Isaac Asimov - Catastrophes

CATASTROPHES!

edited by

Isaac Asimov,

Martin Harry Greenberg,

and Charles G. Waugh

Foreword

Part I - Universe Destroyed

The Last Trump Isaac Asimov

No Other Gods Edward Wellen

The Wine Has Been Left Open Too Long and the Memory Has Gone Flat

Harlan Ellison

Stars, Won't You Hide Me? Ben Bova

Part II - Sun Destroyed

Judgement Day Lloyd Biggie, Jr.

The Custodian William Tenn

Phoenix Clark Ashton Smith

Run from the Fire Harry Harrison

Part III - Earth Destroyed

Requiem Edmond Hamilton

At the Core Larry Niven

A Pail of Air Fritz Leiber

King of the Hill Chad Oliver

Part IV - Humanity Destroyed

The New Atlantis Ursula K. Le Guin

History Lesson Arthur C. Clarke

Seeds of the Dusk Raymond Z, Gallun

Dark Benediction Walter M. Miller, Jr.

Part V - Civilization Destroyed

Last Night of Summer Alfred Coppel

The Store of the Worlds Robert Sheckley

How It Was When the Past Went Away

Robert Silverberg

Shark Ship C. M. Kornbluth

Afterword

Foreword

It is quite customary for a piece of fiction to contain at least

the threat of disaster. It is the threat, the menace, the ap-

prehension of something one desperately does not want to

take place that creates the suspense, and that rouses the

interest of the reader.

To be sure, the disaster may be a very slight and personal

one—the youngster who may fail the test, or lose the game,

or be turned down for a date—but it is there. To be equally

sure, the story may be a lighthearted one with a happy end-

ing, but the disaster, however slight, must be there in the

mid-course for the ending to shine happily against.

This is not to say that a story cannot be written without

a disaster, but what a dull story it would be and how little

worth the reading.

And, as in so many other respects, science fiction manages

to outshine other types of fiction. Where but in science fiction

can real disasters be found?

Take the most elaborate of realistic suspense and what

can you have? The loss of a war? The enslavement of a nation?

In science fiction, the destruction of civilization is the least

one might expect as the threat of disaster, or its actual ac-

complishment, is represented to the reader.

In this collection of twenty stories, we have four stories

dealing with each of five different levels of disaster, organized

according to a scheme I devised in my nonfiction discussion

entitled A Choice of Catastrophes (Simon and Schuster, 1979;

Fawcett Columbine, 1981),

The movement is from the most all-encompassing catas-

trophes toward progressively narrower ones. If this sounds

to you like a journey into anticlimax, you are wrong, for as

the catastrophes become narrower, they also become more

probable. In short, in this book you may be steadily decreas-

ing the scope but you are as steadily increasing the danger.

Why bother? Why scare yourself?

For one thing, these are memorable stories you will enjoy

and won't easily forget. For another, humanity does face ca-

tastrophes of various levels of scope and various gradations

of likelihood, and if there is any chance at all of evading them

or blunting them, that chance will be heightened if we know

what the dangers may be and consider in advance how to

prevent or ameliorate them.

Staring at danger may not be pleasant—but closing your

eyes will not make the danger go away, and with closed eyes

you will surely be destroyed by it.

ISAAC ASIMOV

1

UNIVERSE

DESTROYED

In A Choice of Catastrophes, "Catastrophes of the First Class"

are those in which the whole Universe is destroyed.

Actually, the possibility of such a catastrophe long ante-

dates the imaginings of modern science fiction. In ancient

times, it was usually taken for granted that the Universe

would be destroyed someday (as it was created) by the Word

of God, or by the decree of Fate.

Even today there are many who assume that there will

be a Day of Judgment and that it is even imminent. In every

generation there are those who await it momentarily ("The Last Trump" by Isaac Asimov). And, of

course, the end can come about through the action not of the Creator of Human-

ity, but of the Created of Humanity ("No Other Gods" by Edward Wellen).

If we put mythology to one side and confine ourselves to

the even mightier and more colorful conclusions of science,

we do not have the crash of the Lord as He slams shut the

Book of Life, but rather the long, long dwindle of sound ever,

ever fainter as the Universe whispers dyingly to its death;

as entropy increases, ever more slowly, to its maximum; as

available energy dwindles to zero and with it all change, life,

us ("The Wine Has Been Left Open Too Long and the Memory Has Gone Flat" by Harlan Ellison).

