Jean Marie Stine - Lost Stars Forgotten Sci-Fi

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LOST STARS

FORGOTTEN SCIENCE FICTION FROM THE "BEST OF"

ANTHOLOGIES

Edited by

JEAN MARIE STINE

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN 1-58873-209-6

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

For information:

Emailcomments@renebooks.com

PageTurner Editions

Futures-Past Science Fiction

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

TEETHING RING – James Causey

THE DIVERSIFAL – Ross Rocklynne

THE CYBER AND JUSTICE HOLMES – Frank Riley

A PECULIAR PEOPLE – Betsy Curtis

DOUGHNUT JOCKEY – Eric Fennel

THE LANSON SCREEN – Arthur Leo Zagat

SIT BY THE FIRE – Myrle Benedict

THE SUBLIME VIGIL – Chester D. Cuthbert

INTRODUCTION

Since the dawn of modern science fiction in 1926 with Hugo Gernsback'sAmazing

Stories , tuHuhere have been at least a couple of hundred anthologies presenting

"best of" stories. The first of these titled,The Best of Science Fiction, was published

in 1946 and skimmed the cream of the crop of the previous two decades of sf. By

1950, the genre was producing so much work of such high quality that an annual

series was inaugurated. Since editors often differ on just which works are "best," this

first annual series was followed by others. And, since the late 1960s, there have

generally been at least three such anthologies every year, each under the helm of a

different editor. In addition, many science fiction magazines have issued their own

stand-alone or annual anthologies, comprising the "best of" selected from among

their pages. Furthermore, other editors have put together such ingenious twists on

the idea as,My Best Science Fiction Story andScience Fiction: Editor's Choice

(wherein editors of various magazines selected their personal favorite from among

the publication's stories).

Because of the huge volume of stories in these anthologies, and the age of some,

which have been out of print for more than a half century, many of these gems of

science fiction have been forgotten. This anthology hopes to correct that tragedy, at

least in part, by restoring to print a generous helping. We are certain you will enjoy

these tales as much as we did while rereading them forLost Stars .

Jean Marie Stine

07/15/2003

TEETHING RING

JAMES CAUSEY

(Selected fromThe Second Galaxy Reader of Science Fiction , 1954)

Half an hour before, while she had been engrossed in the current soap opera and

Harry junior was screaming in his crib, Melinda would naturally have slammed the

front door in the little man's face. However, when the bell rang, she was wearing her

new Chinese red housecoat, had just lustered her nails to a blinding scarlet, and

Harry junior was sleeping like an angel.

Yawning, Melinda answered the door and the little man said, beaming, "Excellent

day. I have geegaws for information."

Melinda did not quite recoil. He was perhaps five feet tall, with a gleaming hairless

scalp and a young-old face. He wore a plain gray tunic, and a peddler's tray hung

from his thin shoulders.

"Don't want any," Melinda stated flatly.

"Please." He had great, beseeching amber eyes. "They all say that. I haven't much

time. I must be back at the University by noon."

"You working your way through college?"

He brightened. "Yes. I suppose you could call it that. Alien anthropology major."

Melinda softened. The initiations those frats pulled nowadays–shaving the poor guy's

head, eating goldfish–it was criminal.

"Well?" she asked grudgingly. "What's in the tray?"

"Flanglers," said the little man eagerly. "Oscilloscopes. Portable force-field

generators. A neural distorter." Melinda's face was blank. The little man frowned.

"You use them, of course? This is a Class IV culture?" Melinda essayed a weak

shrug and the little man sighed with relief. His eyes fled past her to the blank screen

of the TV set. "Ah, a monitor." He smiled. "For a moment I was afraid–May 1 come

in?"

Melinda shrugged, opened the door. This might be interesting, like a vacuum-cleaner

salesman who had cleaned her drapes last week for free. And Kitty Kyle Battles Life

wouldn't be on for almost an hour.

