Beyond The End Of Time (v1.0) Read online

  A Glimpse of Tomorrow—Today ...

  THE EMBASSY by Martin Pearton

  Grafius had a crazy idea: He thought there

  were Martians in New York.

  The truth was crazier yet.

  THE HUNTED by John D. MacDonald

  There's plenty of adventure in a big-game hunt

  . . . particularly when the quarry is you

  LOVE IN THE DARK by H. L Gold

  He said he had blue hair and blond eyes. But

  it was hard to prove, because he happened to be invisible

  Here are nineteen fantastic, imaginative stories —written by the top ranking authors in the field of science fiction.

  BEYOND THE

  END OF TIME

  Edited and with an Introduction by

  FREDERIK POHL

  PERMABOOKS

  Garden City, New York

  Copyright, 1952. by

  Doubleday & Company, inc.

  printed in the united states

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION - FREDERIK POHL

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE EMBASSY - By Donald A. Wollheim

  THE HUNTED - By John D. MacDonald

  HEREDITY - By Isaac Asimov

  ROCK DIVER - By Harry Harrison

  THE LITTLE BLACK BAG - By C. M. Kornbluth

  THE LONELY PLANET -By Murray Leinster

  OPERATION PEEP - By John Wyndham

  LET THE ANTS TRY - By James MacCreigh

  THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS - By Ray Bradbury

  SCANNERS LIVE IN VAIN - By Cordwainer Smith

  SUCH INTERESTING NEIGHBORS - By Jack Finney

  BRIDGE CROSSING - By Dave Dryfoos

  LETTER FROM THE STARS - By A. E. Van Vogt

  LOVE IN THE DARK - By H. L. Gold

  OBVIOUSLY SUICIDE - By S. Fowler Wright

  RESCUE PARTY - By Arthur C. Clarke

  STEPSON OF SPACE - By Raymond Z. Gallun

  DEATH IS THE PENALTY - By Judith Merril

  BEYOND DOUBT - By Robert A. Heinlein and Elma Wentz

  INTRODUCTION

  FREDERIK POHL

  The nineteen stories in this volume are what is called science fiction." You'll probably like the stories, for they are good stories, chosen from among the very best of the seven or eight thousand published in the past few decades, in this genre. But you may encounter a little trouble after you finish them, for someone may ask you, "But what is science fiction?"

  Reader, you’re not the only one who has trouble with that question.

  Because there are nineteen stories in this book, there are nineteen answers to it right here. But there doesn't seem to be any general answer. In other types of fiction, it's easy. A detective story is a story about detectives; a Western story is a story about the West. But, whatever else it may or may not be. a science-fiction story is not a story about science. It is a story about people and events as they could someday, somehow, happen. It is a strong rule of good science-fiction writing that the stories should be at least theoretically possible, with no obvious mistakes of ignorance or carelessness. But that applies to all writing, of course. What would you think of a Western where the cowpokes carried tommy-guns?

  Good science fiction is at least theoretically possible. And the proof of that statement lies in the fact that, every once in a while, a science-fiction story comes true.

  For instance, let's make a mental excursion in a time machine. (You'll find several, in good working order, as you turn these pages.) Take yourself back a quarter of a century, to the year of 1926, when the first magazine in America to devote itself exclusively to science fiction was published.

  1926 is very remote from today, as you may remember. In 1926, you never heard of penicillin or sulfa drugs, of automatic gear-shifts or the United Nations. For entertainment at home you wound a spring-operated phonograph or listened to the Happiness Boys on your battery radio (not even Amos 'n' Andy had appeared yet). Your motion pictures were silent, and when you rode in a car it was likely to be a four-cylinder Model A.

  It sounds as remote as the Pharaohs. But, even then, a quarter of a century ago, 1952 was within your grasp. For if you had taken a quarter to your nearest newsstand you could have picked up a magazine that would have dis-

  Television, atomic power, the snipeiscope, the snooperscope, rocket planes, jet planes, the bazooka, FM radio, helicopters, home wire-recordings, automatic pilots, radar. guided missiles, bacteriological war—yes, and even things which today still have not come to pass, though they loom on tomorrow's horizon: Interplanetary travel, stereoscopic TV, robots and pushbutton war.

