Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (322 page)

Once more the ship went skip.

He could hear Woodley thinking at him. “You don’t have to bother much. This old son of a gun and I will take over for a while.”

Twice again the twinge, the skip.

He had no idea where he was until the lights of the Caledonia space board shone below.

With a weariness that lay almost beyond the limits of thought, he threw his mind back into rapport with the pin-set, fixing the Lady May’s projectile gently and neatly in its launching tube.

She was half dead with fatigue, but he could feel the beat of her heart, could listen to her panting, and he grasped the grateful edge of a thanks reaching from her mind to his.

THE SCORE

They put him in the hospital at Caledonia.

The doctor was friendly but firm. “You actually got touched by that Dragon. That’s as close a shave as I’ve ever seen. It’s all so quick that it’ll be a long time before we know what happened scientifically, but I suppose you’d be ready for the insane asylum now if the contact had lasted several tenths of a millisecond longer. What kind of cat did you have out in front of you?”

Underhill felt the words coming out of him slowly. Words were such a lot of trouble compared with the speed and the joy of thinking, fast and sharp and clear, mind to mind! But words were all that could reach ordinary people like this doctor.

His mouth moved heavily as he articulated words, “Don’t call our Partners cats. The right thing to call them is Partners. They fight for us in a team. You ought to know we call them Partners, not cats. How is mine?”

“I don’t know,” said the doctor contritely. “We’ll find out for you. Meanwhile, old man, you take it easy. There’s nothing but rest that can help you. Can you make yourself sleep, or would you like us to give you some kind of sedative?”

“I can sleep,” said Underhill. “I just want to know about the Lady May.”

The nurse joined in. She was a little antagonistic. “Don’t you want to know about the other people?”

“They’re okay,” said Underhill. “I knew that before I came in here.”

He stretched his arms and sighed and grinned at them. He could see they were relaxing and were beginning to treat him as a person instead of a patient.

“I’m all right,” he said. “Just let me know when I can go see my Partner.”

A new thought struck him. He looked wildly at the doctor. “They didn’t send her off with the ship, did they?”

“I’ll find out right away,” said the doctor. He gave Underhill a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and left the room.

The nurse took a napkin off a goblet of chilled fruit juice.

* * * *

Underhill tried to smile at her. There seemed to be something wrong with the girl. He wished she would go away. First she had started to be friendly and now she was distant again. It’s a nuisance being telepathic, he thought. You keep trying to reach even when you are not making contact.

Suddenly she swung around on him.

“You pinlighters! You and your damn cats!”

Just as she stamped out, he burst into her mind. He saw himself a radiant hero, clad in his smooth suede uniform, the pin-set crown shining like ancient royal jewels around his head. He saw his own face, handsome and masculine, shining out of her mind. He saw himself very far away and he saw himself as she hated him.

She hated him in the secrecy of her own mind. She hated him because he was—she thought—proud, and strange, and rich, better and more beautiful than people like her.

He cut off the sight of her mind and, as he buried his face in the pillow, he caught an image of the Lady May.

“She
is
a cat,” he thought. “That’s all she is—a
cat
!”

But that was not how his mind saw her—quick beyond all dreams of speed, sharp, clever, unbelievably graceful, beautiful, wordless and undemanding.

Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her?

* * * *

Copyright © 1955 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.

(1916- )

The first Jack Vance I came across was in
The Hugo Winners
anthology edited by Isaac Asimov. Vance had won for his novellas “The Dragon Masters” (1963) and “The Last Castle” (1967), and I had never read anything like them. The dialogue was over-the-top and the writing itself was baroque, like a piece of ornamental furniture. And somehow, he pulled it off. At its best Vance’s science fiction is amazing, although when I called him to ask about reprinting “The Dragon Masters” or “The Moon Moth” (1961), another favorite, he insisted that half the time he just threw the stories together. The ones he really wanted to see reprinted, he told me, were the stories he’d done in the 1964 collection
Future Tense
, which had rarely been reprinted. He especially liked “Sail 25,” in which he’d introduced the concept of the solar sail.