"My name is Porteous," said the little man with an eager smile. "I'm doing a thematic

on Class IV cultures." He whipped out a stylus, began jotting down notes. The TV

set fascinated him.

"It's turned off right now," Melinda said.

Porteous' eyes widened impossibly. "You mean," he whispered in horror, "that

you're exercising Class V privileges? This is terribly confusing. I get doors slammed

in my face, when Class Fours are supposed to have a splendid gregarian quotient–

you do have atomic power, don't you?"

"Oh, sure," said Melinda uncomfortably. This wasn't going to be much fun.

"Space travel?" The little face was intent, sharp.

"Well," Melinda yawned, looking at the blank screen, "they've got Space Patrol,

Space Cadet, Tales of Tomorrow..."

"Excellent. Rocket ships or force-fields?" Melinda blinked. "Does your husband

own one?" Melinda shook her blonde head helplessly. "What are your economic

circumstances?"

Melinda took a deep rasping breath, said, "Listen, mister, is this a demonstration or a

quiz program?"

"Oh, my excuse. Demonstration, certainly. You will not mind the questions."

"Questions?" There was an ominous glint in Melinda's blue eyes.

"Your delightful primitive customs, art-forms, personal habits–"

"Look," Melinda said, crimsoning. "This is a respectable neighborhood, and I'm not

answering any Kinsey report, understand?"

The little man nodded, scribbling. "Personal habits are tabu? I so regret. The

demonstration." He waved grandly at the tray. "Anti-grav sandals? A portable solar

converter? Apologizing for this miserable selection, but on Capella they told me–" He

followed Melinda's entranced gaze, selected a tiny green vial. "This is merely a

regenerative solution. You appear to have no cuts or bruises."

"Oh," said Melinda nastily. "Cures warts, cancer, grows hair, I suppose."

Porteous brightened. "Of course. I see you can scan. Amazing." He scribbled

further with his stylus, glanced up, blinked at the obvious scorn on Melinda's face.

"Here. Try it."

"You try it." Now watch him squirm!

Porteous hesitated. "Would you like me to grow an extra finger, hair–"

"Grow some hair." Melinda tried not to smile.

The little man unstopped the vial, poured a shimmering green drop on his wrist,

frowning.

"Must concentrate," he said. "Thorium base, suspended solution. Really jolts the

endocrines, complete control ... see?"

Melinda's jaw dropped. She stared at the tiny tuft of hair which had sprouted on that

bare wrist. She was thinking abruptly, unhappily, about that chignon she had bought

yesterday. They had let her buy that for eight dollars when with this stuff she could

have a natural one.

"How much?" she inquired cautiously.

"A half hour of your time only," said Porteous.

Melinda grasped the vial firmly, settled down on the sofa with one leg tucked

carefully under her.

"Okay, shoot. But nothing personal."

Porteous was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of them pointless,

some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund of knowledge and gave. The

little man scribbled furiously, clucking like a gravid hen.

"You mean," he asked in amazement, "that you live in these primitive huts of your

own volition?"

"It's a G.I. housing project," Melinda said, ashamed.

"Astonishing." He wrote: Feudal anachronisms and atomic power, side by side.

Class Fours periodically "rough it" in back-to-nature movements.

Harry junior chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch. Porteous sat,

trembling. "Is that a Security Alarm?"

"My son," said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery.

Porteous followed, and watched the ululating child with some trepidation.

"Newborn?"

"Eighteen months," said Melinda stiffly, changing diapers. "He's cutting teeth."

Porteous shuddered. "What a pity. Obviously atavistic. Wouldn't the creche accept

him? You shouldn't have to keep him here."

"I keep after Harry to get a maid, but he says we can't afford one."

"Manifestly insecure," muttered the little man, studying Harry junior. "Definite

paranoid tendencies."

"He was two weeks premature," volunteered Melinda. "He's real sensitive."

"I know just the thing," Porteous said happily. "Here." He dipped into the glittering

litter on the tray and handed Harry junior a translucent prism. "A neural distorter. We

use it to train regressives on Rigel Two. It might be of assistance."

