've taken a...
"Vacation trip to Nirva?!?" snapped Secad Screed—Galactic Sector Administrator J. Gomer Screed, a serious-minded man who rarely lost his temper. That was a pity; it was a lousy temper. "A mindless excursion, and completely outside my Sector at that! Woman, are both you and Garten out of your minds? Who do you think is going to run my administration with both Garten and I on a childish vacation to this absurd 'Dream Planet' of yours?" "Well—there is Deputy Assistant Prinot and—" "Ha! And then what do you suppose would be left of my record here and my prospects of promotion—after Depast Prinot and the others put in five solid weeks wrecking all my work?" Secast Garten, short, a little chubby, the opposite of his chief (who looked like a deep-thinking, bald stork scheduled for delivery of Siamese quintuplets in a typhoon,) grinned. He was seated out of the direct line...
When Joseph got to the office his ears were aching from the noise of the copter and from his earplugs. Lately, every little thing seemed to make him irritable. He supposed it was because his drafting department was behind schedule on the latest Defense contract. His ears were sore and his stomach writhed with dyspepsia, and his feet hurt. Walking through the clerical office usually made him feel better. The constant clatter of typewriters and office machines gave him a sense of efficiency, of stability, an all-is-well-with-the-world feeling. He waved to a few of the more familiar employees and smiled, but of course you couldn't say hello with the continual racket. This morning, somehow, it didn't make him feel better. He supposed it was because of the song they were playing over the speakers, "Slam Bang Boom," the latest Top Hit. He hated that song. Of course the National Mental...
Joe Mulloy lounged in the plushest chair in his luxurious office. All around him, on the walls, on the ceiling, even in strategic spots all over the floor, there were mirrors. Joe sneered at the place where the mirrors were most profuse; twenty or thirty perfectly identical Joes sneered back at him. He admired his sneer from every angle, shaping and changing the contemptuous look on his face with his hands, stroking it, much as other young men in a far earlier age had stroked and twisted their fine mustachios. As usual, Joe Mulloy was engrossed in his two favorite hobbies: narcissism and indolence. Joe's friends, of which there were very few, could have given you a fairly accurate resume of his character in five words, his sneer and his indolence. In the first respect they would have been right. Joseph Mulloy had been born with a sneer on his...
The rockets started almost simultaneously. From two widely separated points on the great curving surface of Earth they reached upward and outward—toward the Moon. It wasn't really so strange a coincidence. Space navigation is governed by mathematics and logic, not politics. The fact that man-carrying spaceships happened to be developed concurrently on two sides of an iron curtain meant little to the Universe. It happened, that's all. And there is a proper time to launch such missiles. When that time came, they were launched. In a manner of speaking it was a race. A race wherein the prizes were such things as: "gravity gauge" and "surveillance point" and "impregnable launching sites." The contestants were earnest, capable men; each certain that the Moon must not fall into the hands of the opponent. It made a stirring and patriotic picture, vivid with nationalistic fervor. It was thrilling with its taste of high...
By Robert Moore Williams Illustrated by Joe W. Tillotson The orders were to build up Venus, make it sound like the gateway to Paradise for the average Earthman—fog-flies, flying snakes and "tame" Venusians included. "Just go right ahead and start chewing on me!" Molock briskly invited the Venusian, Shad Brisbee. "When you get a square meal, I'll get a lunch!" Rita Morgan didn't turn a hair at the challenge but I thought Captain Wilkerson, who was officially in charge of us, was going to faint. "No, no, NO!" Wilkerson screamed. "Molock, you're getting us all into trouble. You're—" "Sheddap!" Molock said to Wilkerson. He turned again to the Venusian, Shad Brisbee. "You heard what I said. If you want to try to start carving on me with one of those frog stickers you've got stuck in your belt, hop right to it. But remember, by Harry, while you're doing your...
Once only, in the occasional travelling of thirty years, did I lose any important article of luggage; and that loss occurred, not under the haphazard, devil-take-the-hindmost confusion of English, or the elaborate misrule of Continental journeys, but through the absolute perfection and democratic despotism of the American system. I had to give up a visit to the scenery of Cooper's best Indian novels—no slight sacrifice—and hasten at once to New York to repair the loss. This incident brought me, on an evening near the middle of September 1874, on board a river steamboat starting from Albany, the capital of the State, for the Empire City. The banks of the lower Hudson are as well worth seeing as those of the Rhine itself, but even America has not yet devised means of lighting them up at night, and consequently I had no amusement but such as I could find in the...