More Science Fiction Tales

  Enter our time warp and find yourself in new worlds where crystal creatures attack in the night and robots rule mankind. Past and future collide as vampires rise up and UFO's seek help from earthlings. Even as you lie in bed, fast asleep, aliens in travel machines may visit you, and who is to say it is "just a dream." For when time bends, even the unimaginable becomes possible—as you will discover in More Science Fiction Tales.

  Roger Elwood specially requested the stories in this collection from widely published writers of science fiction. And he is in a position to know—for as editor and writer, he has produced innumerable science fiction stories and articles. His books have been distributed by the Junior Literary Guild and the Science Fiction Book Club. Introduction to the stories was written by Barry N. Malzberg, the first winner of the John W. Campbell, Jr. Award for the best science fiction novel of the year, Beyond Apollo.

  More Science Fiction Tales: Crystal Creatures, Bird-things & Other Weirdies

  Edited by Roger Elwood

  Introduction by Barry N. Malzberg

  Illustrated by Rod Ruth

  Rand McNally & Company

  Chicago/New York/San Francisco

  Elwood, Roger, comp.

  More science fiction tales.

  CONTENTS: Malzberg, B. N. Introduction: starting in the middle. —Goldsmith, H. The music of Minox. Andersson, N. Werewolf girl, [etc.]

  1. Science fiction. [1. Science fiction. 2. Short stories]

  I. Ruth, Rod, illus. II. Title. PZ5.E48Mq [Fie] 74-12283 ISBN 0-528-82471-6

  ISBN 0-528-82472-4 (lib. bdg.)

  Copyright © 1974 by Rand McNally & Company

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America by Rand McNally & Company

  Starting In The Middle

  by Barry N. Malzberg

  Back in the Pleistocene, when I was about as old as most of you who are about to enjoy this book, there was no such thing as a collection of science fiction stories for young readers. There was barely such a thing as a collection of stories for any readers. In the postwar era, publishers were just beginning to discover the treasure which existed in the science fiction magazines. There were mostly just the science fiction magazines themselves, five or six of them a month. But in the first onset of discovery, five or six magazines were hardly enough to keep me going for a day. I needed more. More and more. I discovered a miracle known as the backdate magazine store.

  The backdate magazine store had all the issues of the science fiction magazines that were no longer on the newsstands. That is, they were not current, and the better stores had the magazines dating back for years and years. It is not to be described how it felt for an eleven-year-old in 1951 to hold in his hands, his very own hands, the August 1945 issue of Astounding Science Fiction. It had not been on the newsstands for six years and was as fresh and new, as mysterious and exciting, as the September 1951 issue which had not come through yet. Heady stuff indeed. Furthermore, it could become very exciting if the August 1945 issue had the first part of a serial that was to be continued the next month, but the September 1945, in the hit-and-miss fashion of some backdate magazine stores, did not seem to be around. Where is the September 1945? How did "The World of Null-a" come out? I'll bid fifty cents for a copy of the September 1945! As a magazine collector in the early 1950s, one perhaps knew everything that he would ever need to know about the capitalist system before he had reached the end of junior high school.

  But this is to wander off the point somewhat. Older people often do, and you must be tolerant of them. Their minds, unlike yours, are not able to concentrate on a given issue for more than a very few moments, after which they are apt to wander off into stupefying anecdotes about their past. Regard them with a fixed smile, think about other things, and do not interrupt them. They will eventually end and get back to the subject and think the better of you for seeming to be attentive.

  We were talking about a collection of stories for younger readers of science fiction—a fairly recent development in our field and, I think, a healthy one. Science fiction has a long tradition of wonderful juvenile novels—Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Andre Norton have done some of their best work for younger readers. But only in the last few years have enterprising and dedicated editors like Roger Elwood, with the help of good publishers, prepared collections of juvenile short stories. This is a very good thing. Historically, the best science fiction has been in the shorter form for reasons which I could, and will not, go into now. ( I try to keep my wanderings down to one per speech. ) When some of our best writers work for young people within that form, the results can be breathtaking ... as you will see herein.