Melinda eyed the thing doubtfully. Harry junior was peering into the shifting crystal

depths with a somewhat strained expression.

"Speeds up the neural flow," explained the little man proudly. "Helps tap the unused

eighty per cent. The pre-symptomatic memory is unaffected, due to automatic

cerebral lapse in case of overload. I'm afraid it won't do much more than cube his

present IQ, and an intelligent idiot is still an idiot, but–"

"How dare you?" Melinda's eyes flashed. "My son is not an idiot! You get out of

here this minute and take your-things with you." As she reached for the prism, Harry

junior squalled. Melinda relented. "Here," she said angrily, fumbling with her purse.

"How much are they?"

"Medium of exchange?" Porteous rubbed his bald skull. "Oh, I really shouldn't–but

it'll make such a wonderful addendum to the chapter on malignant primitives. What is

your smallest denomination?"

"Is a dollar okay?" Melinda was hopeful.

Porteous was pleased with the picture of George Washington. He turned the bill over

and over in his fingers, at last bowed low and formally; apologized for any tabu

violations, and left via the front door.

"Crazy fraternities," muttered Melinda, turning on the TV set.

Kitty Kyle was dull that morning. At length Melinda used some of the liquid in the

green vial on her eyelashes, was quite pleased at the results, and hid the rest in the

medicine cabinet.

Harry junior was a model of docility the rest of that day. While Melinda watched TV

and munched chocolates, did and redid her hair, Harry junior played quietly with the

crystal prism.

Toward late afternoon, he crawled over to the bookcase, wrestled down the

encyclopedia and pawed through it, gurgling with delight. He definitely, Melinda

decided, would make a fine lawyer someday, not a useless putterer like Big Harry,

who worked all hours overtime in that damned lab. She scowled as Harry junior,

bored with the encyclopedia, began reaching for one of Big Harry's tomes on

nuclear physics. One putterer in the family was enough! But when she tried to take

the book away from him, Harry junior howled so violently that she let well enough

alone.

At six-forty, Big Harry called from the lab, with the usual despondent message that

he would not be home for supper. Melinda said a few resigned things about

cheerless dinners eaten alone, hinted darkly what lonesome wives sometimes did for

company, and Harry said he was very sorry, but this might be it, and Melinda hung

up on him in a temper.

Precisely fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Melinda opened the front door and

gaped. This little man could have been Porteous' double, except for the black

metallic tunic, the glacial gray eyes.

"Mrs. Melinda Adams?" Even the voice was frigid.

"Y-Yes. Why?"

"Major Nord, Galactic Security." The little man bowed. "You were visited early this

morning by one Porteous." He spoke the name with a certain disgust. "He left a

neural distorter here. Correct?"

Melinda's nod was tremulous. Major Nord came quietly into the living room, shut the

door behind him. "My apologies, madam, for the intrusion. Porteous mistook your

world for a Class IV culture, instead of a Class VII. Here–" He handed her the

crumpled dollar bill. "You may check the serial number. The distorter, please."

Melinda shrunk limply onto the sofa. "I don't understand," she said painfully. "Was

he a thief?"

"He was–careless about his spatial coordinates." Major Nord's teeth showed in the

faintest of smiles. "He has been corrected. Where is it?"

"Now look," said Melinda with some asperity. "That thing's kept Harry junior quiet

all day. I bought it in good faith, and it's not my fault–say, have you got a warrant?"

"Madam," said the Major with dignity, "I dislike violating local tabus, but must I

explain the impact of a neural distorter on a backwater culture? What if your

Neanderthal had been given atomic blasters? Where would you have been today?

Swinging through trees, no doubt. What if your Hitler had force-fields?" He exhaled.

"Where is your son?"

In the nursery, Harry junior was contentedly playing with his blocks. The prism lay

glinting in the comer.

Major Nord picked it up carefully, scrutinized Harry junior. His voice was very soft.

"You said he was-playing with it?"