Sailing actually appears as a motif in many Vance stories. Despite poor vision that disqualified him from active military service, he spent time in the Merchant Marine during World War II by memorizing an eye chart ahead of the exam. In later years he sailed frequently, often with fellow SF writers Frank Herbert and Poul Anderson. And a number of the unlikely adventures his characters encounter are drawn from his own unlikely experiences in the years before he was able to support himself by writing full-time: working as a bell-hop, in a cannery, on a gold dredge, as a shipyard electrician, etc. In college, he studied mining engineering, physics, journalism, and English over a six-year period.

Beginning in the mid-1940s, Vance wrote more than sixty books, countless stories, and a few screenplays, split between science fiction, fantasy, and mysteries. Although he is now legally blind Vance has continued to write; in 2010 he won his third Hugo for his memoir,
This is Me, Jack Vance!
He won a World Fantasy Award in 1984 for life achievement, and in 1997 was named a SFWA Grand Master.

Vance was married for more than sixty years to Norma Genevieve Ingold, his college sweetheart. She died in 2008.

First published in
Future Tense
, 1964

1

Henry Belt came limping into the conference room, mounted the dais, and settled himself at the desk. He looked once around the room: a swift bright glance which, focusing nowhere, passed over the eight young men who faced him with an almost insulting disinterestedness. He reached in his pocket and brought forth a pencil and a flat red book, which he placed on the desk. The eight young men watched in absolute silence. They were much alike: healthy, clean, and smart, their expressions identically alert and wary. Each had heard legends of Henry Belt; each had formed his private plans and private determinations.

Henry Belt seemed a man of a different species. His face was broad, flat, roped with cartilage and muscle; his skin, the color and texture of bacon rind. Coarse white grizzle covered his scalp. His eyes were crafty slits; his nose, a misshapen lump. His shoulders were massive; his legs, short and gnarled: as he sat before the eight young men he seemed like a horned toad among a group of dapper young frogs.

“First of all,” said Henry Belt, with a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll make it clear that I don’t expect you to like me. If you do I’ll be surprised and displeased. It will mean that I haven’t pushed you hard enough.”

He leaned back in his chair, surveying the silent group. “You’ve heard stories about me. Why haven’t they kicked me out of the service? Incorrigible, arrogant, dangerous Henry Belt. Drunken Henry Belt. This last, of course, is slander. Henry Belt has never been drunk in his life. Why do they tolerate me? For one simple reason: out of necessity. No one wants to take on this kind of job. Only a man like Henry Belt can stand up to it: year after year in space, with nothing to look at but a half-dozen round-faced young scrubs. He takes them out, he brings them back. Not all of them, and not all of those who come back are spacemen today. But they’ll all cross the street when they see him coming. Henry Belt? you say. They’ll turn pale or go red. None of them will smile. Some of them are high-placed now. They could kick me loose if they chose. Ask them why they don’t. Henry Belt is a terror, they’ll tell you. He’s wicked, he’s a tyrant. Cruel as an ax, fickle as a woman. But a voyage with Henry Belt blows the foam off the beer. He’s ruined many a man; he’s killed a few, but those that come out of it are proud to say: I trained with Henry Belt!

“Another thing you may hear: Henry Belt has luck. But don’t pay any heed. Luck runs out. You’ll be my thirteenth class, and that’s unlucky. I’ve taken out seventy-two young sprats no different from yourselves; I’ve come back twelve times, which is partly Henry Belt and partly luck. The voyages average about two years long—how can a man stand it? There’s only one who could: Henry Belt. I’ve got more space-time than any man alive, and now I’ll tell you a secret: this is my last time out. I’m starting to wake up at night with strange visions. After this class I’ll quit. I hope you lads aren’t superstitious. A white-eyed woman told me that I’d die in space. She told me other things, and they’ve all come true. Who knows? If I survive this last trip I figure to buy a cottage in the country and grow roses.” Henry Belt pushed himself back in the chair and surveyed the group with sardonic placidity. The man sitting closest to him caught a whiff of alcohol; he peered more closely at Henry Belt. Was it possible that even now the man was drunk?

Henry Belt continued. “We’ll get to know each other well. And you’ll be wondering on what basis I make my recommendations. Am I objective and fair? Do I put aside personal animosity? Naturally there won’t be any friendship. Well, here’s my system. I keep a red book. Here it is. I’ll put your names down right now. You, sir?”

“I’m Cadet Lewis Lynch, sir.”

“You?”

“Edward Culpepper, sir.”

