The Naked Sun

The Naked Sun

Isaac Asimov

The Robot Series

A robot is stymied

Baley said, "So the higher potential wins out again, Daneel. You will hurt me to keep me alive."

"I do not believe hurting you will be necessary, Partner Elijah. You know that I am Superior to you in strength and you will not attempt a useless resistance. If it should become necessary, however, I will be compelled to hurt you."

"I could blast you down where you stand," said Baley. "Right now! There is nothing in my potentials to prevent me."

"I had thought you might take this attitude at some time in our present relationship, Partner Elijah. Most particularly, the thought occurred to me during our trip to this mansion, when you grew momentarily violent in the ground-car. The destruction of myself is unimportant in comparison with your safety, but such destruction would cause you distress eventually and disturb the plans of my masters. It was one of my first cares, therefore, during your first sleeping period, to deprive your blaster of its charge."

Baley's lips tightened. He was left without a charged blaster! His hand dropped instantly to his holster. He Drew his weapon and stared at the charge reading. It hugged zero.

For a moment he balanced the lump of useless metal as though to hurl it directly into Daneel's face. What good? The robot would dodge efficiently.

Baley put the blaster back. It could be recharged in good time.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he said, "I'm not fooled by you, Daneel."

"In what way, Partner Elijiah?"

"You are too much the master. I am too completely stopped by you. Are you a robot?"

"You have doubted me before," said Daneel.

The Naked Sun. Illustration by Elena.

"On Earth last year I doubted whether R. Daneel Olivaw was truly a robot. It turned out he was. I believe he still is. My question, however is this: Are you R. Daneel Olivaw?"

"I am."

"Yes? Daneel was designed to imitate a Spacer closely. Why could not a Spacer be made up to imitate Daneel closely?"

"For what reason?"

"To carry on an investigation here with greater initiative and capacity than ever a robot could. And yet by assuming Daneel's role, you could keep me safely Under control by giving me a false consciousness of mastery. After all, you are working through me and I must be kept pliable."

"All this is not so, Partner Elijah."

"Then why do all the Solariand we meet assume you to be human? They are robotic experts. Are they so easily fooled? It occurs to me that I cannot be one right against many wrongs. It is far more likely that I am one wrong against many right."

"Not at all, Partner Elijah."

"Prove it," said Baley, moving slowly toward an end table and lifting a scrap-disposal unit. "You can do that easily enough, if you are a robot. Show the metal beneath your skin."

Daneel said, "I assure you - "

"Show the metal," said Baley crisply. "That is an order! Or don't you feel compelled to obey orders?"

Daneel unbuttoned his shirt. The smooth, bronze skin of his chest was sparsely covered with light hair. Daneel's fingers exerted a firm pressure just Under the right nipple, and flesh and skin split bloodlessy the length of the chest, with the gleam of metal showing beneath.

And as that happened, Baley's fingers, resting on the end table, moved half an inch to the right and stabbed at a contact patch. Almost et once a robot entered.

"Don't move, Daneel," cried Baley. "That's an order! Freeze!"

Robots. Photo by Elena.

Daneel stood motionless, as though life, or the robotic imitation thereof, had departed from him.

Baley shouted to the robot, "Can you get two more of the staff in here without yourself leaving? If so, do it."

The robot said, "Yes, master."

Two more robots entered, answering a radioed call. The three lined up abreast.

"Boys!" said Baley. "Do you see this creature whom you thought a master?"

Six ruddy eyes had turned solemnly on Daneel. They said in unison, "We see him, master."

Baley said, "Do you also see that this so-called master is actually a robot like yourself since it is metal within? It is only designed to look like a man."

"Yes, master."

"You are not required to obey any order it gives you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, master".

"I, on the other hand," said Baley, "am a true man."

For a moment the robots hesitated. Baley wondered if, having had it shown to them that a thing might seem a man yet to be a robot, they would accept anything in human appearance as a man, anything at all."

But then one robot said, "You are a man, master," and Baley Drew breath again.