Some vestigial maternal instinct prompted Melinda to shake her head vigorously. The

little man stared hard at Harry junior, who began whimpering. Trembling, Melinda

scooped up Harry junior.

"Is that all you have to do–run around frightening women and children? Take your

old distorter and get out. Leave decent people alone!"

Major Nord frowned. If only he could be sure. He peered stonily at Harry junior,

murmured, "Definite egomania. It doesn't seem to have affected him. Strange."

"Do you want me to scream?" Melinda demanded.

Major Nord sighed. He bowed to Melinda, went out, closed the door, touched a tiny

stud on his tunic, and vanished.

"The manners of some people," Melinda said to Harry junior. She was relieved that

the Major had not asked for the green vial.

Harry junior also looked relieved, although for quite a different reason.

Big Harry arrived home a little after eleven. There were small worry creases about his

mouth and forehead, and the leaden cast of defeat in his eyes. He went into the

bedroom and Melinda sleepily told him about the little man working his way through

college by peddling silly goods, and about that rude cop named Nord, and Harry

said that was simply astonishing and Melinda said, "Harry, you had a drink!"

"I had two drinks," Harry told her owlishly. "You married a failure, dear. Part of the

experimental model vaporized, wooosh, just like that. On paper it looked so good–"

Melinda had heard it all before. She asked him to see if Harry Junior was covered,

and Big Harry went unsteadily into the nursery, sat down by his son's crib.

"Poor little guy," he mused. "Your old man's a bum, a useless tinker. He thought he

could send Man to the stars on a string of helium nucleii. Oh, he was smart. Thought

of everything. Auxiliary jets to kick off the negative charge, bigger mercury vapor

banks–a fine straight thrust of positive Alpha particles." He hiccupped, put his face

in his hands.

"Didn't you ever stop to think that a few air molecules could defocus the stream?

Try a vacuum, stupid."

Big Harry stood up.

"Did you say something, son?"

"Gurfle," said Harry junior.

Big Harry reeled into the living room like a somnambulist.

He got pencil and paper, began jotting frantic formulae. Presently he called a cab and

raced back to the laboratory.

Melinda was dreaming about little bald men with diamond-studded trays. They were

chasing her, they kept pelting her with rubies and emeralds, all they wanted was to

ask questions, but she kept running, Harry junior clasped tightly in her arms. Now

they were ringing and she groaned, sat up in bed, and seized the telephone.

"Darling." Big Harry's voice shook. "I've got it! More auxiliary shielding plus a

vacuum. We'll be rich!"

"That's just fine," said Melinda crossly. "You woke the baby."

Harry junior was sobbing bitterly into his pillow. He was sick with disappointment.

Even the most favorable extrapolation showed it would take him nineteen years to

become master of the world.

An eternity. Nineteen years!

THE DIVERSIFAL

ROSS ROCKLYNNE

(Selected fromThe Best of Planet Stories, 1975)

"NO," said the shadowy man who sat high above the floor on the chair of the

time-machine, "you can't do that."

"Can't, eh?"

"No!"

"Sorry."

For a second, Bryan was shaken with indecision. This is intolerable, he thought. I'll

turn the doorknob. After all, he has no real jurisdiction over any actions. Nor has he,

in spite of the stakes involved, any right to meddle in my life the way he has.

His rebel thoughts endured for only that second. His grip loosened on the doorknob,

his gloved hand fell away. He actually took a few steps backward, as if he would

negate that action which led toward disaster. Then he turned quickly, urged his

undernourished body back up the threadbare hall, into his equally threadbare room.

Off came his shapeless hat, and overcoat which was ripped at seams and pockets,

and he sat down, brain numb, the sensations of his stomach forgotten in the greater

hunger.

Where is she? Who is she!

He did not have the courage to meet the cold eyes of the man who sat in shadowy

outline amongst nebulous, self-suspended machinery, although that being watched

him with merciless inflexibility of purpose. He had only the courage to speak, while

his eyes fixed dully on the gingerbreaded metal bed with its sagging mattress.