“Marcus Verona, sir.”

“Vidal Weske, sir.”

“Marvin McGrath, sir.”

“Barry Ostrander, sir.”

“Clyde von Gluck, sir.”

“Joseph Sutton, sir.”

Henry Belt wrote down the names in the red book. “This is the system. When you do something to annoy me, I mark you down demerits. At the end of the voyage I total these demerits, add a few here and there for luck, and am so guided. I’m sure nothing could be clearer than this. What annoys me? Ah, that’s a question which is hard to answer. If you talk too much: demerits. If you’re surly and taciturn: demerits. If you slouch and laze and dog the dirty work: demerits. If you’re overzealous and forever scuttling about: demerits. Obsequiousness: demerits. Truculence: demerits. If you sing and whistle: demerits. If you’re a stolid bloody bore: demerits. You can see that the line is hard to draw. There’s a hint which can save you many marks: no gossip. I’ve seen ships where the backbiting ran so thick it could have been jetted astern for thrust. I’m an eavesdropper. I hear everything. I don’t like gossip, especially when it concerns myself. I’m a sensitive man, and I open my red book fast when I think I’m being insulted.” Henry Belt once more leaned back in his chair. “Any questions?”

No one spoke.

Henry Belt nodded. “Wise. Best not to flaunt your ignorance so early in the game. Here’s some miscellaneous information. First, wear what you like. Personally I dislike uniforms. I never wear a uniform. I never have worn a uniform. Secondly, if you have a religion, keep it to yourself. I dislike religions. I have always disliked religions. In response to the thought passing through each of your skulls, I do not think of myself as God. But you may do so, if you choose. And this—” he held up the red book—“you may regard as the Syncretic Compendium. Very well. Any questions?”

“Yes sir,” said Culpepper.

“Speak, sir.”

“Any objection to alcoholic beverages aboard ship, sir?”

“For the cadets, yes indeed. I concede that the water must be carried in any event, that the organic compounds present may be reconstituted, but unfortunately the bottles weigh far too much.”

“I understand, sir.”

Henry Belt rose to his feet. “One last word. Have I mentioned that I run a tight ship? When I say jump, you must jump. When I say hop, you must hop. When I say stand on your head, I hope instantly to see twelve feet. Perhaps you will think me arbitrary—others have done so. After my tenth voyage several of the cadets urged that I had been unreasonable. I don’t know where you’d go to question them; all were discharged from the hospital long ago. But now we understand each other. Rather, you understand me, because it is unnecessary that I understand you. This is dangerous work, of course. I don’t guarantee your safety. Far from it, especially since we are assigned to old Twenty-five, which should have been broken up long ago. There are eight of you present. Only six cadets will make the voyage. Before the week is over I will make the appropriate notifications. Any more questions?…Very well, then. Cheerio.” He stepped down from the dais, swaying just a trifle, and Culpepper once again caught the odor of alcohol. Limping on his thin legs as if his feet hurt, Henry Belt departed into the back passage.

For a moment or two there was silence. Then von Gluck said in a soft voice, “My gracious.”

“He’s a tyrannical lunatic,” grumbled Weske. “I’ve never heard anything like it! Megalomania!”

“Easy,” said Culpepper. “Remember his orders. No gossiping.”

“Bah!” muttered McGrath. “This is a free country. I’ll damn well say what I like.”

“Mr. Belt admits it’s a free country,” said Culpepper. “He’ll grade you as he likes, too.”

Weske rose to his feet. “A wonder somebody hasn’t killed him.”

“I wouldn’t want to try it,” said Culpepper. “He looks tough.” He made a gesture and stood up, brow furrowed in thought. Then he went to look along the passageway into which Henry Belt had made his departure. There, pressed to the wall, stood Henry Belt. “Yes, sir,” said Culpepper suavely. “I forgot to inquire when you wanted us to convene again.”