Horizon Storms

Horizon Storms

By Kevin J. Anderson

Chief Scientist Howard Palawu

In Earth`s largest factory the compy production line hissed und burled with molten alloys and sprayed solvents. The smell of hot metal and caustic chemicals filled the air. The din og large-scale fabrication, with the whirring machinery and the clang of shaped components, was deafening.

Howard Palawu, the Hansa's Chief Scientist, took comfort from the sights and sounds of an efficient plant operation at full capacity. Smiling, he called up quota numbers on a handheld electronic pad and studied delivery records, projections, and profits. He turned to the tall Swede next to him. "We'll be ten percent higher than the last month, Lars. Fewer errors, faster throughput. More Soldier compies for the EDF."

Lars Rurik Swendsen, the lead Engineering Specialist, stood beside the shorter man, showing a lot of teeth in his broad grin. "The Factory's running like a well-oiled machine, Howard."

"It is a well-oiled machine."

"I can't wait until the new fabrication wing comes online in two weeks. How are you going to spend your bonus?"

Palawu shrugged; he had never much cared about his salary or his rewards. "I still haven't figured out what to do with the last one."

The dark-skinned scientists had broad shoulders and a stomach that wasn't quite as flat as he thought it was. He kept his graying hair cropped extremely close to his scalp. Palawu Had two grown children and had lost his wife a decade earlier in a medical accident during what should have been an ordinary procedure. Since then, the Chief Scientist had devoted himself to his work for Hansa and King. It kept him busy.

A bird which is free. Illustration by Elena.

"The more we milk that Klikiss robotic technology, the more tweaks we can make to the production line," he said. Two years earlier, he and Swendson had been chosen to supervise the complex dissection and dismantling operations of the Kikiss robot Jorax. The breakthrough they had made by copying the alien system had been a giant boon to Hansa technology. Motivational modules and programming routines were scanned, duplicated, and transferred wholesale into resilient Soldier-model compies, which and already been put to good use in the Earth Defense Forces.

The two men walked down the line, watching the identical Soldier compies being assembled step-by-step, each one exactly according to spécifications. The new-model compies were perfect warriors, sophisticated battle machines sure to be the key to defeating the hydrogues.

"I got a report from the shipyards this morning, Howard," Swenden said. "They're already in production with sixty heavily armored rammer ship, according to the Chairman's new plan. They seem to be a week ahead of schedule."

"That's just on paper. The rammers won't be ready for months. We've got plenty of time to manufacture a compy crew for them... even though I hate to see such beautiful machines destroyed in a suicide mission." Palawu watched as another armor-plated Soldier glided by on the assembly plat. "But they were designed to be expendable, I suppose."

A well-dressed man with blond hair came up to the two senior production leaders. Wearing a business suit and a bland expression, the man looked out of place on the Noisy, dirty fabrication line. He didn't even seem interested in the new compies coming off the assembly belts. "Chief Scientist Palawu? Engineering Specialist Swendsen? Come with me, please."

Palawu recognized the self-proclaimed "special assistant" to Chairman Wenceslas who had tried to stop King Peter from ordering a shutdown of the factory because of his concerns about the Klikiss technology. That had been a nerve-racking time, but everything was back on Schedule now.

"Where are we going?" Swendson asked.

"Chairman Wenceslas wishes to see you in his office."

Palawu stood next to his tall colleague, wondering which of them was more nervous. Previously, whenever they'd been spoken to by the Chairman, it had been part of a large board meeting; now they waited alone in the empty room.

A Quite Friendly-model compy strutted like a Wind-up toy, carrying a tray with a pot of strong-smelling cardamom coffee. Palawu preferred tea, but apparently they wouldn't be given a choice. He and Swendson each took one of the proffered cups while the compy set the third on the Chariman's immaculately clean desk. Palawu took a polite sip, looked at his friend. They both waited.

A Horizon Storm. Illustration by Elena.

Gathering of Shadows

A Gathering of Shadows

By V.E. Schwab

Kell strolled the Night Market for the first time in weeks.

