Horace Gold - Inside Man & Other Science Fiction Stories

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INSIDE MAN & OTHER STORIES

Science Fiction on the Gold Standard

H.L. GOLD

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN1-58873-181-2

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

For information contact:

Renaissance E Books

P. O. Box 1432

Northampton MA 01060

USA

Email comments@renebooks.com

PageTurner Editions

A Futures-Past Science Fiction Classic

Selected and introduced by Jean Marie Stine

CONTENTS

Introduction

Inside Man

Personnel Problem

The Riches of Embarrassment

Someone to Watch over Me (with Floyd Gold)

Grifter's Asteroid

What Price Wings?

Transmogrification of Wamba's Revenge

INTRODUCTION

Between the mid-1930s and 1950, the legendary editor John W. Campbell, Jr. used

the pages of the old pulp magazineAstounding to single-handedly turned science

fiction into a serious literature based on rigorous, contemporary (rather than

out-dated) scientific extrapolation, generally focused on some "hard" science like

engineering or physics or ballistics. Some measure of Campbell's achievement can

be found in the names of the writers he schooled and the stories they wrote for him.

These include Asimov's Foundation and Robot series; Heinlein'sDouble Star,

Beyond this Horizon, Methuselah's Children , and Future History stories; the best

works of A. E. Van Vogt,The World of Null-A, Slan, The Weapon Makers ; and

authors as legendary as Lester del Rey, L. Sprague de Camp, and Theodore

Sturgeon, among others.

H. L. Gold effected a revolution of equal significance in the 1950s, when he

emphasized social satire and a sense of humor, along with such human-centered

sciences as psychology, sociology, and anthropology, into the pages of his

newly-launched science fiction magazine,Galaxy. Although a few writers whose

natural bent ran more his way than Campbell's – notably Theodore Sturgeon –

moved over fromAstounding (soon to be renamedAnalog to better suit the more

sophisticated tastes of the modern age), Gold's most notable successes were all

home-grown and his record for developing stellar talent and encouraging them to

write stellar works is evident in the names and stories that emerged fromGalaxy's

pages. Among them were Alfred Bester withThe Demolished Man andThe Stars My

Destination; Frederick Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth'sGravy Planet and

Gladiator-at-Law ; and Ray Bradbury'sFahrenheit 451 ; along with William Tenn,

Robert Sheckley, Margaret St. Clair, Evelyn E. Smith, and others. It should prove no

surprise, then, thatGalaxy and Gold were frequent nominees for the Hugo Award for

Best Science Fiction Magazine of the Year and captured it 1953.

Gold's own fiction bears all the characteristics he focused on atGalaxy , a puckish

sense of humor joined with a wicked flair for satire. Mix, and the result is sometimes

as effervescent as champagne ("Inside Man," "Grifter's Asteroid"), as wicked a kick

in the head as whiskey ("Someone to Watch Over Me"), and as satisfying as

well-brewed lager ("The Transmogrification of Wamba's Revenge"). Horace Gold

also liked to stand familiar science fictional notions on their head, and he does that

again and again in the stories in this collection. Almost every science fiction author

worth their salt has, at one time or another, written about extra-sensory perception,

telepathy, and other paranormal abilities. Gold does it too, but unlike his colleagues,

he dreams up brand new wrinkles on ESP no one else, including you, every thought

of (as in "Inside Man" and "The Riches of Embarrassment"). When he wrote "The

Transmogrification of Wamba's Revenge," Gold was given a cover painting

depicting the cliched scene of a scientist experimenting on miniature human beings

he has shrunk in size – the notion can be found in the oldThrilling Wonder Tales of

1930s fame, as well as the filmDoctor Cyclops – but when Gold looked at the

painting, he saw an entirely different possibility – one everyone else in the field

overlooked. And when Gold meditates on one of humakind's age old dreams, you

can be sure things don't turn out anything like the dream. The special quality of

Gold's work was endorsed by his colleagues when "Inside Man" was nominated for

the Science Fiction Writer's of America Nebula Award for Best Short Story of 1965.

