Dean R. Koontz - Soft Come The Dragons

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 252.5KB 117 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

DEANR.KOONTZ

SOFT

COME

THE

DRAGONS

ACE BOOKS

A Division of Charter Communications Inc.

1120 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N. Y. 10036

SOFT COME THE DRAGONS

by Mercury Press, Inc.; 1969, by Galaxy Publishing Corp.;

1968, by Ultimate Publications, Inc.

Cover art by Jack Gaughan,

DEDICATION:

Fordon wollheim, who has been there at the

start of so many careers ...

DARK OF THE WOODS

Printed in U.S.A.

INTRODUCTION

A Hotplate, a Chair, and a Bed ...

Only a few months past twenty-one, I received my col-lege diploma and rushed forth to conquer the

world. The world turned out to be larger, more complex and sillier than I had imagined; I decided to

settle for conquering just a little section of it all for myself. At that tender age, I had worked as a stock

boy, a grocery store clerk, a state park forest ranger, a drummer in a rock band, a guitarist in a rock

band, and in the politics of the civil rights move-ment. I had somehow managed to win three creative

writing awards, two from theAtlantic Monthly, and had sold a few of my paintings to people who

obviously had no con-ception of good art. The only problem was that I was broke, busted, flat,

penniless.

Of course I got married immediately. Dear Reader, she was intelligent, creative, warm, sexy, had quiet,

darting dark eyes that took everything in like universal magnets. What else could I do?

I had been trained as a teacher of English, and my first job was in a small Pennsylvania coal mining town

which fell into the fabled Appalachian Poverty Belt (because all the coal was gone, but the miners were

not). I worked under the Federal Poverty Program for damned little money. The only house available to

rent in this metropolis of a thousand citizens was a seven room monstrosity which con-sumed a week's

pay in rent and another week's pay in fuel oil. We moved in with just a bed (which was a used studio

couch, really), a chair for each of us (second hand kitchen chairs), and a hotplate. Hugh Hefner wouldn't

have called it luxurious, but it was home to us.

For nearly three months, those items sat in our seven rooms. Thanks to repeated "wedding gifts" from

my par-ents who could ill afford to give them, we began to buy used furniture. And thanks to my

discovery that I could do some carpentry and a good deal of upholstering (which amazed everyone who

knew me as a clumsy muddle-fin-gers), and thanks to Gerda's nimble sewing fingers, we had a

semblance of civilization in four of the seven rooms by the fourth month we lived there.

But there were always bills, and there was hardly ever money to meet them. I had been mailing stories to

Ed Ferman atFantasy and Science Fiction for some months, hoping to pick up more fuel oil money (I

wonder if Hem-ingway ever wrote for fuel oil money?). One day a check arrived for $120.00 for a short

story.

My life has never been the same since then.

There is nothing in this world which can hook you like creative writing. To see the words appear out of

the type-writer which has sucked them from your brain via your fingertips is close to tripping on Owlsley

Purple. No mat-ter how hard you work on a story, the check you receive always seems like a gift, for

writing the story was so much fun it was almost pay enough in itself. And then there is the ego-blast of

seeing your name and story in print . . . and hearing from fans who like it (and even hearing from those

who hate it, because that shows they at leastcare) . . . and that Big Dream in the background of your

mind that someday it is also going to pay you well. . . .

So they should have narcs who go around checking on creative writers to see if they are getting hooked

on their fantasy worlds, because fashioning a science fiction story-future can be like flying on any plastic

fantastic chem-ical. ...

At the time of this writing, three years have passed since that first story. I taught a year and a half in a

suburban school in the meantime, was accused of teaching dirty books when my class read Heinlein's

Stranger in a Strange Land, Heller'sCatch-22, and Salinger'sCatcher in the Rye. None of these were

dirty books, of course, but the accusing ad-ministrators did not seem to have time to read what they

were putting down. They preferred to judge by cover paint-ings and a local fanatic's opinion. Because of

this (and the migraine headaches it was causing me) I quit and began writing full time. And now, after

twenty-eight stories and fourteen books, the Big Dream is coming true.