He'd taken to avoiding such public appearances, his moments of defiance too rare compared to those of self-consciousness. Let the, think what they want was a thought that visited him with far less frequency and force than They see you as a monster.

But he was in need of air and Rhy, for once in his life, was too busy to entertain him. Which was fine. In the growing madness of the approaching games, Kell simply wanted to move, to wander, and so he found himself strolling through the market under the heavy cover of the crowds. The influx of strangers in the city afforded him shelter. There were son many foreigners here for the locals to look at, they were far less likely to notice him. Especially as Kell had taken Rhy's advice and traded his stark black high coat for a dusty blue one more in fashion, and pulled a winter hood up over his reddish hair.

Hastra walked beside him in common clothes. He hadn't tried to ditch his guard tonight, and in return, the young man had agreed to change his red and gold cloak and armor for something less conscious, even if the royal sword still hung sheathed at his side.

Now, as initial hesitation gave way to relief, Kell found himself enjoying the market for the first time in ages, moving through the crowd with a blissful degree of anonymity. It made him impatiens to don the competitor's mask, to become someone else entirely.

Kamerov.

Hastra vanished and reappeared a few minutes later with a cup of spiced wine, offering it to Kell.

“Where is yours?” asked Kell, taking the cup.

Hastra shook his head. “Isn't proper, sir, to drink on guard.”

Kell sighed. He didn't care for the idea of drinking alone, but he was in dire need of the wine. His first stop hadn't been to the market. It had been to the docks. 

And there he'd found the inevitable: dark hull, silver trim, blue sails.

The Night Spire had returned to London.

Which meant that Alucard Emery was here. Somewhere.

Kell had half a mind to sink the ship, but that would only cause trouble, and if Rhy found out, he'd probably throw a tantrum or stab himself out of spite.

So he had settled for glaring at the Spire, and letting his imagination do the rest.

“Are we on a mission, sir?” Hastra had whispered (the young guard was taking his new role as confident and accomplice very seriously.)

“We are,” muttered Kell, feigning severity.

He'd lingered in the shadowed overhang of a shop and scowled at the ship for several long and uneventful minutes before announcing that he needed a drink.

Which was how Kell ended up in the market, sipping his wine and absently scanning the crowds.

“Where's Staff?” he asked. “Did he get tired of being left behind?”

“Actually, I think he's been sent to see to Lord Sol-in-Ar.:

See to? Thought Kell. Was the king that nervous about the Faroan lord?”

He set off again through the market, with Hastra a few strides behind.

Gathering of Shadows. Illustration by Elena.

Heaven's Devils

Heaven's Devils

(Starcraft II series)

By William C. Dietz

“Any member of the armed services caught removing military assets from a government installation without sanction will be tried as an enemy agent and subject to the death penalty.” (From section 14:76.2 of the Confederate Uniform Code of military Justice).

Fort Howe on the planet Turaxis II

More than a week had passed since Tychus had been released from Military Correctional Facility-R-156 and ordered back to duty. It had been la tough three months, but that was behind him now as a dropship named Fat Girl skimmed over what had been the city of Whitford, and Tychus took the opportunity to eyeball the ruins through an open side door. The slipstream blasted his face and forced him to retreat. But not before he caught a glimpse of devastated buildings, cratered streets, and burned-out vehicles all laid out on a tidy grid.

Withford had been overrun by what the press liked to refer to as “the breakout.” Although Tychus thought it was more like a break-in, since the Kel-Morians had been able to fight their way through Hobber's Gap and lay waste to an area between Burr's Crossing to the south and an outpost called Firebase Zulu up north.

But what they hadn't been able to do was overrun Fort Howe. That was the home of the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, also known as “the Thundering Third.” The battalion had not only pushed the KMs out of Whiteford and back toward the mountains, it was currently following the enemy home.

In the meantime Tychus was about to join the 3rd Battalion's holding company at Fort Howe, where, with any luck at all, he would be able to return to work on Operation Early Retirement. A much-neglected aspect of the war effort that Tychus hoped to refocus his attention on.

