Bradley, Marion Zimmer - The Best of MZB

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A SPHERE BOOK

First published in the USA by Daw Books Inc. 1988 First published in Great Britain by Sphere

Books Limited 1990

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

form or by any means without the prior

permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

cover other than that in which it is published and

without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent

purchaser.

Reproduced, printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading.

ISBN 0 7474 0465 8

Contents

Introduction .................................ix

Centaurus Changeling........................15

The Climbing Wave ..........................67

Exiles of Tomorrow.........................141

Death Between the Stars .....................149

Bird of Prey ................................169

The Wind People...........................205

The Wild One ..............................225

Treason of the Blood........................243

The Day of the Butterflies ...................259

Hero's Moon ...............................273

The Engine.................................299

The Secret of the Blue Star...................307

To Keep the Oath...........................329

Elbow Room ...............................359

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Blood Will Tell .............................379

Sphere Books Ltd

A Division of

Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd

27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ

A member of Maxwell Pergamon Publishing Corporation pic

The Best of Marion Zimmer Bradley

Introduction

I've told the story before; how, on a train journey from Watertown, New York, back to my

family home in Rensselaer County, I changed trains in Utica, and, almost for the first time

in my life, bought myself a box of chocolates and a magazine of my own free choice. It

was literally the first time in my life that I had been in a newsstand with money from my

summer job in my pocket; and I happened to have memory of reading a couple of issues

of Weird Tales which I'd found in our attic before my mother, troubled by the lurid covers

and the fear I'd have nightmares, took them away from me. I had intended to buy myself a

copy of Weird Tales; but they didn't seem to have that magazine, so I looked around and

bought myself a copy of Startling Stories containing the Kuttner novel THE DARK

WORLD, which I later knew to have been written by Catherine Moore Kuttner instead.

Looking back over a long, not uneventful life, I can honestly say that no experience in my

life has ever given me the same excited delight as riding through the twilight, reading

Kuttner's wonderful mythic novel of a man who changed worlds. Perhaps it could

compare only with the fascination of my first LSD trip, or the time I first walked through

the British Museum of which I had read so much, or my first Turandot at Lincoln Center,

or standing high atop the shrine at Delphi and looking down at the old Sacred Way. To

this day, I can remember the shock of delight reading Tennyson's poem Tithonus where I

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discovered the quote which must have been used for the title: "A soft wind blows the

mists away: I feel A breath from that dark world where I was born."

When I finished the Kuttner novel, I read a couple of the short stories - I remember Jack

Vance's "Planet of the Black Dust" - and then turned to the "fan letter columns" in the

back. Shock of thrills: there were other people who loved this kind of story and were

willing to talk about them, and even published fanzines to write about them.

By the time my journey was finished, I knew not only that I wanted to be a writer but that

I wanted to write science fiction. Later that summer I typed a first draft of the novel I had

written the year before, which ten years later was to see print under the name THE

SWORD OF ALDQNES, and submitted it to Startling Stories: it was kindly rejected by

Sam Merwin, the editor at that time. Later, Leo Margulies, the editor of Startling and its

sister magazine Thrilling Wonder, bought several of my short stories. At that time I also

began writing to magazines and to fanzines, and that fall I started fan activity. After a

desperately lonely childhood as a bookworm among kids interested only in throwing

various shapes and sizes of balls, or dressing up in short skirts and jumping around yelling

"Yay, yay, yay" about the ball-throwers (an activity which is still, I consider, the only

activity sillier than throwing the balls themselves), I discovered congenial people, who

would and could talk to me as if I were a person, not a little girl.

Three years later, still an active fan, I married (it was, and in some areas still is the only

way for a young woman to get away from a bad home situation) and during fourteen years

in Texas in small and smaller towns, following the fortunes of the Atchison, Topeka and

Santa Fe Railroad for which my first husband worked as an Agent-telegrapher, I

substituted fan activity for the football -and-church centered life of Texas. To this day the

mail is the high point of the day, and an empty mailbox will make me sulk or fall into a

depression. I published fanzines, wrote volumi-nously for them, wrote reams of letters (I

still do), and tried to write for the pulp magazines I still passionately loved. (I couldn't

afford to buy books, and it never would have occurred to me then to try writing them.