And here, if I were accepting an Oscar, I would name all those without whom I would not be where I

am, as happy as I am in a world where happiness is fast becom-ing a scarce commodity. I will not depart

from tradition. Those Without Whom I Could Not are: my mother, from whom I learned gentleness; my

father, whose genes gave me my traits of a dreamer; my high school English teacher, Miss Garbrick, who

was that rarest of all things—a good teacher; Jeff, whose ownsharp intellect made me first ques-tion the

world around me; Harry, who was a companion through dark hours; Andy, who stayed up nights and

was all together and married well; Jack, for the Night of the Empty Bottles and for looking for the world's

fulcrum; Bob, for being Bob and therefore unique; Don Wollheim for buying the first three books and

having faith; Ed Ferman for things mentioned later; Bob Hoskins for teaching me much; and especially to

Gerda for the aforementioned in-tellect, warmth, and creativity—and for growing sexier every year....

Harrisburg, Penna.

February, 1970

SOFT COME THE DRAGONS

This was my first published story in the field of science fiction, the one that changed my life. Ed Ferman

had re-jected several stories with encouraging notes instead of form rejection slips. When I mailed "Soft

Come the Dragons" toFantasy and Science Fiction, I told Ed that I had a Druid friend who was going

to cast a spell upon him and the entire staff of the magazine so that they would start buying my work.

With the check for the story, Ed enclosed a note beginning "I had thought Druid spells were long ago

impotent, but. . ."

This is a story of myths and science and how one is nothing without the other. If we live by myth alone,

we do not advance. But if we should ever live by only science, disregarding our fantasies, we will be less

than machines in the skins of animals. This opinion must be universal, for I have received letters on this

story from England and Australia. It will soon be published in Spanish. And Samuel R. Delany once told

me it was a beautiful story. I consider that a compliment from highest sources. ...

"andwhat will you do when the soft breezes come and the dragons drift in to spread death?"

Marshall wriggled in his seat, reached for another sugar packet to empty into his mug of coffee.

"I'll tell you what you'll do. You'll get up when the alarms sound and dress in your uniform and go down

in the cellar complex like a red-eyed mole in flight from his own fear. You'll get up when the alarms sound

and moni-tor everything as usual, hiding until the dragons float out and are gone."

"What am I supposed to do?" Marshall asked. "Maybe I should pet them and pour out milk?"

"You wouldn't pet, you'd club. The milk would have cyanide in it"

Marshall slammed his fist into the table. "You forget, Dante, that I am commander here and you are only

third line officer."

Mario Alexander Dante snorted, picked up his folio, and walked out of the rec room. Mounting the

twisting stairs, he climbed two floors, stepped out into a dark, narrow haE-way, and ambled to the glass

observation lounge that hung like a third story patio over the beach.

It was low tide. The sea stretched away across the hori-zon like poured glass, glittering like a queen's

jewels or like a shattered church window. Only small waves lapped at the shore, depositing minute

quantities of sand, etching out microscopic gullies in the orange beach as they dragged away a

corresponding amount of other grains.

It seemed to Mare Dante that the ocean was the same on any world. It was the womb, the

all-encompassing moth-er where men migrated at least once in their lives—like lem-mings. He had

walked to the edge of it on some nights, hoping to see a face. . . .

Just above the horizon floated the twin moons; their re-flections stretched long across the ocean, cresting

every wavelet with a tint of golden dew.

The trouble with Marshall, Dante reflected, was that he lacked imagination. He accepted everything at

face value-tempered only by what his instruments told him. Being truthful with himself, he understood that

he saw the old Mario Dante in the commander, and that this was why he disliked the man. The old Mario

Dante, before the car crash that took Ellen and broke her body and tossed it into the ocean, before he

lay in a hospital piecing together his shattered mind for seven months, the old Mario Dante had been

lacking in sensitivity, in imagination. In unlocking his mental block so that he could accept the death of

Ellen, the psychiatrist removed other things in passing, and opened a whole new portion of his mind.

But still, he disliked Marshall. And he was certain that the commander's Achilles' heel would be struck

by an ar-row from the quiver of the dragons. The dragons that came daily with the tidal winds.

The dragons of emerald and vermilion and yellow and white of virgin bridal gown and devil black and

jack-of-lantern orange.

The butterfly dragons that were twenty yards wide and seventy yards long—but weighed only two or

three hun-dred pounds. The flimsy, gossamer dragons.

The dragons of beauty.

The dragons that killed with their eyes.

He sighed, turned from the windowside, and sat down in one of the black leather easy chairs, snapping

on the small, high-intensity reading lamp in the arm. Lighting a cigarette, he looked over his newer poems.