Heaven's Devils. Photograph by Elena.

The transport began to slow a few minutes later, circled the base below, and lowered itself onto the main landing pad of a starport. The dropship carried eleven other passengers, replacements mostly, who would soon become members of the Thundering Third. They were already pulling their belongings together as the skids touched down and a green light appeared.

When the ramp was extended, Tychus followed a coupe officers and some noncoms onto the pad. Once there, he was struck by the fact that, except for one other ship, the area in front of the starport structure was empty. A sure sign that most of the battalion was elsewhere.

All of his original gear had been lost during the transfer from Prosser's Well to MCF-R-156. So all Tychus had to carry was his duffel bag containing some extra underwear and a Dopp kit. Tychus entered the starport to get directions to the admin building and went back outside to wait for an open-sides jitney.

The five-minute ride served to confirm his initial impression: Fort Howe had been stripped of troops in order to battle the Kel-Morians off the the east. A barracks building had lifted off the ground and was in the process of being repositioned, and the occasional squad could be seed double-timeing from one location to the next. But the facility had an empty feel.

The Longest Voyage

The Longest Voyage

By Poul Anderson

When first we heard of the Sky Ship, we were on an island whose name, as nearly as Montalirian tongues can wrap themselves about so barbarous a noise, was Yarzik. That was almost a year after the Golden Leaper sailed from Lavre Town, and we judged we had come halfway round the world. So befouled was our poor caravel with weeds and shells that all sail could scarce drag her across the sea. What drinking water remained in the butts was turned green and evil, the biscuit was full of worms, and the first signs of scurvy had appeared on certain crewmen.

“Hazard or no,” decreed Captain Rovic, “we must land somewhere.” A gleam I remembered appeared in his eyes. He stroked his red beard and murmured, “Besides, it's long since we asked for the Aureate Cities. Perhaps this time they'll have intelligence of such a place.”

Steering by the ogre planet which climbed daily higher as we bore westward, we crossed such an emptiness that mutinous talk broke out afresh. In my heart I could not blame the crew. Imagine, my lords. Day upon day upon day where we saw naught but blue waters, white foam, high clouds in a tropic sky; heard only the wind, whoosh of waves, creak of timbers, sometimes at night the huge sucking and rushing as a sea monster breached. These were terrible enough to common sailors, unlettered men who still thought the world must be flat. But then to have Tambur hang forever above the bowsprit, and climb, so that all could see we must eventually pass directly beneath that brooding thing... and what upbore it? The crew mumbled in the forecastle. Would an angered God not let fall down on us?

The longest voyage. Photo by Elena.

So a deputation waited on Captain Rovic. Very timid and respectful they were, those rough burly men, as they asked him to turn about. But their comrades massed below, muscled sun-blackened bodies taut in the ragged kilts, with daggers and belaying pins ready to hand. We officers on the quarterdeck had swords and pistols, true. But we numbered a mere six, including that frightened boy who was myself, and aged Froad the astrologue, whose robe and white beard were reverend to see but of small use in a fight.

Rovic stood mute for a long while after the spokesman had voiced this demand. The stillness grew, until the empty shriek of wind in our shrouds, the empty glitter of ocean out to the world's rim. Became all there was. Most splendid our master looked, for he had donned scarlet hose and bell-tipped shoon when he knew the deputation was coming: as well as helmet and corselet polished to mirror brightness. The plumes blew around that blinding steel head and the diamonds on his fingers flashed against the rubies in his sword hilt. Yet when at last he spoke, it was not as a knight of the Queen's court, but in the broad Anday of his fisher boyhood.

The Darfsteller

The Darfsteller

By Walter B. Miller, Jr.

Great Actors Immortalized – that was one of Smithfield's little slogans. But they had discontinued on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the pit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens – even hundreds – of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted – but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition – immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors,, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard's premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, there were the trouper's media, and his art could not outlive them.

Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted – partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic” - could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. There were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

An actor, the darfsteller. Photo by Elena.

