Again, Dangerous Visions Part 81

SEVEN.

The Draft Station. Bored interrogators, minor tortures. Internment. Transportation to the training camp. A month's practice with empty, obsolete weapons. Issue of the uniform. Long train journey. s.p.a.ceport, departure for Mars, the one-way ticket.

The evangelist shot by s.p.a.ceport police, yelling, "Listen to the stars. That's the way through."

The trip. Issue of bullets. Discomfort, overcrowding in the troop ship. Sickness from the s.p.a.ce drive. Three days to Mars. For what? "After we finish the Marts, let's fight A Centauri."

EIGHT.

Suddenly nightfall, the night of a younger world; in the distance the glowing volcanic skyline. The silver spheres surround him, messages flow. Levitating wizard shoots the sky, through halls of blue fires. "I see a new order for all."

The prophet comes. "I have looked into the darkness and seen doom. We are betrayed."

Advance of the birdmen. The ancient city wavers in the haze. The giant robot storms from its tomb.

Out of the fog comes the Man In The Mask.

NINE.

"The Marts are clever, you understand. They a.s.sume human form. Don't be fooled. Aim to kill. OK?"

The briefing continued in the dim light. Kaheris ran the red dust through his fingers. How did they still breathe? Someone must have fixed it; the War must go on. Surgery? He couldn't recall. Or was this really Mars? Above, the sun seemed a shrunken disc.

How many troops here? Ten million, a hundred million? The War was "the turning point in our history" as the newspapers had all said. For those at home, maybe. A hundred million, and who ever came back.

"The Marts hold that hill, 770. We must have it."

Why? Why not?

TEN.

Noise, gunfire, screams. Bombs, sh.e.l.ls, mortar.

Like the comic books.

Kaheris weaves his way through the dead and up to the summit of the hill, adrenalin driving him on, blind to his terror. The hill must be taken. Sure. One of the enemy sprang from a dug-out. Tossing aside an empty gun, it came at him with a knife. Physically, it looked human.

It screamed "Dirty Mart" as Kaheris shot it, through the head. A trick? He was beyond thinking. Nausea welled up. He sank to his knees.

Weight of numbers told. The Marts were swept from the hill. Some escaped through their network of tunnels.

Later, perhaps much later, a medic comes to Kaheris. Looming into the blur of his mind. Kaheris was moaning to himself, something he could not hear.

The medic speaks. For Kaheris it is sudden thunder.

"Man, what turned you you on?" on?"

His eyes leap into focus. The features of the medic slip, change, and then harden into a mask of hammered metal.

Kaheris vomits. Mars flickers, and is gone.

ELEVEN.

Kaheris is a giant, two hundred feet high. He strides between tilted, melting apartment blocks, crushing automobiles under foot. He kicks a railway bridge out of his path.

It is Earth-future, the countdown world. The loudspeakers are fused junk heaps. Above him, the sun approaches nova, flinging its debris outwards, like a sunflower. Time is suspended. The colors around him are unnaturally bright.

Noise reaches an unbearable level. The pneumatic garden. The roads become a great mirror, reflecting the exploding sun.

TWELVE.

Fear grips him. He is running, in the dry ocean basin, amid the salt storms. He is running. A jungle of metal pylons rusts away, in the static factories of Detroit. He seeks help. Where is Henry Ford? Where is Superman? But there is no one.

He wanders among blocks of stone, collapsed archways. They crumble to his touch, the sand maker. Behind him, the Man comes, from the dissolving green carpet hills. The Man comes, in the rainstorm upon the wasteland, past the camps guarded with electric fences, now deserted. Kaheris waits.

THIRTEEN.

Kaheris sees the high steps, cut in the infinite mountains, up to the burning sky. For a moment he is back at the inst.i.tution, in the desert. White Sands. They are asking him, over and over, what happened to him in orbit, why he tried to crash the capsule. Once he told them that something spoke to him. But not what it was, what it said.

Dream of escape, past frozen jailors, down the paths of time. The count-down world. The War with Mars. How could it matter? Who was the Man In The Mask?

The sun swells in the sky, a light for the death of all. He shouts a question, "Where does dreaming end?" There is no reply.

He is on the beach, reads a message, scrawled on the blocks at the edge of the sea.

And who is the Man In The Mask? Myself. Or absolutely no one. Fear incarnate. What I became, in the sky.

Who spoke to me? Who do they think?

FOURTEEN.

He climbs the sky, fills the heart of the sun. His tendrils spread from the vortex, consuming all.

Whirlpool man, boiling like the quicksilver rain, grasping for the stars. Awaiting nova.

Afterword.