The first three he tossed in the wastebasket without re-viewing. The fourth he read, reread, then read

aloud for full effect.

"Discovery Upon Death"

"dear mankind:

am writing you from purgatory

to say that i

have made a discovery

that i wish you

would spread around up there,

god, now listen mankind,

god is a computer

and someone misprogrammed him.. ."

"Not bad," said a voice from the darkness. Abner stepped into the small circle of light around the chair.

"But don't tell me the Pioneer Poet has doubts about life?"

"Please, the name is Mare."

Pioneer Poet. It was a nameLife had coined when his first volume had been published and had won

critical ac-claim. He admitted it all seemed romantic: a space force surveyor drafted for three years,

writing poetry on some alien world in some alien star system. But, Pioneer Poet?

"Heard about your fight with Marshall."

"It wasn't a fight."

"It was the way I heard it. What bothers you about him, Mare?"

"He doesn't understand things."

"Neither do any of us."

"Suffice it to say he might be a mirror in which I can see myself. And the reflection isn't a nice one."

They sat in silence a moment.

"You plan to sit up all night?" Abner asked.

"No, Pioneer Physician, I do not."

Abner grinned. "Dragon warnings should go up in six hours. You'll need your rest."

He folded his poems and rose, flicked off the light, and said: "Fine, but let us just look at the ocean a

minute, huh?"

The snakes growing from her scalp hissed and bared fangs.

His hand burned with the dribbling of his own blood where their sharp teeth raked him.

Slowly, she turned, and the beauty was there in the face— and the horror was there.

In the eyes.

And his muscles, slowly but doubtlessly and without pause, began turning to granite.

"No!" he screamed. "I think I'm just beginning to see—"

His hair became individual strands of rock. Each cell of his face froze into eternity and became a part of

something that could never die—that could only be eroded by wind and rain.

And finally his eyes, staring into hers, slipped into cata-ract, then to stone.

And he woke to the sound of screams in his ears.

Before opening his eyes, he could see her, pinned behind the wheel, mouth twisted in agony.

The flames licking at her face as he was tossed free, the tumbling, burning car, plunging over the cliff and

away.

But when the waking dream was over, he still heard the screams. He fumbled for his bed light, and the

flood of yellow fire made him squint. He looked at the clock. Five o'clock in the morning Translated

Earth Time.

The dragon warning was in effect. They were not screams, but the wails of mechanical voices. "Beware

and Run," they seemed to say.

Bewareandrun, bewareandrun, bewareandrun ...

He had been sleeping in his duty suit, a uniform of shimmering purple synthe-fabric. The United Earth

emblem graced his right arm: a dove sitting on a green globe. That was one symbol that always repulsed

him. He pictured the dove loosening its bowels.

Stumbling across the room, he palmed open the door and stepped into the corridor, blinking away the

remain-ders of sleep from his eyes.

Holden Twain was running down the 'hall, strapping his nylon belt around his waist. "I have some poetry

for you to look at while we're in the shelter," he said breathlessly, coming to a halt at Dante's side.

Mario liked the kid. He was five years the poet's junior, but his innocence seemed to add to his

immaturity—and charm. He had not met Hemingway's Discovery of Evil. He never understood "The

Killers" when he read it. Dante made him plunge through it every few weeks, searching for that glint of

understanding that would mean he saw it all.

"Fine," Mario said. "That'll help pass the hours in that dreadful hole."

They set out at a steady trot down the hall, past the large windows that peered out upon the alien

landscape.

At the stairwell, Mario ushered the younger man down and waited at the head for the others from that

corridor. He was captain of the block and was to be the last into the shelter from that particular

accessway.

He glanced out of the nearest window. There was sure to be wind. The spindly pine-palms were

swaying errati-cally, some bent nearly to the snapping point in the gale. This was only the front of the tidal

winds, he knew, and the soft breezes and the dragons would follow.

The dragons that looked so beautiful in pictures but which killed any man who looked directly into their

eyes.

The dragons that seemed to live constantly in the air— without eating.

The dragons that killed with their eyes . . . '

He had a vision of the first victims, their eyes crystal-lized, shrunken within the blackened sockets, the

brain wilted within the skull. He shuddered.

Still, it did not seem right to hide when they came.

Though the specially designed lenses failed, though doz-ens of scientists died trying to prove that they

wouldn't, that men's eyes could be protected from the deadly drag-ons, it did not seem right to hide.