At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he'd hold up the run-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

“Who... D'Uccia?”

“No... well, yeah, D'Uccia, too. He wasn't unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne”.

“Oh... where's your phone?”

“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production -

“I've got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you're sure on the ball today, ain't ya – the greasy eight ball.”

Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

“Than God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a waling zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we're running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”

The Last Oracle

James Rollins

The Last Oracle

September 7, 2:17 a.m., Washington D.C.

Painter hurried down the hall. He didn't meed any more trouble, but he got it.

The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.

In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.

He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn't want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.

And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn't have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president. Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.

Another attack threatened.

That was the top priority.

The Last Oracle. Photo by Elena.

And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.

Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child's temple.

She's sick again? Painter asked.

Something new, Lisa answered. She's not febrile like before.

Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. “I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened. She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to ans empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.”

“Pyotr? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.”

While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.

“Is her device active?” Painter asked, nodding to Sasha's TMS unit.

“No,” Lisa answered. “Malcolm checked. He's already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something's sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It's almost as if she's having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It's as if all her body's resources are servicing the one organ.”

“Her brain,” Painter said.

“Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.”

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers for Algernon

By Daniel Keyes

July 7. I don't know where the week went. Today's Sunday I know because I can see through my window people going to church. I think I stayed in bed all week but I remember Mrs. Flynn bringing food to me a few times. I keep saying over and over I've got to do something but then I forget or maybe its just easier not to do what I say I'm going to do.

I think of my mother and father a lot these days. I found a picture of them with me taken at a beach. My father has a big ball under his arm and my mother is holding me by the hand. I don't remember them the way they are in the picture. All I remember is my father drunk most of the time and arguing with mom about money.

He never shaved much and he used to scratch my face when he hugged me. My Mother said he died but Coisin Miltie said he heard his dad say that my father ran away with another woman. When I asked my mother she slapped me and said my father was dead. I don't think I ever found out the truth but I don't care much. (He said he was going to take me to see  cows on a farm once but he never did. He never kept his promises...)

July 10. My landlady Mrs. Flynn is very worried about me. She says the way I lay around all day and don't do anything I remind her of her son before she threw him out of the house. She said she doesn't like loafers. If I sick it's one thing, but if I'm a loafer that's another thing and she won't have it. I told her I think I'm sick.

Flowers for Algernon. Photo by Elena.

I try to read a little bit every day, mostly stories, but sometimes I have to read the same thing over and over again because I don't know what it means. And it's hard to write. I know I should look up all the words in the dictionary but its so hard and I'm so tired all the time.

Then I got the idea that I would only use the easy words instead of the long hard ones. That saves time. I put flower on Algernon's grave about once a week. Mrs Flynn thinks I'm cray to put flowers on a mouses grave but I told her that Algernon was special.

July 14. It's Sunday again. I don't have anything to do to keep me busy now because my television set it broke and I don't have any money to get it fixed. (I think I lost this months check from the lab. I don't remember).

I get awful headaches and aspirin doesn't help me much. Mrs Flynn knows I'm really sick and she feels very sorry for me. She's a wonderful woman whenever someone is sick.

July 22. Mrs Flynn called a stranger doctor to see me. She was afraid I was going to die. I told doctor I wasn't too sick and I only forget sometimes. He asked me did I have any friends or relatives and I said no I don't have any. I told him I had a friend called Algernon once but he was a mouse and we used to run races together. He looked at me kind of funny like he thought I was crazy. He smiled when I told him I used to be genius. He talked to me like I was a baby and he winked at Mrs. Flynn. I got mad and chased him out because he was making fun of me the way they all used to.

Algernon. Illustration by Elena.

Mentats of Dune

Mentats of Dune

By Brian Herbert and Kevin Anderson

There is beauty in the eyes of the youth who dreams of a bright future (Wisdom of the Ancients)

Though Caladan was quiet and bucolic, it boasted and impressive Air Patrol Agency. The scattered fishing fleets, the occasional sea storms, and the creatures out in the deep oceans, - all required the locals to be ready to mount a rapid and efficient rescue when necessary.