Or else, there can be a revival. The expanding Universe

can recontract, the unwinding rewind, the dying undie. That

sounds good and hopeful but what the revival ends in is as

surely, if much more gloriously, the death of all ("Stars, Won't You Hide Me?" by Ben Bova).

The Last Trump

ISAAC ASIMOV

The' Archangel Gabriel was quite casual about the whole

thing. Idly, he let the tip of one wing graze the planet Mars,

which, being of mere matter, was unaffected by the contact.

He said, "It's a settled matter, Etheriel. There's nothing

to be done about it now. The Day of Resurrection is due."

Etheriel, a very junior seraph who had been created not

quite a thousand years earlier as men counted time, quivered

so that distinct vortices appeared in the continuum. Ever

since his creation, he had been in immediate charge of Earth

and environs. As a job, it was a sinecure, a cubbyhole, a dead

end, but through the centuries he had come to take a perverse

pride in the world.

"But you'll be disrupting my world without notice."

"Not at all. Not at all. Certain passages occur in the Book

of Daniel and in the Apocalypse of St. John which are clear

enough."

"They are? Having been copied from scribe to scribe? I

wonder if two words in a row are left unchanged,"

"There are hints in the Rig-Veda, in the Confucian Ana-

lects—"

"Which are the property of isolated cultural groups which

exist as a thin aristocracy—"

"The Gilgamesh Chronicle speaks out plainly."

"Much of the Gilgamesh Chronicle was destroyed with the

library of Ashurbanipal sixteen hundred years, Earth-style,

before my creation."

"There are certain features of the Great Pyramid and a

pattern in the inlaid jewels of the Taj Mahal—"

"Which are so subtle that no man has ever rightly inter-

preted them."

Gabriel said wearily, "If you're going to object to every-

thing, there's no use discussing the matter. In any case, you

ought to know about it. In matters concerning Earth, you're

omniscient,"

"Yes, if I choose to be. I've had much to concern me here

and investigating the possibilities of Resurrection did not, I

confess, occur to me."

"Well, it should have. AH the papers involved are in the

files of the Council of Ascendants, You could have availed

yourself of them at any time."

"I tell you all my time was needed here. You have no idea

of the deadly efficiency of the Adversary on this planet. It

took all my efforts to curb him, and even so—

"Why, yes"—Gabriel stroked a cotnet as it passed—"he

does seem to have won his little victories, I note as I let the

interlocking factual pattern of this miserable little world flow

through me that this is one of those setups with matter-en-

ergy equivalence."

"So it is," said Etheriel.

"And they are playing with it."

"I'm afraid so."

"Then what better time for ending the matter?"

"I'll be able to handle it, I assure you. Their nuclear

bombs will not destroy them."

"I wonder. Well, now, suppose you let me continue, Eth-

eriel. The appointed moment approaches,"

The seraph said stubbornly, "I would like to see the doc-

uments in the case."

"If you insist." The wording of an Act of Ascendancy ap-

peared in glittering symbols against the deep black of the

airless firmament.

Etheriel read aloud: "It is hereby directed by order of

Council that the Archangel Gabriel, Serial number etcetera,

etcetera (well, that's you, at any rate), will approach Planet,

Class A, number G753990, hereinafter known as Earth, and

on January 1,1957, at 12:01 PM., using local time values—"

He finished reading in gloomy silence.

"Satisfied,?"

"No, but I'm helpless,"

Gabriel smiled. A trumpet appeared in space, in shape like

an earthly trumpet, but its burnished gold extended from

Earth to sun. It was raised to Gabriel's glittering beautiful

lips.

"Can't you let me have a little time to take this up with

the Council?" asked Etheriel desperately.

"What good would it do you? The act is countersigned by

the Chief, and you know that an act countersigned by the

Chief is absolutely irrevocable. And now, if you don't mind,

it is almost the stipulated second and I want to be done with

this as I have other matters of much greater moment on my

mind. Would you step out of my way a little? Thank you."

Gabriel blew, and a clean, thin sound of perfect pitch and

crystalline delicacy filled all the universe to the furthest star.

As it sounded, there was a tiny moment of stasis as thin as

the line separating past from future, and then the fabric of

worlds collapsed upon itself and matter was gathered back

into the primeval chaos from which it had once sprung at a

word. The stars and nebulae were gone, and the cosmic dust,

the sun, the planets, the moon; all, all, all except the Earth

itself, which spun as before in a universe now completely

empty.

The Last Trump had sounded.