  Science fiction is a very important form of literature. I have devoted a good portion of my childhood to reading it, and a larger portion of my adult years to trying to write it well. I feel that I am just beginning to truly understand and appreciate it. It may well be, in ten to twenty years, the only form of literature that is being widely read. Because it is the one literary form that talks most directly to the world as it evolves past technological explosion and to people who are trying to make some connection between what our wonderful new machinery is doing to most of us, and how, in the presence of all this machinery, we are to remain truly human. It is, in that sense, a teaching literature, but of the best kind. For there can be no teaching without appeal, and the best science fiction has been, for more than forty years, the most entertaining of all literatures.

  I think you will enjoy the stories that follow. Most of the writers herein are personally known to me, at least slightly, and I salute them, each and every one, for their efforts to write for the most important of audiences. And it is you, the young—that most important audience—who I salute as well. For it has been you we have been truly writing for through all the generations of our form. You have kept us well and optimistic and sure of that future to which we have dedicated ourselves.

  The Music Of Minox

  by Howard Goldsmith

  We had just pitched camp on the planet Minox when we heard the weird music that would forever haunt me. The sound was like a crystal chandelier tinkling in the wind.

  "What was that?" I asked my father.

  "I don't know," he said, obviously puzzled. He knit his brow.

  "It sounds like someone strumming a harp through Hades," said Casey, our imaginative navigator. He scanned the dark horizon in concern.

  "Knock it off," said Sloane, pilot of our spacecraft. "Let's not let our imaginations run away with us."

  The cascade of tinkling notes suddenly doubled in volume. It surged about us, lapping at us from every side.

  Even Sloane, who was said to have ice water in his veins, couldn't suppress an uneasy shudder.

  I was beginning to wonder if coming along on this scouting expedition had been such a good idea after all. Dad had turned me down flat when I had first proposed it.

  "These mining expeditions are rather dull," he had said, stifling a yawn. "Nothing exciting ever happens," he added, trying to damp my enthusiasm.

  "What about the time you were attacked by a herd of snarling gatus?" I challenged. "You confessed that you thought your number was up."

  "Well," he said, rubbing his chin. He knew I had him there. What he didn't want to admit was his real concern for my safety. I knew as well as he that every unexplored planet harbored unknown dangers.

  I kept pressing Dad on the point for weeks, until he finally exploded and gave a firm "thumbs down" sign of refusal. "Now bug off," he shouted, in no uncertain terms.

  Dad was a difficult man to budge, but his bark was worse than his bite. When he was in a good mood, I managed to steer the conversation back to the trip again. After all, Dad recogniz
ed my keen interest in rocks and minerals. He knew I was cut out to be a geologist just like he was.

  At last, after another week of my appealing looks and yearning sighs, Dad relented. I had known he would all along. He's really a good sort. As chief mineralogist and captain of the expedition to Minox, he had authority to hire anyone who could serve a useful function.

  I was given the impressive title of "cabin boy." "And you better shape up, shavetail," my father said, with a severe look, "or it's back to home base with you." I knew he was putting on an act. I met his stern glance with unwavering eyes until we both cracked up and burst into laughter. He rumpled my hair and took me by the shoulders. "I can assure you this isn't going to be a joyride, son. You're going to earn your keep."

  Now, as I stood outside the camp on Minox, listening to those eerie sounds swirl about us, I recalled my father's words very clearly. "This isn't going to be a joyride. . . ."

  "You call the tune, Burt," said Morgan, our flight engineer, turning to Dad for instructions.

  My father glanced at Nelson and Davis. "Okay, boys, you're elected for the first scouting patrol on Minox. I hope you realize it's a singular honor."

  "One we would gladly do without," said Nelson, staring into the dark, forbidding underbrush.

  "Just point us in a direction, O master," said Davis, raising his arms stiffly like a robot. "Your command is ours to obey."