Though gunnery officers could not shoot them down (because only a shot in the eye seemed to kill the

beasts, and aiming at those misty, pupilless orbs was impossible), it did not seem right to squirrel away in

the earth.

The last man in the corridor pounded down the stairs. Dante swung the door shut, sealed it, then flicked

the shut-ters that would partially protect the windows.

The shelter was filled with men. The city's compliment numbered sixty-eight. They were sixty-eight

prepared to wait out another three hours of dragons and silence in the cellar.

Dante decided the entire affair got more ridiculous each time. It hardly seemed as if the planet were

worth all the trouble. But then he knew it was. There were the Bakium deposits, and the planet itself was

central to this galaxy. Someday, it would be built nearly as heavily as Earth. A grand population.

Certainly more than sixty-eight.

Sixty-seven.

"Sixty-seven!" the Secretary shrilled.

"Impossible!" Marshall shouted.

"Menchen. Menchen isn't here."

"Who has that corridor?"

"I, sir."

"Anamaxender. Why the hell didn't you notice he was missing?"

"Sorry, sir."

"You'll be damned sorry before this is over." Marshall turned to the other faces. "Who saw him last."

"I believe just about everyone was asleep, commander," Dante said quietly. Marshall opened his mouth

to speak, then thought better of it. He turned to Twain. "You know corridor F?"

"Yes, sir."

Every man was required to have a memorized floor plan of the installation buried deep in the emergency

vaults of his mind. It was a ridiculous question.

"Go after Menchen. Go to his room and see if he needs help. At any cost, get back here."

"But the dragons," someone said.

"They won't be out yet, and it will be another half hour before they gain access to the upper floors."

Twain was strapping on a radio set, fastening a blaster to his belt. He crossed to Dante and handed him

a sheaf of eight papers. He smiled and was gone.

At the head of the stairs, there was a sucking of a door unsealing, then a second whine as it sealed

again—behind Holden Twain.

Mare Dante had nothing to do. He could have sat and worried, but the commander had been right.

Dragons would not break into the upper corridors for a while yet. Until things really started getting bad

above, there was no rea-son to worry.

He sat down and opened the folded sheets of yellow papers.

Hath a man not eyes?

Can he feel not pain?

Does the grass grow greener?

Is Gods blood rain?

And so it goes,

And so it is.

Is there a soul?

And if there is,

Where is it?

M.A. Dante was jealous.Jealousy? When he translated that and deducted the source, he realized that

Twain's poetry had taken a change for the better. It was no longer what Dante called "tree and flower

poetry." There was something of a philosophical note in those last three lines. At least, there was

pessimism.

Pessimism, he strongly believed, was merely realism.

Suddenly, he was very worried about the boy—the man —upstairs.

He stood and approached Marshall. "Commander, I—"

Marshall turned, his eyes gleaming, immediately on the defensive. Between clenched teeth: "Dante. What

is it now? Would you like to take over command of the operation? Would you like to—"

"Oh, shut up!" He turned up the volume on the receiver that would carry Twain's words back to them. "I

am not an enemy of yours. I disagree with your methods and pro-cedure. I do not lower myself to

personal vendetta."

"Listen—"

The radio crackled, interrupting the building rage with-in Marshall. "Twain here. Menchen is in his room.

Ill. I'm going to trundle him back."

"What about the dragons?" Marshall snapped into the mike.

"I can hear them bumping softly against the window shields, trying to get in. Like big moths. Creepy."

"None in the halls?"

"No, Starting back. Out."

The dragons that killed with their eyes. Beautiful drag-ons so the automatic cameras showed. But

dragons that no man could look upon.

Somehow, men must be able to see,he thought.The photos— Dante's mind seemed dangling on the

ravine of inspiration.

When Twain returned, he was quite relieved, forgot about Marshall, and lived the moments of good

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

DEANR.KOONTZSOFTCOMETHEDRAGONS ACEBOOKSADivisionofCharterCommunicationsInc.1120AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,N.Y.10036SOFTCOMETHEDRAGONS Copyright©,1970,byDeanR.Koontz Individualstoriescopyright©,1967,1968,1969,1970,byMercuryPress,Inc.;1969,byGalaxyPublishingCorp.;1968,byUltimatePublications,Inc...

展开>> 收起<<

Dean R. Koontz - Soft Come The Dragons.pdf

共117页,预览24页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Dean R. Koontz - Soft Come The Dragons

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: