Dickson, Gordon & Ben Bova - Hour Of The Gremlins

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Hour of the Gremlins

THREE FULL-LENGTH NOVELS

OF FAST-MOVING ADVENTURE

— AND SIDE-SPLITTING HUMOR

— IN ONE BOOK

Hour of the Horde by Gordon R. Dickson: The Horde roved the galaxies,

stripping whole star systems of life. As they advance on our galaxy, the Milky

Way, a galaxy-wide force hastily arrayed to stop them. But Miles Vander, the

warrior sent by Earth to join the defense, must first convince his alien

crew/members that he is just as good a soldier as they.

Wolfling by Gordon R. Dickson: Earth was a primitive outpost, its people

dubbed "wolflings" by the rulers of the galactic empire. Jim Kell was sent to the

High-Born ruler's Throne World, with orders only to observe—until he cast away

his orders from Earth and proved himself a Wolflinq indeed.

Gremlins Go Home by Gordon R. Dickson and Ben Bova: Suppose that elves,

gremlins, and leprechauns are really tiny aliens marooned on Earth for hundreds of years.

They want to go home, and human technology finally can make it possible—if they_can

get aboard NASA's Mars rocket and hijack it! Pity the poor human who has to help them.

. . .

Publisher's Note:

The three novels comprising this volume, Hour of the Horde, Wolfling, and Gremlins Go

Home, are unconnected, except perhaps by the theme of aliens vs. humans on the close-

encounter level. Each has been published separately, but Hour of the Gremlins is their

first combined publication. The publisher is solely responsible for the title, Hour of the

Gremlins.

"Dickson is among the best storytellers we have ever had."

—Poul Anderson

"I believe that by far the author that will have the greatest effect on the scientific

world and the world as a whole is Ben Bova."

— Ray Bradbury

"[Bova's] excellence at combining hard science with believable characters and an

attention grabbing plot makes him one of the genre's most entertaining storytellers.

— Library Journal

Cover art by Csanad Novak

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book

are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

First printing, December 2002

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 0-7434-3569-9

Dickson;

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

http://www.baen.com

Production by Windhaven Press

Auburn, NH

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webwrights.com

Baen Books by Gordon R. Dickson

The Magnificent Wilf

Mindspan

Hoka! Hoka! Hoka!

(with Poul Anderson)

Hokas Pokas

(with Poul Anderson)

Baen Books by Ben Bova

The Exiles Trilogy

The Watchmen

Hour of the Gremlins

Table of Contents

Gremlins Go Home

HOUR OF THE HORDE

Wolfling

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Gremlins Go Home

It was a week before the Mars launch.

THE launch, everybody was calling it around Cape Kennedy.

Big deal! thought Rolf Gunnarson as he opened the garage door. The door slipped out

of his hands and rattled noisily up on its tracks, slamming against the end of the tracks

with a loud thump! For a moment Rolf winced, thinking the noise would wake his baby

sister, then he set his jaw. Let it!

Rolf squeezed past his father's white official NASA car to get to his old three-speed

bicycle. So, I don't need a ten-speed, do I? he muttered to himself. He's just too busy with

his space shot to listen to me. I really need that bike to get back and forth to the Wildlife

Refuge. But he doesn't care about the ecology, the Refuge, or anything—except being

Launch Director for this Mars flight!

His face set in an unhappy scowl, Rolf wheeled the three-speed out of the garage and

through the half-dozen cars parked along the driveway. Out on the street a big TV truck

was parked. Inside the house the TV men were laying cables and setting up lights and

cameras. They were going to interview his father. THE launch was only a few days away.

"You'd think he was one of them—one of the astronauts going to Mars," Rolf said to

Shep, who was lying in the shade of the orange tree in the Gunnarsons' front yard. Shep

looked like a ball of brown and white wool with a red tongue hanging out.

It was as hot a day as Florida can produce in August. The sun blazed out of a brilliant

blue sky that was flecked here and there with gleaming white, puffy clouds. But Rolf

couldn't hang around the house any longer. First it was his father telling him, "Not now,

Rolf! Can't you see I'm busy? After THE launch we'll talk about it." Then it was the TV

crew bustling around the house, saying, "Hey kid, wouldya mind gettin' outta the way?"

Rolf whistled for Shep to come along, and started pedaling for the Merritt Island

National Wildlife Refuge. He had been going to stay home from it today. But now . . .