The Science Fiction Source Bookhails Gold's science fictions as "witty

entertainments ... evidence of [a] sharp and perceptive intelligence."The Magazine of

Fantasy and Science Fiction noted that "there's nothing machine-made about H. L.

Gold's tales. Mr. Gold is almost the only SF writer capable of creating lower and

lower-middle class backgrounds (a relief, after all of SF's potentates, plutocrats and

technological elite)."Inside Man & Other Science Fictions is a real treat for SF fans,

gathering together in an exclusive ebook edition the best of H. L. Gold's uncollected

work, including his Nebula nominee title story.

Jean Marie Stine

4/21/2003

INSIDE MAN

Lester Shay was married three months when he got his first Erector set. Thalia,

noting that he felt tired and rundown, ordered him to get a checkup. Too tired and

rundown to object, he went to see Dr. Peabody.

"Very surprising" the physician said after an embarrassingly thorough examination.

"Married three months, beautiful, affectionate bride – but you get plenty of sleep,

outdoors a lot, a moderate amount of exercise."

"I do all my own marketing," said Les, who owned a wholesale grocery business. "I

walk every chance I get, which is considerable. Marketing is all outdoors, you know.

And I have to get to sleep early, because if I don't get up early, my competitors–"

"Exactly. And I know it's not overwork. I'm overworked myself, but I'm in tiptop

condition."

"How do you manage it?" asked Les, interested in a tired, rundown way.

"A hobby," said Dr. Peabody.

"Gardening? Raising tropical fish? Golf?"

"The last thing you'd expect," Dr. Peabody said, leaning forward excitedly. "I know

a lot of dentists. They give me old fillings and I've got this little smelter, see, and I

break down the amalgam into silver and mercury, then sell the stuff back to the

dentists. Darn near pays for itself! And fun? You ought to come visit my basement

sometime!"

Shambling home, Les wondered what he could take up as a hobby. Nightclubs and

theaters wouldn't do. They let out too late. Besides, they weren't a hobby. Raising

things was too close to his actual work; it would make him think about produce and

canned goods. He did enough outdoor walking to eliminate sports.

That was when he saw the Erector set in the store window.

He stopped and studied it, looking more wistful now than tired or rundown. He had

always wanted an Erector set, but his parents, believers in as the twig is bent so

grows the tree, had refused to buy him one. They didn't, they explained, want their

son to become a mechanic. Not, mind you, they'd added, that there was anything

wrong with mechanics. But he was worthy of great things. They had also been

disappointed when he went into the wholesale grocery line, were more pleased now

because he was doing well in it, but that wasn't important. He still wanted an Erector

set.

When he got home, Thalia looked expectantly at the large, heavy box. He had

bought the biggest and most expensive set, of course.

"Oh, something for the house?" she asked, obviously hoping it wasn't.

"Doctor said I needed a hobby or something," he explained uncomfortably.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "We can do it together!"

"You mean you like working on Erector sets, too?" he cried.

"Oh," she said. "Well, that's really a – well, a man's hobby."

She gave him the room that would some day be a nursery and he built a parachute

jump, a stake truck, a windmill and a ski tow. The spring came back to his walk and

the roses to his cheeks.

But less than a week later, lying in bed with his bride in his arms, he could sense the

old tired, rundown feeling creep up on him.

"What's the matter, darling?" Thalia asked, disconcerted. "Is it the onions I had for

dinner?"

"Oh, no, sweetheart!" he tried to answer hastily, only it came out a slow sigh. "It's

the Erector set."

"The – Erector set? Oh! The Erector set. Well, if it's broken, darling, you can always

buy another."

"It's not broken. That isn't the trouble," he sighed again, and turned over and

moodily went to sleep.

* * *

The problem was still on his mind in the pre-dawn at the market. Kale was coming in

nicely and he had bought all the primes offered by the farmers. He morosely helped

Arnie, his driver, load up.