  Sometimes the names were different, it is true. But the ideas were there, often in astonishing' detail. (When someone got around to inventing the submarine periscope, he found it impossible to get a patent—Jules Verne had predicted it to the last tube and prism.)

  It is almost always true, then, that science-fiction is a window on tomorrow. It's a little cloudy, sometimes—but the view is there. And you can find a good deal of enjoyment in watching it.

  For further details, consult the nineteen stories which follow.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE EMBASSY by Martin Pearson, copyright 1942 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for Astounding Science Fiction and reprinted by permission of Street & Smith Publications, Inc., and the author.

  THE HUNTED by John D. MacDonald, copyright 1949 by Fictioneers, Inc., and reprinted by permission of the

  HEREDITY by Isaac Asimov, copyright 194I by Fictioneers, Inc., and reprinted by permission of the author.

  THE LITTLE BLACK BAG by C. M. Kombluth, copyright 1950 by Street ft; Smith Publications, Inc., for Astounding Science Fiction, and reprinted by permission of Street & Smith Publications, Inc., and the author.

  THE LONELY PLANET by Murray Leinster, copyright 1949 by Standard Magazines, Inc., and reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Oscar J. Friend.

  OPERATION PEEP by John Wyndham, copyright 195I by Farrell Publishing Corporation for Suspense, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  LET THE ANTS TRY by James MacCreigh, copyright 1949 by Love Romances Publishing Co., and reprinted by permission of the author.

  THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS by Ray Bradbury, copyright 1950 by Ray Bradbury and reprinted by permission of Don Congdon.

  SCANNERS LIVE IN VAIN by Cordwainer Smith, copyright 1948 by Fantasy Publishing Company, Inc., reprinted by permission of the copyright owners.

  SUCH INTERESTING NEIGHBORS by Jack Finney, copyright 195I by Crowell-Collier Publishing Corporation, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  BRIDGE CROSSING by Dave Dryfoos, copyright 195I by World Editions, Inc., for Galaxy Science Fiction, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  LETTER FROM THE STARS by A. E. Van Vogt, copyright 1950 by Avon Publishing Corporation, and reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Forrest J Ackerman.

  LOVE IN THE DARK by H. L. Gold, copyright 195I by Farrell Publishing Corporation for Suspense, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  OBVIOUSLY SUICIDE by S. Fowler Wright, copyright 195I by Farrell Publishing Corporation for Suspense, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  BEYOND DOUBT by Robert A. Heinlein and Elma Wentz, copyright 194I by Fictioneers, Inc., and reprinted by permission of the authors.

  DEATH IS THE PENALTY by Judith Merril, copyright 1948 by Street Sc Smith Publications, Inc., for Astounding Science Fiction, and reprinted by permission of Street Sc Smith Publications, Inc., and the author.

  ROCK DIVER by Harry Harrison, copyright 1950 by Harry Harrison, and reprinted by permission of the

  STEPSON OF SPACE by Raymond Z. Gallun. copyright 1940 by F
ictioneers, Inc, and reprinted by permission of the author.

  RESCUE PARTY by Arthur C. Clarke, copyright 1946 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., and reprinted by permission of Street Sc Smith Publications, Inc, the author, and the author's agent, Scott Meredith.

  Grafius had a crazy idea: He thought there were Martians in New York. The truth was crazier yet

  THE EMBASSY

  By Donald A. Wollheim

  “I came to New York,” said Grafius, “because I am sure that there are Martians here.” He leaned back to blow a smoke ring, followed it to its dissolution in the air-conditioning outlet with his cool, gray eyes.

  “Iron Man!” bawled Broderick, quick as the snap of a relay. He backed around behind his chair as the office door opened and the formidable Mr. Doolan appeared, fists cocked on the ready.