This story, considered at the superficial level, reads like a parody of science fiction; the War with Mars, the concluding nova, are among the oldest and most tired of all possible cliches. I hope that this was intentional. While I find it difficult to reconstruct exactly what I was trying to do, it seems to me that I have written a kind of tribute to the comic books, the literary level below science fiction, where things happen without real explanation, a world of bright colors and loud noises, which fitted with the distorted perceptions of the astronaut Kaheris. The initial image at least, that of the countdown-world, I got from an old edition of the "Justice League Of America." (The planet, of course, was not Earth, and I have no recollection of how the heroes escaped.) Kaheris is a character cut from cardboard, an animated shadow in a sequence of disasters. As I wrote the story, the images grew rather larger than I had wanted, pushed Kaheris further and further back; although I had never intended to define his position clearly. The a.s.sa.s.sination sequence is an inversion of the nomination of Goldwater. The War with Mars is not the Vietnam War, it's just any war, the kind you can read about in any comic.

Introduction to OZYMANDIAS.

In 1967, Terry Carr, then a junior editor at Ace Books, managed to convince that publishing house to begin a series of science fiction "specials" (a designation devised by the late A. A. Wyn, founder of the company, and capitalizing on the then-popular TV "specials" the networks were pushing). Terry was at first nominally in charge, but soon became the senior editor on the series. In the years between 1967 and 1971 when-under unpleasant circ.u.mstances that reflect poorly on Ace-Terry left the company, the Ace Specials became the most prestigious series of books ever published in the field. They garnered more Hugos and Nebulas for Ace than any company in the history of sf publishing, brought to first publication such novelists as R. A. Lafferty, Gordon Eklund, Joanna Russ, Alexei Panshin, D. G. Compton and John Sladek (in the United States), Bob Shaw and others...and became a sought-after showcase by writers who knew Terry promoted the books as few other paperback houses would.

More than merely a random group of t.i.tles submitted by agents and unsolicited through slush pile, the Specials were the brainchild of Terry Carr; they were lovingly crafted and packaged with stunning elegance. (Leo & Diane Dillon, whom DV readers will remember as the artists of that first anthology, created not merely commercial cover paintings but works of genuine Fine Art that made the hearts of the authors burst with joy.) Terry devised innovations in packaging that made the Specials books worth keeping after insuring they were books no one could keep from purchasing. For instance, instead of mere hype cover copy or precis precis of plot (usually misleading or annoyingly revelatory of the story within), Terry took the time and trouble to work far enough ahead so galleys of forthcoming t.i.tles could be sent to well-known sf authors whose works were tonally like those of the book in question, and he solicited unpaid comment for use on the covers. Most companies do that sort of thing from time to time, but usually they either pay for the comments-thereby throwing their validity into question-or they make sure only good comment will be forthcoming, by any number of methods. Terry, on the other hand, always made it perfectly clear that he wanted of plot (usually misleading or annoyingly revelatory of the story within), Terry took the time and trouble to work far enough ahead so galleys of forthcoming t.i.tles could be sent to well-known sf authors whose works were tonally like those of the book in question, and he solicited unpaid comment for use on the covers. Most companies do that sort of thing from time to time, but usually they either pay for the comments-thereby throwing their validity into question-or they make sure only good comment will be forthcoming, by any number of methods. Terry, on the other hand, always made it perfectly clear that he wanted only only honest opinion, and if a writer who received a set of galleys found the book less than pleasurable, Terry understood and never tried to bulldoze an author into altering his opinion, or even into providing something noncommittal that could be edited with those deadly ellipses. honest opinion, and if a writer who received a set of galleys found the book less than pleasurable, Terry understood and never tried to bulldoze an author into altering his opinion, or even into providing something noncommittal that could be edited with those deadly ellipses.

Terry Carr, through dint of sheer hard work, became the very best book editor we ever had.

Now the Specials are dead, and Terry is back on a freelance basis. But who he is, and what he did, will live on.

As editor, Terry brought forth the following excellent collections:

Science Fiction for People Who Hate Science Fiction (Doubleday, 1966; Funk & Wagnalls, 1968) (Doubleday, 1966; Funk & Wagnalls, 1968) New Worlds of Fantasy 1/2/3 (Ace, 1967, 1970, 1971) 1/2/3 (Ace, 1967, 1970, 1971) The Others (Gold Medal, 1969) (Gold Medal, 1969) On Our Way to the Future (Ace, 1970) (Ace, 1970) Universe (Ace, 1971, 1972) (Ace, 1971, 1972)

and in collaboration with long-time Ace editor Donald A. Wollheim he edited the superior series of World's Best Science Fiction World's Best Science Fiction (196571) from Ace. This series alone, had Terry never worked on any other anthology, made his name and gave him the deserved stature all science fiction fandom has bestowed on him. For, early in the game, Terry and Don's "best" became the (196571) from Ace. This series alone, had Terry never worked on any other anthology, made his name and gave him the deserved stature all science fiction fandom has bestowed on him. For, early in the game, Terry and Don's "best" became the definitive definitive "best," despite other editors' claims to the contrary. "best," despite other editors' claims to the contrary.