"What happened to the old zip?" Arnie asked concernedly. "'You were feeling great

for a while. Down in the dumps again?"

"I guess so," said Les. "Temporarily, at least. I hope."

"You ought to try tooling one of these monmouths through city traffic. Gotta judge

every inch of the way. Boy, you drive one and I bet you won't have a minute to–"

Les found himself listening intently, but not to Arnie's good-natured chatter.

Something was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But what?

No, not like walking barefooted on spilled sugar, he mused. Though it was a little like

that – sort of gritty. But painful, too. As if he were trying to run with a sore socket in

his leg.

"You've got a bearing burning out," Les interrupted.

Arnie took a fast glance at him. "Since when you know about motors, Boss?"

"A bearing," said Les. "That's what it feels like."

Les nodded at a service station up ahead. "Pull in there. I want to have it checked."

The garage man examined the motor and found a bearing rubbed so raw that Les

had to turn away in compassion and disgust. He left Arnie, puzzled enough to be

silent for once, at the service station and walked alone the rest of the way to the

office.

Les discovered he was surrounded by sensations ranging from purrs of pleasure all

the way to groans of pain. One purr came from a trim little Porsche – new tune-up

job, a little heavy on the grease, but that would thin out on the straightaway, he

thought, and the unexpected thought alarmed him.

Thought? He considered. It was a feeling, a very strong and explicit emotion. So

was the sympathy for a passing cab that really wanted to lie down on some nice,

restful junk pile. A painful click, click bothered him. He looked up. It was a tower

clock, desperately clawing its way around the hours on eroded cams. Damn the

sadists who would put a conscientious servant through such torture, he thought

angrily.

But he felt equally guilty when he came into the office and heard Miss Zither typing.

The dogs in the escape mechanism were practically howling and the keys were

moving only because her slim but powerful fingers were beating them into moving.

"Leave that alone!" Les said, more sharply than he'd intended. "I mean, no more

typing for today," he amended when she jumped and looked frightened.

"But the filing's all done and I have a perfect mess of correspondence to get out,"

she objected. "If I don't do it today–"

"Not on that battered hulk," he told her.

He called and ordered a new electric typewriter. Miss Zeichner was, as she put it,

thrilled. He shrugged. She always was either thrilled or absolutely – completely and

absolutely – shattered. But only over unimportant things.

For instance, was she completely and absolutely shattered by the pained limpings

and clenched-teeth determination to do a job, to keep those pistons pumping no

matter what the cost; completely and absolutely thrilled by the sleek, contented

murmurs, the happy little laughs of conscious strength, easy power, the cared-for

feeling; or completely and absolutely dismayed by the breathless puffing under a

merciless load, like–

He listened sharply. He felt more sharply still.

It came from the warehouse behind the office. He sprang out of his seat savagely

enough to upset Miss Zeichner again, raced into the warehouse.

A valiant little fork-lift truck, overloaded by half again too many cases of canned

salmon was almost red-faced with strain.

Les leaped aboard, switched off the motor, hauled out the man, shoved him against

the wall and, started a murderous swing.

"Mr. Shay!" yelped the man. "What did I do wrong?"

It was Walt's voice. Les blinked, dropped his fist, slumped. "Sorry, Walt," he

mumbled. "Guess I'm all on edge. You had that forklift overloaded and it – it jarred

me. Sorry."

Walt picked his shirt button up off the floor. "Hell, Mr. Shay, it's all right. I'd

probably do the same if somebody was ruining my property."

"Property!" shouted Les, for him again. "Things like machines – property!"

Arnie, back while his truck was being repaired, caught Les from behind and held and

soothed him into the office.

"You're all tensed up," Arnie said. "I'll get you a cab and you can go home and take

a hot bath and relax with your slippers and bathrobe and newspaper. How about it,

huh?"

"I suppose so," Les muttered. "I'm not much help today."

The cab was in good shape – that new pinion hurt a little, but it would break in soon

and Les sat back, easing, and even joined the comfortable, unworried motor hum.