  "That's the right attitude," said Dad, with forced cheerfulness. He didn't relish sending two good men out into unchartered terrain. But there seemed no choice. The mysterious noise was growing so intense it rattled the utensils inside our tents. We cupped our hands to our ears.

  Dad supplied the two men with lanterns. They were to radio back at the first sign of anything unusual. Without further word, they set off into the brush, their faces set in grim masks.

  From a short distance we heard Davis croon, in a wobbly baritone, "It's off to work we go. . . ."

  "Fa, la, la, la, la," chimed in Nelson.

  We heard nothing further from them for fifteen minutes.

  Then, suddenly, the radio crackled. A confused flurry of screams and shouts rang out.

  "Burt! Arrgh! It got me!"

  "Stand back!"

  "Oww!"

  A strangled cry tore the air, followed by scuffling, thrashing sounds and moans of sudden, piercing pain.

  Meanwhile, around the camp, waves of sharp, tinkling music rose in an ever-mounting crescendo of sound. We clutched our ears and sank to our knees in agony. Scores of icy, pointed darts seemed to penetrate our eardrums. Gusts of wind tore at us from every side.

  Then, abruptly, the sound was reduced to a light, metallic tinkle. The winds subsided. We shook our heads and rose unsteadily. Our ears continued to ring.

  My father shouted hoarsely into the radio transmitter, "Come in, Tom, Jeff. Can you hear me?"

  There was no reply.

  "Jeff, Tom, come in!"

  Not a sound came back to us.

  "What do we do?" demanded Casey. "We can't just stand here. Tom and Jeff might be wounded and lying helpless out there. We have to find them."

  "It won't help them if we all go out and get killed," said Sloane. "Something's lying in wait out there, ready to spring. I say we wait half an hour. If the boys don't return by then, we take off."

  "You self-centered, cold-blooded mutton!" cried Casey, advancing threateningly toward Sloane.

  My father lunged at Casey's squat, sturdy figure, and taking him off-balance, threw a hammerlock on him. "Get hold of yourself, man," he shouted, as Casey struggled furiously.

  "Sloane is right," said Morgan. "The sensible thing is to wait here. Our standing instructions are to return to home base whenever the crew is in jeopardy. Nelson and Davis are pros. They knew the risks involved in our mission. We'll give them every reasonable opportunity to return. Meanwhile, let's try to develop a rational plan."

  Casey slowly simmered down. His taut body went slack.

  My father released him.

  "I'm sorry," said Casey, hanging his head. His face flamed. "I acted like a bloody fool."

  He held out his hand to Sloane, who shook it firmly.

  "Now let's get down to cases," said Dad. "The first thing to do is to stuff our ears with cotton. That will deaden the sound somewhat."

  We proceeded to do this.

  "Now to unpack our weapons," said Dad.

  We uncrated small arms, laser guns, and poison-pellet rifles.

  "Does anyone have any other ideas?" asked Dad.

  Sloane spoke up. "Well, for one thing, the sound must issue from some distance, as we've seen no movements in the bushes."

  "I agree," said Morgan. "And did you notice that it rose with the intensity of the wind and fell as the wind died?"

  "Yes, come to think of it, it did," said Casey, scratching his head.

  "So the wind was either causing the sound or carrying it here," concluded Dad.

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  "Where does that leave us?" asked Casey.

  "It leaves us with inadequate data to form a theory," said Dad.

  We all shrugged our shoulders and stared into the dark, menacing brush. The answer lay there. It might be buried forever with Nelson and Davis. Or it might come crashing down upon us in an attack from some unknown creature or creatures.

  We waited, our hearts tolling the moments in slow, throbbing beats.

  Suddenly we saw a movement in the bushes. It was accompanied by a rustling sound and the tread of slow, heavy footsteps.

  We stood poised, our eyes straining into the darkness, our hands clamped tightly on our weapons.

  A moan rang out. The bushes parted and Nelson slumped to the ground.