Vor smiled when he studied the history of the Caladan Air Patrol and their years of service. No one knew that the rescue organization had been established and funded well over a century ago through an anonymous foundation set up by Vorian Atreides. Yes, he still had many ties here.

Though they were still young, his great-great-grandsons Willem and Orry had made themselves important pilots in the Patrol. Both young men had a love of fast and dangerous flying in their blood, but Vor decided this was a much better profession than piloting warships against robot vessels in the Jihad.

After that long, late-night confession and conversation with Shander Atreides, Vor felt relieved. He rarely got a chance to shed so many secrets. Even so, from Shander's raised eyebrows and uncertain chuckle, he wasn't sure the wealthy old fisherman – actually Vor's great-grandson – completely believed him. Shander was aware only that one of the ancestors had been a great war hero, as attested to by the statue in the town square; but that was far back in the days of the Jihad, and the fact meant little to their daily lives. Nevertheless, Shander accepted Vorian's friendship, seeing him as a curiosity and a spinner of tales. Good company overall, regardless of the past.

Mentats of Dune. Illustration by Elena.

In a broader sense, Vor wanted to reconnect with the tapestry of his family, his roots, and to apologize for the aloof way he had treated Leronica and their two sons... generations ago. Although no one on Caladan even remembered the slight, Vor needed to do it for himself.

His openness and candor surprised some on Calada whe heard his story, while others simply assumed he had a wild imagination. Vor didn't mind; he intended to stay on beautiful Caladan for a while – for quite a while, in fact. Willem and Orry were strangers to him, be he could hardly wait to meet them.

On the third day after Vor arrived on Caladan, Shander Attreides offered to meet him for lunch to introduce him to the two young men, who were due back from a long patrol. At the last minutes, Shander had to respond to an insistent customer, some kind of urgent repair order for fishing nets, and so Vor went to the landing-field cafe himself. He had faced greater challenges before.

Walking in, he felt tense but eager to meet Willem and Orry. Vor found the sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the Air Patrol field, where seaplanes took off and landed. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the two laughing young men. Even in their flight suits, they looked very much like the twins Estes and Kagin. He caught his breath, felt a pang, and then smiles as he stepped forward. 

The Hell-Bound Train

The Hell-Bound Train

By Robert Bloch

Almost six months went by before Martin met Lillian Gillis. By that time he'd had another promotion and was working inside, in the office. They made him go to night school to learn how to do simple book-keeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a week, and it was nicer working indoors.

And Lillian was a lot of fun. When she told him she'd marry him, Martin was almost sure that the time was now. Except that she was sort of – well, she was a nice girl, and she said the'd have to wait until they were married. Of course, Martin couldn't expect to marry her until he had a little more money saved up, and another raise wold help, too.

That took a year. Martin was patient, because he knew it was going to be worth it. Every time he had any doubts, he took out his watch and looked at it. But he never showed it to Lillian, or anybody else. Most of the other men wore expensive wristwatches and the old silver railroad watch looked just a little cheap.

Martin smiled as he gazed at the stem. Just a few twists and he'd have something none of these other poor working slobs would over have. Permanent satisfaction, with his blushing bride...

Only getting married turned out to be just just the beginning. Sure, it was wonderful, but Lillian told him much better things would be if they could move into a new place and fix it up. Martin wanted decent furniture, a TV set, a nice car.

The Hell-Bound Train. Photo by Elena.

So he started taking night courses and got a promotion to the front office. With the baby coming, he wanted to stick around and see his son arrive. And when it came, he realized he'd have to wait until it got a little older, started to walk and talk and develop a personality of its own.

About this time the company sent him out on the road as a trouble-shooter on some of those other jobs, and now he was eating at those good hotels, living high on the hog and the expense-account. More than once he was tempted to unwind his watch. This was the good life... Of course, it would be even better if he just didn't have to work. Sooner or later, if he could cut in on one of the company deals, he could make a pile and retire. The everything would be ideal.