Like all affectionate brides, beautiful or otherwise, when their husbands come home

half a day early, Thalia was flattered and coy, then concerned when he abstractedly

pecked her only once to her dozens of kisses on the face and mouth and ears and

neck, then relieved when he told her he wasn't sick, and finally delighted because

now he could help plan the menu for tonight.

"Menu?" he repeated.

"The Fitches are coming for dinner."

"Fitch? Fitch – good God he has seventeen stores – if I get the account – what do

you mean, menu? Caviar, bluepoints, vichyssoise, filet mignon, breast of guinea

hen–"

"Darling," she said. "Mr. Fitch has an ulcer."

"Ulcer," said Les. "Milk and crackers. Cottage cheese."

"What about that new line of dietetic food you said you could tie up if you only had

the outlets?"

"Hey!" he cried. "Why'd I have to go marry you and lose the best office manager I

ever had?"

"Because it was one or the other."

He gave her a dirty grin.

"Well, I was tired of being a working girl," she said defensively. "Every real,

honest-to-goodness woman wants–"

"I know what every real, honest-to-goodness woman wants. Let's let the menu wait,

because every real, honest-to-goodness man wants what every real,

honest-to-goodness woman–"

She wriggled out of his arms. "And with me going frantic? I was going to phone you

to pick up those dietetic foods and bring them home with you tonight. Now we'll

have to get a special messenger."

"Yeah," he said. "It's frustrating, but you're right. Why can't Miss Zeichner–"

"Oh, she'll learn, darling. Just give her time."

"Hah!" he said. "Why, you wouldn't believe it, but–"

"The menu," she told him firmly. "And the messenger."

* * *

"Well, look, damn it," Les argued the next morning, waiting for an elevator with

Thalia in the Medical Building. "Just because I didn't get the Fitch account is no

reason to haul me to a psychiatrist!"

"Lower your voice. People are looking," she shushed. "It isn't that and you know it,

darling."

"You mean Mrs. Fitch's watch? Well, there were two damaged jewels in it!"

"But to take it off her wrist right in the middle of dinner and go racing out in search

of a jeweler at that time of night–"

"I got one, didn't I? And he saw the cracked one on the top and put up a battle when

I hold him about the chipped one underneath, but he took the watch apart and sure

enough–"

"Yes, darling. I know. That's not what's important."

The elevator door opened and they got in.

"Then what is?" challenged Les.

She glanced at the elevator operator and whispered, "What you told me after Mr.

Fitch said they couldn't wait any longer for you to get back and to send the watch –

Les! You're not listening!"

But he was. He was listening very hard.

"The poor thing," he said, shaking his head sadly.

She looked around. Except for the operator, they were alone in the elevator.

"Who?" she asked.

"The elevator. When are people going to learn that too much oil–"

"That's what I mean, darling." She guided him across the corridor and opened the

door to a waiting room. Shakily she said. "Now there isn't a thing to worry about."

"Oh, no?" he snapped. 'With imbeciles and bunglers tormenting defenseless

machines that ask nothing more than to be done by as they do, living by the Golden

Rule, which is more than I say–"

"Mr. Shay?" inquired the nurse-receptionist at the desk. "You may go right in. Dr.

Hyde is expecting you."

"Dr. Hyde," snarled Les. "I bet he's got a silent partner named Mr. Jekyll."

He flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him.

With his hands behind his head, Les lay staring up at the ceiling, blinking once a

minute. Thalia inchwormed rapidly toward him until her head was under his chin.

"Darling?" she said in a very little voice.

He breathed slightly harder on her hair to show he was paying attention.

"You know, we've only been, married three months," she said, "and already we act

as if we'd grown old and gray together."

"Uh," he told her.

"Well, I don't feel old and gray." She paused. "Do you?"

'Um," he elaborated.

"You just lie there," she cried angrily. "Don't you give one single, solitary thought to

how – how undesirable it makes me feel?"

He forced his throat to move, then his tongue, finally his lips, "You're not."