That came later, with my first novel, SEVEN FROM THE STARS. "Falcons of

Narabedla," and "Bird of Prey," which later became novels, were novelette length Kuttner

pastiches; not because I was deliberately imitating but because I wanted to write stories

like the ones I read in the magazines.

Nevertheless my first long published novelette was not a pastiche, but my first really

original work; in this day of embryo transfers and test tube babies it seems almost

prophetic. "Centaurus Changeling" reflected my love of reading medical books. "The

Wind People" was, I think, a dream I had in Texas. Most of those early Texas stories were

reflecting a drab daily life cooking and washing diapers and cleaning our small rented

houses; and an extremely lively interior life based on the books I read and the people I

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knew only through fanzines. Big events in my life were a sandwich at the local hamburger

cafe (a night out); there was nothing else to do except go to church or listen to football

games, and I have kept a perfect record: I have never yet attended a football game. I was,

on the other hand, a vigorous listener to the Metropolitan Opera radio broadcasts, and my

first use of money, when I began having it, was to buy season tickets to the San Francisco

Opera; my biggest indulgence now is for telecast video tapes and laser disc performances

of real operas.

Well, a day came when I sold my first long novelette: "Bird of Prey," later to be DOOR

THROUGH SPACE, a novel about the Dry Towns which would surface later in the

Darkover novels. Then I began writing about Darkover. About the time I was beginning

to write science fiction again after a long hiatus writing pseudonymous novels for a trashy

publisher called Monarch Books, I left Texas and my first husband. I have nothing bad to

say about my first marriage: the enforced loneliness threw me on my own resources and gave

me leisure to write. Brad thought I spent too much money on paper and postage, but if I was

willing, as he put it, to have these things instead of fashionable clothes and possessions, it was

OK with him; he was not ambitious. Also, if I was willing to live modestly on his salary

instead of getting a job (I preferred not to raise our son in the care of someone whose market

worth was even less than mine - i.e., leave him in the care of an uneducated woman who

would otherwise be doing unskilled labor) he allowed me to do so. Even-tually, the Monarch

romances paid my tuition to a local small college - ostensibly so I could get a teach-ing

certificate and support the family after Brad re-tired from the railroad. Instead I left Texas,

moved to Berkeley, and married again; had two younger chil-dren by my second marriage,

and once again discovered that writing was a way to stay home with my kids while working.

This is why I have never believed the story that domesticity damages a woman's intellectual

life; while the kids were small I wrote a few books every year.

Not easily. I remember training the kids that Mommy was never to be interrupted at the

typewriter, and I bribed them shamelessly for letting me alone - they call it positive

reinforcement, now.

But I had to learn to be sociable. I remember being afraid that with intellectual stimulation,

libraries, music, free concerts and a loving husband who wished for my company instead of

using me as a housekeeper, cook, laundress, I would lose the impulse to write. I still prefer to

keep people at arm's length so that I can find the best company in the world; the characters

who come out of my brain and mind.

Becoming an editor - when I had money enough, I published a fiction fanzine - helped me at

long last to write more than the occasional short story. I never felt much at ease writing short

stories: my "natural" feeling is to write novels, the longer the better. I learned painfully during

the "Monarch years" to write novels to severe plot and deadline requirements, to cut my work

to the bone: but only when I was freed of these length requirements by Don Wollheim's

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willingness to experiment with long novels like THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR (1975) did I

really begin to write naturally.