R. E. Mann (known to all who knew him simply as R. E.)

eased himself into the offices of the Billikan Bitsies factory

and stared somberly at the tall man (gaunt but with a certain

faded elegance about his neat gray mustache) who bent in-

tently over a sheaf of papers on his desk.

R. E. looked at his wristwatch, which still said 7:01, having

ceased running at that time. It was Eastern standard time,

of course; 12:01 P.M. Greenwich time. His dark brown eyes,

staring sharply out over a pair of pronounced cheekbones,

caught those of the other.

For a moment, the tall man stared at him blankly. Then

he said, "Can I do anything for you?"

"Horatio J. Billikan, I presume? Owner of this place?"

"Yes."

"I'm R. E. Mann and I couldn't help but stop in when I

finally found someone at work. Don't you know what today

is?"

"Today?"

"It's Resurrection Day."

"Oh, that! I know it. I heard the blast. Pit to wake the

dead That's rather a good one, don't you think?" He chuck

led for a moment, then went on. "It woke me at seven in the

morning. I nudged my wife. She slept through it, of course.

I always said she would. 'It's the Last Trump, dear,' I said.

Hortense, that's my wife, said, 'All right,' and went back to

sleep. I bathed, shaved, dressed and came to work."

"But why?"

"Why not?"

"None of your workers have come in."

"No, poor souls. They'll take a holiday just at first. You've

got to expect that. After all, it isn't every day that the world

comes to an end. Frankly, it's just as well. It gives me a

chance to straighten out my personal correspondence without

interruptions. Telephone hasn't rung once."

He stood up and went to the window. "It's a great im-

provement. No blinding sun any more and the snow's gone.

There's a pleasant light and a pleasant warmth. Very good

arrangement— But now, if you don't mind, I'm rather busy,

so if you'll excuse me—"

A great, hoarse voice interrupted with a, "Just a minute,

Horatio," and a gentleman, looking remarkably like Billikan

in a somewhat craggier way, followed his prominent nose into

the office and struck an attitude of offended dignity which

was scarcely spoiled by the fact that he was quite naked.

"May I ask why you've shut down Bitsies?"

B.illikan looked faint. "Good Heavens," he said, "it's

Father. Wherever did you come from?"

"From the graveyard," roared Billikan, Senior. "Where on

Earth else? They're coming out of the ground there by the

dozens. Every one of them naked. Women, too,"

Billikan cleared his throat. "I'll get you some clothes,

Father. I'll bring them to you from home."

"Never mind that. Business first. Business first."

R. E. came out of his musing. "Is everyone coming out of

their graves at the same time, sir?"

He stared curiously at Billikan, Senior, as he spoke. The

old man's appearance was one of rubust age. His cheeks were

furrowed but glowed with health. His age, R. E. decided, was

exactly what it was at the moment of his death, but his body

was as it should have been at that age if it functioned ideally.

Billikan, Senior, said, "No, sir, they are not. The newer

graves are coming up first, Pottersby died five years before

me and came up about five minutes after me. Seeing him

made me decide to leave. I had had enough of him when... And

that reminds me." He brought his fist down on the desk, a

very solid fist. "There were no taxis, no busses. Telephones

weren't working. I had to walk. I had to walk twenty miles."

"Like that?" asked his son in a faint and appalled voice.

Billikan, Senior, looked down upon his bare skin with

casual approval. "It's warm. Almost everyone else is na-

ked....Anyway, son, I'm not here to make small talk. Why

is the factory shut down?"

"It isn't shut down. It's a special occasion."

"Special occasion, my foot. You call union headquarters

and tell them Resurrection Day isn't in the contract. Every

worker is being docked for every minute he's off the job."

Billikan's lean face took on a stubborn look as he peered

at his father. "I will not. Don't forget, now, you're no longer

in charge of this plant. I am."

"Oh, you are? By what right?"

"By your will."

"All right. Now here I am and I void my will."

"You can't, Father. You're dead. You may not look dead,

but I have witnesses. I have the doctor's certificate. I have

receipted bills from the undertaker. I can get testimony from

the pallbearers."

Billikan, Senior, stared at his son, sat down, placed his

arm over the back of the chair, crossed his legs and said, "If

it comes to that, we're all dead, aren't we? The world's come

to an end, hasn't it?"

"But you've been declared legally dead and I haven't."

"Oh, we'll change that, son. There are going to be more

of us than of you and votes count."