"Then what–" She stopped, was silent for a long moment. "I'm a heel," she said

against his chest. "You're trying to digest what Dr. Hyde said to you today."

Les sat up abruptly with his back against the headboard, one stiff forefinger stabbing

repeatedly at the mattress. "Not digest. Regurgitate."

"It made sense to me, darling."

"What? That I wanted to kill my father for not buying me an Erector set?"

"Well, didn't you?"

"Of course not! And why not my mother, too? She had just as much to do with me

not getting it as he did."

"The Oedipal situation."

"And if I say she loused me up more than Dad ever did, you'll agree with Hyde that

I'm displacing or something. Oh, no. You're not catching me in that no-exit trap.

Besides, Dad bought me a bike right afterward and I had a hell of a lot more fun with

it than I'd have gotten out of an Erector set. Mom had plenty to say about the danger

of riding a bike in the city, but he trusted my judgment and bought one just the

same."

"Infantilizing you, darling," she said gently, "instead of helping you learn to accept

inevitable frustrations."

"Who was frustrated?" he shouted. "I loved that bike! And not only that, I didn't

even think once of an Erector set till Dr. Peabody suggested I take up a hobby!" He

waited. "Go ahead, say it – I repressed the whole thing, didn't I?"

"That's what Dr. Hyde said, darling."

"All right, smart guy, see what you make of this. I told him the truth, every bit of it,

and he says hallucinations. So I say oh, yeah, what about the water cooler over in the

corner and he says what about the water cooler. And I tell him there's a tiny leak in

the refrigerating coil and he takes a look, only the crack is too small to see, but in a

month or two they'll have to seal it up and put in more refrigerant, you wait and see if

they don't."

"And in the meantime?" she asked. "We can't have you go around in this nervous

state."

"I know," he said miserably. "The rheostat on the electric mixer is calibrated wrong,

the oil burner is feeding too fast, the bulb in the hall is about ready to blow, we got a

lemon of a pre-amp in the hi-fi, the turntable is almost a full rpm too slow, and I bet

there's going to be a pip of a smashup on the highway – I don't like the way the

traffic light feels."

"Feels?"

"Yes," he said flatly. "Feels."

"Darling?" she started again.

"You know you're only personalizing these things the way you did when you were

so awfully disappointed about the Erector set."

"Sure, sure."

"It's just a matter of accepting that emotionally."

"I'm working on it."

"And you don't need your mother any more. You have me."

He rolled out of bed. "I never thought of that," he said, and began unbuttoning his

pajama top.

"Darling, what have you got in mind?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Taking a walk to clear my head. You and Hyde have all the explanations. Without

the two of you to confuse me, maybe I can find the answers."

Chilled and tired, Les wandered into Mike's All Nite Garage. Mike poked his head

out from under a car on the grease pit and asked, "Do something for you, Mr.

Shay?"

"No," said Les. "You fix them instead of ruining them."

"That's how I make my living," Mike said cheerfully. "If they didn't ruin 'em, I

wouldn't have 'em to fix."

Les, about to retort in sudden rage, sat down on a fender instead and thought about

Mike's philosophy. It was as if dentists hired thugs to bash in people's teeth so there

would always be work, or veterinarians poisoned animals just enough to need

treatment. He decided he didn't like Mike's reasoning. He also decided not to argue

about it; he was tired of strange looks and counter-arguments.

Mike climbed out of the pit, wiped his hands on a ball of dirty cotton waste and got

into the car to start the motor. He cocked his head like a music critic listening first to

one section of the orchestra and then the other.

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INSIDEMAN&OTHERSTORIESScienceFictionontheGoldStandardByH.L.GOLDARenaissanceEBookspublicationISBN1-58873-181-2AllrightsreservedCopyright©2003byE.J.GoldThisbookmaynotbereproducedinwholeorinpartwithoutwrittenpermission.Forinformationcontact:RenaissanceEBooksP.O.Box1432NorthamptonMA01060USAEmailcomments...

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