  “It’s a whack,” declared Broderick, pointing at Grafius. “It says there are Martians in New York.”

  Doolan, probably the most muscular, certainly the dumbest cop ever kicked out of the police department, eyed Grafius dimly as he clamped the caller’s shoulder in a colossal vise of a hand. “Make with the feet,” he said, groping for his words. “Hit the main, but heavy.”

  “He means ‘get out,”’ explained Broderick. “I echo his sentiments completely.”

  Grafius, rising leisurely, fished in his breast pocket and chucked a sharkskin wallet onto the desk. “Look it over,” he said. “Well worth your time.” He stood impassively as Broderick drew from the wallet several large bills.

  “Holy-holy,” whispered the inspector general as he fingered the money. “I didn’t think you cared.” Briskly he seated himself again and waved away Doolan.

  “Naturally,” he explained, toying with Grafius’s card, “I’m loath to part with all this lettuce. Your remark about our little speckled friends, the Martians, I shall ignore. This is a small, young agency, new to the art of private investigation. Martians are outside our ken at this moment of the year 1942, but if there’s anything in a more conventional line we can do for you—”

  “Nothing at all, thank you,” said Grafius of Springfield. He recovered his wallet and card from the desk. “However, if you’d care to listen with an open mind—”

  “Open wider than the gates of hell,” said the private detective, his eyes on the vanishing currency. “Tell your tale.”

  Grafius crushed out his cigar. “Suppose you were a Martian,” he said.

  Broderick snickered. “One of the small ones with three tails, or the nasty size with teeth to match?” he asked amiably.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man from Springfield. “My data doesn’t go as far as that, but in a moment I’ll give you a reasonable description of the Martians that are in New York.

  “When I say Martian, of course, the meaning is ’extraterrestrial of greater civilization than ours.’ They may not be Martians. They may even be from another galaxy. But assume you are what I call a Martian, and that you want to keep in touch with Earthly civilization and advancement. Just where would you go?”

  “Coney Island?” helplessly suggested the detective.

  “Naturally not,” said Grafius severely. “Nor to Sea Breeze, Kansas. Nor to Nome, Alaska. Nor to Equatorial Africa. You wouldn’t go to some small town. You wouldn’t go to some out-of-the-way part of the world where living is anywhere from twenty to several hundred years behind human progress. This will eliminate Asia and Africa. It will eliminate almost all of Europe and South America.”

  “I get it,” said Broderick. “The Martians would head for the U.S.A.”

  “Exactly. The United States today is the most technically and culturally advanced nation on Earth. And, further, if you came to the United States, you’d come to New York. You would come because it’s the largest human concentration on the globe. It’s the economic capital of the continent—the very hemisphere! You agree?”

  “Sure,” said Broderick. “And you wouldn’t be in London because of the war. You can’t observe human culture while the shells are popping.”

  “Exactly. But I still haven’t proved anything. To continue: it’s quite clear to me that we Earth people aren’t the only intelligent, civilized race in the Universe. Out of the infinitude of stars and planets there most definitely, mathematically must be others. Mars—to continue with my example—is older than Earth geologically; if there were Martians, and if their evolutionary history corresponded with ours, they would certainly be further advanced than we.

  “And I will make one more hypothesis: it is that we Earth people are today on the verge of space conquest, and that any race further advanced than we must have already mastered space flight.”

  “Go on,” said Broderick, who was beginning to look scared. He was a naturally apprehensive type, and the thought that Martians might be just around the corner didn’t help him.

  “Certainly. But you needn’t look so worried, for the Martians won’t show up in your office. They must work strictly under cover, since from their point of view—advanced, you will remember—it would be foolish to make themselves known to us as long as we humans are a military, predatory race. It would be a risk which no advanced mentality would take.”

  “How long has this been going on?” asked Broderick agitatedly.