Billikan, Junior, tapped the desk firmly with the flat of

his hand and flushed slightly. "Father, I hate to bring up this

particular point, but you force me to. May I remind you that

by now I am sure that Mother is sitting at, home waiting for

you; that she probably had to walk the streets—uh—naked,

too; and that she probably isn't in a good humor."

Billikan, Senior, went ludicrously pale. "Good Heavens!"

"And you know she always wanted you to retire."

Billikan, Senior, came to a quick decision. "I'm not going

home. Why, this is a nightmare. Aren't there any limits to

this Resurrection business? It's—it's—it's sheer anarchy.

There's such a thing as overdoing it. I'm just not going home."

At which point, a somewhat rotund gentleman with a

smooth, pink face and fluffy white sideburns (much like pic

tures of Martin Van Buren) stepped in and said coldly, "Good

day."

"Father," said Billikan, Senior.

"Grandfather," said Billikan, Junior.

Billikan, Grandsenior, looked at Billikan, Junior, with

disapproval. "If you are my grandson," he said, "you've aged

considerably and the change has not improved you,"

Billikan, Junior, smiled with dyspeptic feebleness,

made no answer.

Billikan, Grandsenior, did not seem to require one. He

said, "Now if you two will bring me up to date on the business,

I will resume my managerial function"

There were two simultaneous answers, and Billikan,

Grandsenior's, floridity waxed dangerously as he beat the

ground peremptorily with an imaginary cane and barked a re-

tort.

R. E. said, "Gentlemen."

He raised his voice, "Gentlemen!"

He shrieked at full lung-power, "GENTLEMEN!"

Conversation snapped off sharply and all turned to look

at him. R. E.'s angular face, his oddly attractive eyes, his

sardonic mouth seemed suddenly to dominate the gathering.

He said, "I don't understand this argument. What is it that

you manufacture?"

"Biteies," said Billikan, Junior.

"Which, I take it, are a packaged cereal breakfast food—"

'Teeming with energy in every golden, crispy flake—"

cried Billikan, Junior,

"Covered with honey-sweet, crystalline sugar; a confection

and a food—" growled Billikan, Senior.

"To tempt the most jaded appetite," roared Billikan,

Grandsenior.

"Exactly," said R. E. "What appetite?"

They stared stolidly at him. "I beg your pardon," said Bil-

likan, Junior.

"Are any of you hungry?" asked R. E. "I'm not."

"What is this fool maundering about?" demanded Billikan,

Grandsenior, angrily. His invisible cane would have been

prodding E. E. in the navel had it (the cane, not the navel)

existed.

S, E. said, "I'm trying to tell you that no one will ever eat

again. It is the hereafter, and food is unnecessary,"

The expressions on the faces of the Billikans needed no

interpretation. It was,obvious that they had tried their own

appetites and found them wanting.

Billikan, Junior, said ashenly, "Rained!"

Billikan, Grandsenior, pounded the floor heavily and

noiselessly with his imaginary cane. "This is confiscation of

property without due process-of law. I'll sue. I'11 sue."

"Quite unconstitutional," agreed Billikan, Senior.

"If you can find anyone to sue, I wish you all good fortune,"

said R. E. agreeably. "And now if you'll excuse me I think I'll

walk toward the graveyard."

He put his hat on his head and walked out the door.

Etheriel, his vortices quivering, stood before the glory of

a six-winged cherub.

The cherub said, "If I understand you, your particular

universe has been dismantled."

"Exactly."

"Well, surely, now, you don't expect me to set it up again?"

"I don't expect you to do anything," said Etheriel, "except

to arrange an appointment for me with the Chief."

The cherub gestured his respect instantly at hearing the

word. Two wing-tips covered his feet, two his «yes and two

his mouth. He restored himself to normal and said, "The Chief

is quite busy. There are a myriad score of matters for him to

decide."

"Who denies that? I merely point out that if matters stand

as they are now, there will have been a universe in which

Satan will have won the final victory."

"Satan?"

"It's the Hebrew word for Adversary," said Etheriel im-

patiently. "I could say Ahriman, which is the Persian word.

In any case, I mean the Adversary."

The cherub said, "But what will an interview with the

Chief accomplish? The document authorizing the Last Trump

was countersigned by the Chief, and you know that it is

irrevocable for that reason. The Chief would never limit his

own omnipotence by canceling a word he had spoken in his

official capacity."

"Is that final? You will not arrange an appointment?"

"I cannot."