"I should've brought some lemonade or something," he told himself as he pumped

along the street, passing the neat little houses with their lawns and flowering bushes and

trees.

For a moment he thought about going back, but then he shook his head. Maybe I'll

never go back, he thought grimly, as he turned off the street and headed for the Old

Courtney Pike.

He rode for several miles in silence, with Shep scampering along beside him. Hot as it

was, the speed of his travel put a breeze in his face and set his unbuttoned shirt flapping

loosely behind him, so that he felt the air slipping over his bare chest, blowing out the

armholes of his sleeves, like his own personal air conditioner. Just like the astronauts, he

thought, picturing in his mind how they must feel inside their air-conditioned space suits.

Riding the bike felt good—even in the heat. Not that any kind of heat could bother

Rolf, really. He was used to it. Just like old Shep, looking as woolly as any other English

sheepdog anywhere in the world, trotting along beside the bicycle with his red tongue

hanging out. Anybody who didn't know better would think Shep was ready to melt. But

Rolf knew the sheepdog could keep up with him like this all day. They were both

Floridians born and bred. Shep would guess they were headed toward the Wildlife

Refuge, a place he liked as well as Rolf did.

Most people didn't even realize that the Refuge existed. All they cared about, like

Rolf's dad, was the Space Center part of Cape Kennedy. Actually, the Refuge was almost

85,000 acres in size. That was about ninety-nine percent of all the land the Space Agency

owned on the Cape. The launching Center took up the remaining one percent. The Refuge

was a haven for birds. Officially there were 224 different species of birds visiting there

regularly—although Rolf himself had checked off 284 species last year. And there were

the permanent residents, too; tough wild pigs, snakes, bald eagles and even alligators. A

good place to get away to, when things at home got to the point where you wanted to kick

holes in the wall.

Right now, however, the desire to kick holes in the wall was diminishing in him. As

usual, the exercise of the ride and the prospect of getting back to the Refuge were

working their good influence on him. Now that he was beginning to feel better, Rolf

admitted to himself that it was not really things like not having a ten-speed bike that were

bothering him. It was . . . he could not seem to say what it was. Sometimes, when he was

away from home, like this, he would make up his mind not to let things get to him when

he went home again. But they always did. Or at least, since this summer started, they

always did. Remembering the past weeks, Rolf scowled again. Summer vacation was

supposed to be something you looked forward to. But nothing seemed to have gone right

this year—from his slipping off the diving board and hurting his leg, right up until now.

First there had been that accident, then the upset of the house after his baby sister was

born. Now THE launch . . .

Busy thinking, he reached the edge of the Refuge almost before he knew it. But then,

suddenly, the road was in among the acres of wild land, and he looked around himself

feeling good. Most people might have seen nothing much to enjoy. There were only

sandy little hillocks covered with coarse grass and scrubby brush, in all directions, with

an occasional bigger tree pushing crookedly higher against the glittering sky. But to Rolf

it was a remarkable and fascinating place, busy with plant, bird and animal life, all of

which were particular friends of his. From the wild sow with her four piglets right now

trotting along in plain sight beside the road he was riding, to a brown hen pelican, nesting

in a secret pool he knew of, far out among the brush—and who already had lost one of

her three eggs because of the thinness of its shell, due to DDT—they were individuals

with whom he was concerned.

The sow led her family off back into the brush, and a little farther on Rolf turned his

bike from the concrete highway onto the asphalt road that led down in the direction of the

Playalinda Beach part of the Refuge. Then, a short distance down the asphalt, he cut off

the road entirely and bumped along on one of the old foot trails that wound through the

Preserve.

Officially, no one was supposed to be here, right now. That was why he had not

planned to come today. Playalinda Beach was officially closed when there was a rocket

on the pad at LC-39, as the Mars rocket stood right now.

But who cared? All that the Beach's being closed meant was that nobody else would

be around. And who wants anybody else around? Rolf asked himself. It's good to be

alone. Nobody here except me and Shep.

Shep?

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HouroftheGremlinsTHREEFULL-LENGTHNOVELSOFFAST-MOVINGADVENTURE—ANDSIDE-SPLITTINGHUMOR—INONEBOOKHouroftheHordebyGordonR.Dickson:TheHorderovedthegalaxies,strippingwholestarsystemsoflife.Astheyadvanceonourgalaxy,theMilkyWay,agalaxy-wideforcehastilyarrayedtostopthem.ButMilesVander,thewarriorsentbyEarthto...

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