It happened, but it took time. Marin's son was going to high school before he really got up there into the chips. Martin got a strong hunch that it was now or never, because he wasn't exactly a kid any more.

But right about then he met Sherry Westcott, and she didn't seem to think he was middle-aged at all, in spite of the way he was losing hair and adding stomach. She taught him that a toupee could cover the bald spot and a cummerbund could cover the potgut. In fact, she taught him quite a lot and he so enjoyed learning that he actually took out his watch and prepared to unwind it.

The Big Front Yard

The Big Front Yard

By Clifford D. Simak

There would be contact between the Earth and these other worlds and what would come of it?

And come to think of it, the contact had been made already, but so naturally, so undramatically, that it failed to register as a great, important meeting. For Beasly and the chuck out there were contact and if it all should go like that, there was absolutely nothing for one to worry over.

This was no haphazard business, he reminded himself. It had been planned and executed with the smoothness of long practice. This was not the fist world to be opened and it would not be the last.

The little ratlike things had spanned space – how many light-years of space one could not even guess – in the vehicle which he had unearthed out in the woods. They then had buried it, perhaps as a child might hide a dish by shoving it into a pile of sand. Then they had come to this very house and had set up the apparatus that had made this house a tunnel between one world and another. And once that had been done, the need of crossing space had been canceled out forever. There need be but one crossing and that one crossing would serve to link the planets.

And once the job was done the little ratlike things had left, but not before they had made certain that this gateway to their planet would stand against no matter what assault. They had sheathed the house inside the studdings with a wonder-material that would resist an ax and that, undoubtedly, would resist much more than a simple ax.

Earthling. Photo by Elena.

And they had marched in drill-order single file out to the hill where eight more of the space machines had rested in their cradles. And now there were only seven there, in their cradles on the hill, and the ratlike things were gone and perhaps, in time to come, they'd land on another planet and another doorway would be opened, a link to yet another world.

But more, Taine thought, than the linking of mere worlds. It would be, as well, the linking of the peoples of those worlds.

The little ratlike creatures were the explorers and the pioneers who sought out other Earthlike planets and the creature waiting with Beasly just outside the window must also serve its purpose and perhaps in time to come there would be a purpose which man would also serve.

He turned away from the window and looked around the room and the room was exactly as it had been ever since he could remember it. With all the change outside, with all that was happening outside, the room remained unchanged.

This is the reality, thought Taine, this is all the reality there is. Whatever else may happen, this is were I stand – this room with its fireplace blackened by many winter fires, the bookshelves with the old thumbed volumes, the easy-chair, the ancient worn carpet – worn by beloved and unforgotten feet through the many years.

Or All the Seas with Oysters

Or All the Seas with Oysters

By Avram Davidson

It was almost evening before Oscar returned, sweaty but smiling. Smiling broadly. “Hey, what a babe!” he cried. He wagged his head, he whistled, he made gestures, noises like escaping steam. “Boy, oh, boy, what an afternoon!”

“Give me the bike,” Ferd demanded.

Oscar said, yeah, sure; turned it over to him and went to wash. Ferd looked at the machine. The red enamel was covered with dust; there was mud spattered and dirt and bits of dried grass. It seemed soiled – degraded. He had felt like a swift bird when he rode it...

Oscar came out wet and beaming. He gave a cry of dismay, ran over.

“Stand away,” said Ferd, gesturing with the knife. He slashed the tires, the seat and seat cover, again and again.

“You crazy?” Oscar yelled. “You outa your mind? Ferd, no, don't Ferd-”

Ferd cut the spokes, bent them, twisted them. He took the heaviest hammer and pounded the frame into shapelessness, and then he kept on pounding till his breath was gasping.

“You're not only crazy,” Oscar said bitterly, “you're rotten jealous. You can go to hell.” He stomped away.

Regeneration. Photo by Elena.

Ferd, feeling sick and stiff, locked up, went slowly home. He had no taste for reading, turned out the light and fell into bed, where he lay awake for hours, listening to the rustling noises of the night and thinking hot, twisted thoughts.