Henry Belt returned to the rostrum. “Now is as good a time as any.” He took his seat and opened his red book. “You, Mr. von Gluck, made the remark, ‘My gracious’ in an offensive tone of voice. One demerit. You, Mr. Weske, employed the terms ‘tyrannical lunatic’ and ‘megalomania,’ in reference to myself. Three demerits. Mr. McGrath, you observed that freedom of speech is the official doctrine of this country. It is a theory which at present we have no time to explore, but I believe that the statement in its present context carries an overtone of insubordination. One demerit. Mr. Culpepper, your imperturbable complacence irritates me. I would prefer that you display more uncertainty, or even uneasiness.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“However, you took occasion to remind your colleagues of my rule, and so I will not mark you down.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Henry Belt leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. “Listen closely, as I do not care to repeat myself. Take notes if you wish. Topic: Solar Sails, Theory and Practice thereof. Material with which you should already be familiar, but which I will repeat in order to avoid ambiguity.

“First, why bother with the sail, when nuclear jet-ships are faster, more dependable, more direct, safer, and easier to navigate? The answer is threefold. First, a sail is not a bad way to move heavy cargo slowly but cheaply through space. Secondly, the range of the sail is unlimited, since we employ the mechanical pressure of light for thrust, and therefore need to carry neither propulsive machinery, material to be ejected, nor energy source. The solar sail is much lighter than its nuclear-powered counterpart, and may carry a larger complement of men in a larger hull. Thirdly, to train a man for space there is no better instrument than the handling of a sail. The computer naturally calculates sail cant and plots the course: in fact, without the computer we’d be dead ducks. Nevertheless, the control of a sail provides working familiarity with the cosmic elementals: light, gravity, mass space.

“There are two types of sail: pure and composite. The first relies on solar energy exclusively, the second carries a secondary power source. We have been assigned Number 25, which is the first sort. It consists of a hull, a large parabolic reflector which serves as radar and radio antenna as well as reflector for the power generator, and the sail itself. The pressure of radiation, of course, is extremely slight—on the order of an ounce per acre at this distance from the sun. Necessarily the sail must be extremely large and extremely light. We use a fluoro-siliconic film a tenth of a mil in gauge, fogged with lithium to the state of opacity. I believe the layer of lithium is about a thousand two hundred molecules thick. Such
a
foil weighs about four tons to the square mile. It is fitted to a hoop of thin-walled tubing, from which monocrystalline iron cords lead to the hull.

“We try to achieve a weight factor of six tons to the square mile, which produces an acceleration of between g/100 and g/1000 depending on proximity to the sun, angle of cant, circumsolar orbital speed, reflectivity of surface. These accelerations seem minute, but calculation shows them to be cumulatively enormous. G/100 yields a velocity increment of eight hundred miles per hour every hour, eighteen thousand miles per hour each day, or five miles per second each day. At this rate interplanetary distances are readily negotiable—with proper manipulation of the sail, I need hardly say.

“The virtues of the sail I’ve mentioned. It is cheap to build and cheap to operate. It requires neither fuel nor ejectant. As it travels through space, its great area captures various ions, which may be expelled in the plasma jet powered by the parabolic reflector, which adds another increment to the acceleration.

“The disadvantages of the sail are those of the glider or sailing ship, in that we must use natural forces with great precision and delicacy.

“There is no particular limit to the size of the sail. On Twenty-five we use about four square miles of sail. For the
present voyage we will install a new sail, as the old one is well worn and eroded.

“That will be all for today.” Once more Henry Belt limped down from the dais and out into the passage. On this occasion there were no comments after his departure.

2

The eight cadets shared a dormitory, attended classes together, ate at the same table in the mess hall. “You think you know each other well,” said Henry Belt. “Wait till we are alone in space. The similarities, the areas of agreement become invisible, only the distinctions and differences remain.”

In various shops and laboratories the cadets assembled, disassembled, and reassembled computers, pumps, generators, gyro-platforms, star-trackers, communication gear. “It’s not enough to be clever with your hands,” said Henry Belt. “Dexterity is not enough. Resourcefulness, creativity, the ability to make successful improvisations—these are more important. We’ll test you out.” And presently each of the cadets was introduced into a room on the floor of which lay a great heap of mingled housings, wires, flexes, gears, components of a dozen varieties of mechanism. “This is a twenty-six-hour test,” said Henry Belt. “Each of you has an identical set of components and supplies. There will be no exchange of parts or information between you. Those whom I suspect of this fault will be dropped from the class, without recommendation. What I want you to build is, first, one standard Aminex Mark Nine Computer. Second, a servo-mechanism to orient a mass of ten kilograms toward Mu Hercules. Why do I specify Mu Hercules?”