  “Judging from the geology of Mars, some hundreds of years,” replied Grafius dreamily. “They’ve been watching, waiting—”

  “You said you could describe them,” snapped the detective. “What do they look like?”

  “I can’t describe their appearance,” said Grafius, down to Earth again. “But this is what they most probably are: a group of ordinary-appearing people who live together in downtown New York, close to newspapers, publishers, news cables, communication centers, and the financial powers of Wall Street. They would have no obvious means of support, for all their time must be taken up with the observation that is their career. They almost certainly live in a private house, without prying janitors who would get curious about their peculiar radio equipment.

  “And our best bet—they are sure to receive every major paper and magazine, in all the languages of the world.”

  “I get it,” said Broderick. “Very sweet and simple. But what’s your reason for wanting to meet up with the Martians social, if I may ask?”

  “Call it curiosity,” smiled Grafius. “Or an inflated ego. Or merely the desire to check my logic.”

  “Sure,” said Broderick. “I can offer you the following services of my bureau: bodyguard—that’s Iron Man, outside. Think you’ll need him?”

  “Certainly not,” said Grafius of Springfield. “You have no right to suppose that the Martians would stoop to violence. Remember their advanced mentality.”

  “I won’t insist,” said the detective. “Second, I can check on all subscription departments of the big papers and magazines. Third, the radio-parts lead. Fourth, renting agents. Fifth, sixth, and seventh, correlation of these. Eighth, incidentals. It should come to about—” He named a figure. The remainder of the interview was purely financial in character.

  Iron Man Doolan wasn’t very bright. He knew how to walk, but occasionally he forgot and would try to take both feet off the ground at once. This led to minor contusions of the face and extremities, bruises and gashes that the ex-cop never noticed. He was underorganized.

  It taxed him seriously, this walking about in a strange neighborhood. There were hydrants and traffic signals in his way, and each one was a problem in navigation to be solved. Thus it took him half an hour to walk the city block he had been shown to by Broderick, who was waiting nervously, tapping his feet, in a cigar store.

  “He’s dull—very dull,” confided the detective to Grafius, who sipped a coke at the soda fountain. “But the only man for a job like this. Do you think they’ll make trouble for him?”

  Grafius gurgled through the straw apologetically. “Perhaps,” he said. “If it is No. 108—” He brooded into his glass, not finishing the sentence.

  “It certainly is,” sa
id Broderick decidedly. “What could it be but the Martian embassy that takes everything from Pic to the Manchester Guardian?”

  “Polish revolutionaries,” suggested the man from Springfield. “Possibly an invalid. We haven’t watched the place for more than a couple of weeks. We really haven’t any data worth the name.”

  The detective hiccuped with nervousness, hastily swallowed a pepsin tablet. Then he stared at his client fixedly. “You amaze me,” he stated at last. “You come at me with a flit-git chain of possibilities that you’re staking real cash on. And once we hit a solid trail you refuse to believe your own eyes. Man, what do you want—a sworn statement from your Martians that they live in No. 108?”

  “Let’s take a look,” said Grafius. “I hope your Mr. Doolan gets a bite.”

  “Iron Man, I repeat, is not very bright. But he’s pushed buttons before, and if somebody answers the door he’s going to push the button on his minicam. I drilled that into his—”

  He broke off at the sound of a scream, a shriek, a lance of thin noise that sliced down the street. Then there was a crash of steel on concrete. The two dashed from the shop and along the sidewalk.

  They stopped short at the sight of Iron Man Doolan’s three hundred pounds of muscle grotesquely spattered and slimed underneath a ponderous safe. A colored girl, young and skinny, was wailing in a thin monotone, to herself: “First he squashed and then it fell. First he squashed and then—”

  Broderick grabbed her by the shoulders. “What happened?” he yelled hoarsely. “What did you see?”

  She stopped her wail and looked directly and simply at him. In an explanatory tone she said: “First he squashed—and then it fell.” Broderick, feeling sick, let go of her, vaguely heard her burst into hysterical tears as he took Grafius by the arm and walked him away down the street.