As writer, Terry wrote Warlord of Kor Warlord of Kor (Ace, 1963) and co-wrote a novel he wishes to be forgotten. Threats of kidnapping and tickling to death his writer wife, Carol, could not extract the t.i.tle of the book from Mr. Carr, and so, apart from some students at William Rainey Harper College in Palatine, Illinois who know, the information will go to Mr. Carr's grave and the out-of-print department of Monarch Books. Perhaps that's for the best. One never knows. (Ace, 1963) and co-wrote a novel he wishes to be forgotten. Threats of kidnapping and tickling to death his writer wife, Carol, could not extract the t.i.tle of the book from Mr. Carr, and so, apart from some students at William Rainey Harper College in Palatine, Illinois who know, the information will go to Mr. Carr's grave and the out-of-print department of Monarch Books. Perhaps that's for the best. One never knows.

As writer, he penned a great short story, "The Dance of the Changer and the Three", which was nominated in 1969 for both Hugo and Nebula, though this editor beat him out for the former and Kate Wilhelm took the latter. Mr. Carr has consistently carped about this experience, claiming all manner of dark and ugly chicane was involved in his upset. Even n.o.ble editors can be spoil-sports, it would seem.

Now, Carr, what have you to say for yourself?

"Born Grants Pa.s.s, Oregon, February 19, 1937, which means I'm over 30 but was still under the mark when the original caution about who's trustworthy was made. February 19 also means I'm Aquarius or Pisces, depending on what authority you believe. My life is marked by inconsistencies like that, if it's marked by anything. Lived in the hills of Oregon for my first five years-real country stuff, with my father gold mining on the property and all. We moved to San Francisco after Pearl Harbor and that's where I did most of my growing up. College at S. F. City College for two years, where I was taking a course in s.p.a.ce flight before Sputnik, and learned all about weather balloons. More college at University of California at Berkeley, during a time when the administration was scolding the students for their apathy, ahaha. I was apathetic too, and didn't graduate; got married instead. It didn't last, and after the breakup in 1961 I moved to New York where, having no better profession, I tried writing for a living. Astounded myself more than anyone by selling everything I wrote, but was still starving due to not writing enough, a familiar story. Went to work as a literary agent for a year and a half but didn't like it, so I jumped at the chance for an editorial position at Ace Books when Don Wollheim offered it. Worked there for seven years. Job vanished in 1971, along with large chunks of the country, during the Great Recession that seems to have been a reality for everyone except Mr. Nixon.

"Discovered science fiction initially by stumbling across Balmer & Wylie's WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE in the school library while looking for a book on astronomy; it had been misfiled, but after reading it I didn't complain. A few months later I found a couple of back issues of Amazing Stories Amazing Stories in a city dump, and from there it was downhill the rest of the way. Got involved in science fiction fandom when I was twelve, became one of the most voluminous fan publishers ever, until professional things left me without time for it. Five Hugo nominations for best fan magazine, but only one win, that being co-edited with the late Ron Ellik. Later had Nebula and Hugo nominations for a short story, 'The Dance of the Changer and the Three,' but was beaten by dirty politics in both cases. Don't print that. in a city dump, and from there it was downhill the rest of the way. Got involved in science fiction fandom when I was twelve, became one of the most voluminous fan publishers ever, until professional things left me without time for it. Five Hugo nominations for best fan magazine, but only one win, that being co-edited with the late Ron Ellik. Later had Nebula and Hugo nominations for a short story, 'The Dance of the Changer and the Three,' but was beaten by dirty politics in both cases. Don't print that.

"I'm 6'3", 185 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, no birthmarks except a couple of slight identations behind the ears as a result of being born a forceps baby; you'd have trouble finding them, though, unless I showed you, so they're no good for any FBI dossier that may exist. Have been married for lo these ten years to Carol Carr, who's pretty and s.e.xy and funny and manages to write even less than I do, which is a wonder. What else do you want to know?"

Incidentally, Terry informs me-and you-that he will no longer be editing World's Best Science Fiction World's Best Science Fiction with Donald Wollheim, but will be initiating a new series of "best" volumes for Ballantine Books. with Donald Wollheim, but will be initiating a new series of "best" volumes for Ballantine Books.

OZYMANDIAS.

Terry Carr They came up out of the groundstars howling and leaping, laughing and pushing, singing into the night a strange, tuneless, polyphonal chant. They proceeded past the markers and twice around them, still giggling and chanting, and spread out in a wavering line that went up the hill like a snake. It took them ten minutes to go from the markers to the boundary, a distance of no more than fifty paces for a walker-but these were not walkers, they were robbers, and they had the laws to follow.

Sooleyrah was in the lead, because he was the best dancer among them-the most graceful and quick and, even more important, the most inventive. No approach to the vaults could be made in just the same way any had been made before, and if the watcher, who was always second in line, noticed a pattern developing that he thought he might have seen before, it was his job to trip the leader, or shove him, or kick him, or whatever was necessary to shake him into a new rhythm or direction. On those raids when the leader invented enough new variations, and the watcher made sure there were no repeats from the past, then they had a successful raid. When leader and watcher failed, there were explosions, blindings, gases, and sometimes the sound-without-sound, and then there was death.

But Sooleyrah was in good form tonight, and even Kreech, who was watcher, had to admit that.

"Go good," he chanted. "Go good, good, good, go good." Then he tripped Sooleyrah, but only for the fun of it, and danced in a circle till the leader bounded up and continued.