"The Alpha Group?"

"The Alpha Group," the shadowy man spoke coldly, in agreement, "Punctus four.

You would have met her."

"I thought so. I felt it."

"You felt nothing of the sort. You have an exaggerated notion of the perceptive

qualities of your psyche."

"I named the Alpha Group," said Bryan wearily.

"Because for the first three or four years of our association, the Alpha Group will

predominate. And because you have come to associate certain of my facial

expressions and tonal qualities with the group. There was no telepathic pick-up from

the girl. She is not aware that you exist. Nor will she ever be aware, as long as you

choose to work in close collaboration with me–and as a humanitarian yourself, you

will not refuse to collaborate."

Bryan leaned back in the worn armchair, grinning twistedly, though his heart was lead

in his breast. He held the longlashed eyes of the god-like creature with a flickering

sidewise glance. "Perhaps you will choose to stop collaborating with me."

The nostrils of the being flared. "No. Never. We will continue-we must continue to

work together until the Alpha, Delta, and Gamma groups are exhausted–"

"Or until–"

"Or until I commit suicide as you suggested."

"Yes."

Bryan lost his tensity, and his fear that he could not bear it, might disobey a

command from this creature. Suddenly, he was amused. Bryan was chained to this

creature, but no less than this creature was chained to him; chained to him for ten

long years, or until he might take his own life.

Creature? Yes'. For certainly any animal that is not homo sapiens is a creature. Even

if he be homo superior, of the year Eight-hundred thousand A.D., and has invented a

time-machine, and has but one powerful, compelling thought in mind–to save the

human race. Or that race of creatures which had stemmed from the human race. That

was it. After fighting and imagining, aspiring and succeeding, for a good many

millions of years, man was about to be snuffed out. So the shadowy being–homo

superior–had told Bryan on that day a week ago when he had appeared in this room.

The human race, far in the future, would destroy itself unless–unless Bryan Barret did

not do something that he had done; did not become something that he had become.

The thoughts of the creature had impinged on his brain clearly after the first

moments of fright. Bryan had listened, and believed.

"So I'm a diversifal," he had muttered. "Bryan Barret, liberal, radical, diversifal."

"You are a diversifal. I can coin no other word for it."

"And she is a diversifal."

"Yes!"

"And, our child would be a mutant."

"Yes.

"I, thought," Bryan had said, his thoughts sinking heavily into a morass of

intangibles, "I thought, if one wants to follow the theory to its logical conclusion,

that there are an infinite number of probable worlds."

"Are there?" The depthless eyes of the being, looking down at Bryan from his

shadowy height above the floor, had been contemptuous with disinterest. "I know of

only two. They are the only two with which I am concerned. A thousand years in my

future they warred–and humanity destroyed itself. This I know. This I must prevent.

From your unborn mutant child my race stems."

"Your race?" Bryan had exclaimed.

"Yes."

"You are seeking to prevent your own world of probability?'

"Yes." The long-lashed eyes flickered. The being leaned forward a little, staring

down at Bryan. "Why not, Bryan Barret? Does it matter? It is my world of

probability which discovered the manner of traveling to the other world. It is my

world which waged the war. It is my world, your world, which is–will be at fault. I

am selfless. You know what it is to be selfless. You can understand. And, after all,

you are the diversifal–the splitting factor."

Bryan was inwardly shaken. The selfless superman. Or, and this was more likely, the

selfless scientist. The picture, in its entirety, had come quite clearly to Bryan Barrett.

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LOSTSTARSFORGOTTENSCIENCEFICTIONFROMTHE"BESTOF"ANTHOLOGIESEditedbyJEANMARIESTINEARenaissanceEBookspublicationISBN1-58873-209-6AllrightsreservedCopyright©2003byRenaissanceEBooksThisbookmaynotbereproducedinwholeorinpartwithoutwrittenpermission.Forinformation:Emailcomments@renebooks.comPageTurnerEditio...

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