Over a forty year writing career I have written forty odd novels (some of them, as I like to say,

very odd indeed) and considerably fewer short stories, the great majority of them being

impulses - I would wake up with an idea, juggle the plot a bit, and sit down and write it on a

sustained impulse, not stopping till I finished it. Since I usually write novels "on contract," the

short stories were seldom profitable. I write a short story only if I can't figure out a way to

make the idea into a novel, or want to write a little known episode in the life of a character

from one of my novels. "To Keep the Oath" is such a story; I was curious as to how Camilla

met Kindra. Both characters were in THE SHATTERED CHAIN (1976).

I don't imitate Kuttner any more, or even Leigh Brackett. My current enthusiasms, besides

opera, are Gay Rights and Women's Rights - I think Women's Liberation is the great event of

the twentieth century, not Space Exploration. One is a great change in human consciousness;

the latter is only predictable technology and I am bored by technology.

I write on a word processor, but prefer my typewriter. And I am still a fan at heart - because I

am still looking for any reading matter which will arouse in me the old thrill of those early

pulp magazines. FOR BETTER OR WORSE, A WRITER IS WHAT I AM, and I no longer

bother to explain or excuse it. I prefer science fiction to any other reading or writing, and to

people who ask why I don't read mainstream (or write it), I say I cannot imagine that the

content of the mainstream spy novels, corruption in the streets, adultery in the suburbs can

possibly compete with a fiction whose sole raison d'etre is to think about the future of the

human race.

Centaurus Changeling

". . . the only exception to the aforesaid policy was made in the case of Megaera (Theta

Centaurus IV) which was given full Dominion status as an indepen-dent planetary

government; a departure almost without precedent in the history of the Terran Empire.

There are many explanations for this variation from the usual practice, the most generally

accepted being that which states that Megaera had been colonized from Terra only a few

years before the outbreak of the Rigel-Procyon war, which knocked out communications

in the entire Centaurus sector of die Galaxy and forced the abandon-ment of all the so-

called Darkovan League colonies, including Megaera, Darkover, Samarra and Vialles.

During these Lost Years, as they were called, a period embracing, in all, nearly 600

years ... the factors of natural selection, and the phenomenon of genetic drift and survival

mutation observed among isolated popula-tions, permitted these 'lost1 colonies to develop

along scientific and social lines which made their reclamation by the Terran Empire an

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imperative political neces-sity. ..."

From J. T. Bannerton: A Comprehensive History of Galactic Politics, Tape IX.

The Official Residence of the Terran Legate on Megaera was not equipped with a

roofpost for land-ing the small, helicopter-like carioles. This oversight, a gesture of

bureaucratic economy from the desk of some supervisor back on Terra, meant that

whenever the Legate or his wife left the Residence, they must climb down four flights of

stairs to the level of the rarely used streets, and climb again, up the endless twisting stairs,

to the platform of the public skyport a quarter of a mile away.

Matt Ferguson swore irritably as his ankle turned in a rut - since no Centaurian citizen

ever used the streets for walking if he could help it, they were not kept in condition for

that purpose - and took his wife's arm, carefully guiding her steps on the uneven paving.

"Be careful, Beth," he warned. "You could break your neck without half trying!"

"And all those stairs!" The girl looked sulkily up at the black shadow of the skyport

platform, stretched over them like a dark wing. The street lay deserted in the lurid light of

early evening; red Centaurus, a hov-ering disk at the horizon, sent a slanting light,

vio-lently crimson, down into the black canyon of the street, and the top-heavy houses

leaned down, somber and ominous. Wavering shadows gloomed down over them, and a

hot wind blew down the length of the street, bearing that peculiar, pungent, all-pervasive

smell which is Megaera's atmosphere. A curious blend, not altogether unpleasant, a

resinous and musky smell which was a little sickish, like perfume worn too long. Beth

Ferguson supposed that sooner or later she would get used to Megaera's air, that

combination of stinks and chemical emanations. It was harmless, her husband assured her,

to human chemistry. But it did not grow less noticeable with time; after more than a year,

Terran Standard time, on Megaera, it was still freshly pungent to her nostrils. Beth

wrinkled up her pretty, sullen mouth. "Do we have to go to this dinner, Matt?" she asked

plaintively.