Etheriel said, "In that case, I shall seek out the Chief

without one. I will invade the Primum Mobile, If it means

my destruction, so be it." He gathered his energies—

The cherub murmured in horror, "Sacrilege!" and there

was a faint gathering of thunder as Etheriel sprang upward

and was gone.

R. E. Mann passed through the crowding streets and grew

used to the sight of people bewildered, disbelieving, apathetic,

in makeshift clothing or, usually, none at all.

A girl, who looked about twelve, leaned over an iron gate,

one foot on a crossbar, swinging it to and fro, and said as he

passed, "Hello, mister."

"Hello," said R. E. The girl was dressed. She was not one

of the—uh—returnees.

The girl said, "We got a new baby in our house. She's a

sister I once had. Mommy is crying and they sent me here."

R, E. said, "Well, well," passed through the gate and up

the paved walk to the house, one with modest pretensions to

middle-class gentility. He rang the bell, obtained no answer,

opened the door and walked in.

He followed the sound of sobbing and knocked at an inner

door. A stout man of about fifty with little hair and a com-

fortable supply of cheek and chin looked out at him with

mingled astonishment and resentment.

"Who are you?"

R. E. removed his hat. "I thought I might be able to help.

Your little girl outside—"

A woman looked up at him hopelessly from a chair by a

double bed. Her hair was beginning to gray. Her face was

puffed and unsightly with weeping and the veins stood out

bluely on the back of her hands. A baby lay on the bed, plump

and naked. It kicked its feet languidly and its sightless baby

eyes turned aimlessly here and there.

"This is my baby," said the woman. "She was born twenty-

three years ago in this house and she died when she was ten

days old in this house, I wanted her back so much,"

"And now you have her," said R. E.

"But it's too late," cried the woman vehemently. "I've

had three other children. My oldest girl is married; my son is in

the army. I'm too old to have a baby now. And even if—even

if—"

Her features worked in a heroic effort to keep back the

tears and failed.

Her husband said with flat tonelessness, "It's not a real

baby. It doesn't cry. It doesn't soil itself. It won't take milk.

What will we do? It'll never grow. It'll always be a baby."

R. E. shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I'm afraid

I can do nothing to help."

Quietly he left. Quietly he thought of the hospitals. Thou-

sands of babies must be appearing at each one.

Place them in racks, he thought, sardonically. Stack them

like cord wood. They need no care. Their little bod iesare merely

each the custodian of an indestructible spark of life.

He passed two little boys of apparently equal chronological

age, perhaps ten. Their voices were shrill. The body of one

glistened white in the sunless light so he was a returnee. The

other was not. R. E. paused to listen.

The bare one said, "I had scarlet fever."

A spark of envy at the other's claim to notoriety seemed

to enter the clothed one's voice. "Gee."

"That's why I died."

"Gee. Did they use pensillun or auromysun?"

"What?"

"They're medicines."

"I never heard of them."

"Boy, you never heard of much."

"I know as much as you."

"Yeah? Who's President of the United States?"

"Warren Harding, that's who."

"You're crazy. It's Eisenhower."

"Who's he?"

"Ever see television?"

"What's that?"

The clothed boy hooted earsplittingly. "It's something you

turn on and see comedians, movies, cowboys, rocket rangers,

anything you want."

"Let's see it."

There was a pause and the boy from the present said, "It

ain't working."

The other boy shrieked his scorn. "You mean it ain't never

worked. You made it all up."

R. E. shrugged and passed on.

The crowds thinned as he left town and neared the cem-

etery. Those who were left were all walking into town, all

were nude.

A man stopped him; a cheerful man with pinkish skin and

white hair who had the marks of pince-nez oh either side of

the bridge of his nose, but no glasses to go with them.

"Greetings, friend."

"Hello," said R. E.

"You're the first man with clothing that I've seen. You

were alive when the trumpet blew, I suppose."

"Yes, I was."

"Well, isn't this great? Isn't this joyous and delightful?

Come rejoice with me."

"You like this, do you?" said R. E.

"Like it? A pure and radiant joy fills me. We are sur-

rounded by the light of the first day; the light that glowed

softly and serenely before sun, moon and stars were made.

(You know your Genesis, of course.) There is the comfortable

warmth that must have been one of the highest blisses of

Eden; not enervating heat or assaulting cold. Men and women

walk the streets unclothed and are not ashamed. All is well,

my friend, all is well."

R. E. said, "Well, it's a fact that I haven't seemed to mind

the feminine display all about."

Isaac Asimov - Catastrophes

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