  We rushed over to aid him.

  His face was drained of color. His eyes were wide with terror. A deep, ugly gash extended across his forehead. His hands were a bloody, pulpy mass. With horror, I saw that three of the fingers of his right hand were missing.

  We carried him into the camp. He was as limp as a loose-jointed puppet. It was obvious that he'd lost a lot of blood.

  Sloane gave him a blood transfusion as Dad administered a pain killer. Then Dad cauterized his wounds and bandaged his hands. Nelson's eyes rolled back with a glazed expression. He passed out cold.

  We watched anxiously for signs of his revival. Sloane continued pumping blood into his veins.

  After a few minutes, Nelson's eyelids twitched open. His eyes were brighter now. He struggled to speak.

  "Easy now, Tom," said Dad, in a soothing voice.

  "The glass . . . the glass," Nelson stammered hoarsely.

  We all looked puzzled.

  "Glass? What about glass?" said Casey.

  "Jeff! He's dead!" cried Nelson, in sudden recollection. His eyelids closed tightly, as if trying to blot out a horrible vision.

  We stood frozen to the spot, numb with shock.

  "Are you sure Jeff's dead?" Dad asked.

  "Neck slashed," gasped Nelson. "Died instantaneously." "Who—what—did it?" asked Morgan grimly.

  "The glass . . . glass," answered Nelson, his voice trailing off into a moan.

  "Tell us about the glass," Dad insisted.

  "They came at us. Tinkling in the wind. Three of them. We could see right through them. Bodies segmented." His voice was gaining strength. He began to speak more coherently. "They were crystalline, composed of glass sections. They gave off dazzling flashes of light."

  "The man's delirious," said Casey.

  "No, listen, believe me," implored Nelson, straining to sit up. He fell back weakly.

  "Okay, relax, we're listening," said Dad.

  "Their bodies had smooth, glittering facets. When they attacked, sharp, retractible needles rose on their backs like spines on a porcupine. Jeff crushed one with his boot. It broke into jagged slivers. But another sneaked up on him and . . . and ..." He choked back a sob.

  "We know, Jeff's dead," Dad said, pressing a hand to Nelson's shoulder.
r />   Nelson fought to compose himself. "I grappled with them. They're not large, about the size of raccoons. Their pointed spurs dug into my hands, slashing them to ribbons. I was gushing blood. I struck out wildly with my boots, smashing them to smithereens. Then I stumbled blindly through the brush, groping my way back to camp."

  We stood in rapt attention, speechless. Then Casey said, "Well, one thing's for sure—there must be lots more of the spiky devils wherever those three came from."

  "But is it really possible?" asked Morgan in disbelief. "Creatures made of glass?"

  "Well," said my father, reflecting, "we know that liquid, glassy masses originally covered the Earth. They hardened to form the Earth's crust. Silica is the largest component of

  this crust. It's a compound of silicon and oxygen."

  "Are you implying that life could arise from such silicon liquids?" asked Sloane.

  "On Earth there is a tiny organism called the diatom," said my father. "It thrives in sea water. Oddly enough, its supporting structure is largely composed of silica."

  "But you're not saying that a complex animal, with the ability to reason, could be entirely composed of such glassy compounds?" asked Morgan.

  "Life takes strange forms," said my father. "Who could have predicted the countless forms of life that evolved on Earth, from the microscopic virus to the towering dinosaur? Naturalists still haven't catalogued them all. When Minox first came into being, some entirely unknown elements must

  have combined with silicon, under conditions of extreme heat and pressure, to produce an intelligent form of life with a crystal structure."

  "Well, Tom has made me a believer," said Casey. He viewed Tom's bandaged wounds with concern.

  "I say we hightail it straight out of here," said Morgan.

  "Agreed," said the crew with one voice.

  "Agreed," I chimed in a split second later.

  They all laughed. It afforded a momentary break in the tension.

  We began gathering our most important gear together and stowed it hurriedly inside the spaceship.