They didn't speak to each other for days after that, except for the necessities of the work. The wreckage of the French racer lay behind the shop. For about two weeks, neither wanted to go out back where he'd have to see it.

One morning Ferd arrived to be greeted by his partner, who began to shake his head in astonishment even before he started speaking. “How did you do it, how did you do it, Ferd? Jeez, what a beautiful job – I gotta hand it to you – no more hard feeling, huh, Ferd?”

Ferd took his hand. “Sure, sure. But what are you talking about?”

Oscar led him out back. There was the red racer, all in one piece, not a mark or scratch on it, its enamel bright as ever. Ferd gaped. He squatted down and examined it. It was his machine. Every change, every improvement he had made, was there.

He straightened up slowly. “Regeneration...”

“Huh? What say?” Oscar asked. Then, “Hey, kiddo, you're all white. What you do, stay up all night and didn't get no sleep? Come on in and sitdown. But I still don't see how you done it.”

Inside, Ferd sat down. He wet his lips. He said, “Oscar – listen”

“Yeah?”

“Oscar. You know what regeneration is? No? Listen. Some kind of lizards, you  grab them by the tail, the tail breaks off and they grow a new one. If a lobster loses a claw, it regenerates another one. Some kinds of worms – and hydras and starfish – you cut them into pieces, each piece will grow back the missing parts. Salamanders can regenerate lost hands, and frogs can grow legs back.”

The Star

The Star

By Arthur C. Clarke

It is three thousand light-years to the Vatican. Once I believed that space could have no power over Faith. Just as I believed that the heavens declared the glory of God's handiwork. Now I have seen that handiwork, and my faith is sorely troubled.

I stare at the crucifix that hangs on the cabin wall above the Mark VI computer, and for the first time in my life I wonder if it is no more than an empty symbol.

I have told no one yet, but the truth cannon be concealed. The data are there for anyone to read, recorded on the countless miles of magnetic tape and the thousands of photographs we are carrying back to Earth. Other scientists can interpret them as easily as I can – more easily, in all probability. I am not one who would condone that tampering with the Truth which often gave my Order a bad name in the olden days.

The crew is already sufficiently depressed, I wonder how they will take this ultimate irony. Few of them have any religious faith, yet they will not relish using this final weapon in their campaign against me – that private, good-natured bu fundamentally serious war which lasted all the way from Earth. It amused them to have a Jesuit as chief astrophysicist: Dr. Chandler, for instance, could never get over it (why are medical men such notorious atheists?) Sometimes he would meet me on the observation deck, where the lights are always low so that the stars shine with undiminished glory. He would come up to me in the gloom and stand staring out of the great oval port, while the heavens crawled slowly round us as the ship turned end over end with the residual spin we had never bothered to correct.

... The symbol of their passing might shine above Bethlehem... Photo by Elena.

“Well, Father,” he would say at last. “It goes on forever and forever, and perhaps Something made it/ But how you can believe that Something has a special interest in us and our miserable little world – that just beats me.” Then the argument would start, while the stars and nebulae would swing around us in silent, endless arcs beyond the flawlessly clear plastic of the observation port.

It was, I'll think, the apparent incongruity of my position which … yeas, amused... the crew. In vain I would point to my three papers in the Astrophysical Journal, my five in the Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society/ I would remind them that our Order has long been famous for its scientific works. We may be few now, but ever since the eighteenth century we have made contributions to astronomy and geophysics out of all proportions to our numbers.

Will my report on the Phoenix Nebula end our thousand years of history? It will end, I fear, much more than that.

I do not know who gave the Nebula its name, which seems to me a very bad one. If it contains a prophecy, it is one which cannot be verified for several thousand million years. Even the word nebula is misleading: this is a far smaller object than those stupendous clouds of mist – the stuff of unborn stars - which are scattered throughout the length of the Milky Way. On the cosmic scale, indeed, the Phoenix Nebula is a tiny thing – a tenuous shell of gas surrounding a single star.

Or what is left of a star.