The man put his foot on the first step. "Of course, Beth. Don't be childish," he

remonstrated gently, "I told you, before we came to Megaera, that my success at this post

would depend mostly on my informal relations - " "If you call a dinner at the Jeth - sans

informal - " Beth began petulantly, but Matt went on, " - my in-formal relations with the

Centaurian members of the government. Every diplomatic post in the Darkovan League is

just the same, dear. Rai Jeth - san has gone out of his way to make things easy for both of

us." He paused, and they climbed in silence for a few steps. "I know you don't like living

here. But if I can do what I was sent here to do, we can have any diplomatic post in the

Galaxy. I've got to sell the Centaurian Archons on the idea of building the big space

station here. And, so far, I'm succeeding at a job no other man would take."

"I can't see why you took it," Beth sulked, snatch-ing pettishly at her nylene scarf, which

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was flapping like an unruly bird in the hot, grit-laden wind.

Matt turned and tucked it into place. "Because it was better than working as the assistant

to the assist-ant to the undersecretary of Terran affairs attached to the Proconsul of

Vialles. Cheer up, Beth. If this space station gets built, I'll have a Proconsulship myself."

"And if it doesn't?"

Matt grinned. "It will. We're doing fine. Most Leg-ates need years to find their way

around a difficult post like Megaera." The grin melted abruptly. "Rai Jeth - san is

responsible for that, too. I don't want to offend him."

Beth said, and her voice was not very steady, "I understand all that, Matt. But I've been

feeling - ah, I hate to be always whining and complaining like this…"

They had reached the wide, flat platform of the skyport. Matt lighted the flare which

would attract a cariole, and sank down on one of the benches. "You haven't whined," he

told her tenderly. "I know this rotten planet is no place for a Terran girl." He slipped an

arm around his wife's waist. "It's hard on you, with other Terran women half a continent

away, and I know you haven't made many friends among the Centaurians. But Rai Jeth -

san's wives have been very kind to you. Nethle presented you to her Harp Circle. I don't

suppose any Terran woman for a thousand years has even seen one, let alone been

presented - and even Cassiana."

"Cassiana!" said Beth with a catch of breath, pick-ing at her bracelet. "Yes, Nethle's

almost too sweet, but she's in seclusion, and until her baby is born, I won't see her. And

Wilidh's just a child! But Cas-siana, I can't stand her! That, that freak! I'm afraid of her!"

Her husband scowled. "And don't think she doesn't know it! She's telepathic, and a

rhu'ad."

"Whatever that is," Beth said crossly. "Some sort of mutant."

"Still, she's been kind to you. If you were friends."

"Ugh!" Beth shuddered. "I'd sooner be friends with a Sirian lizard-woman!"

Mart's arm dropped. He said coldly, "Well, please be polite to her, at least. Courtesy to the

Archon includes all his wives - but particularly Cassiana." He rose from the bench. "Here

comes our cariole."

The little skycab swooped down to the skyport. Matt helped Beth inside and gave the pilot

the address of the Archonate. The cariole shot skyward again, wheeling toward the distant

suburb where the Archon lived. Matt sat stiffly on the seat, not looking at his young wife.

She leaned against the padding, her fair face sulky and rebellious. She looked ready to

cry. "At least, in another month, by their own stupid cus-toms, I'll have a good excuse to

stay away from all these idiotic affairs!" she flung at him. "I'll be in seclusion by then!"

It hadn't been the way she'd wanted to tell him, but it served him right!

"Beth!" Matt started upright, not believing.

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"Yes, I am going to have a baby! And I'm going into seclusion just like these silly women

here, and not have to go to a single formal dinner, or Spice Hunt, or Harp Circle, for six

cycles! So there!"

Matt Ferguson leaned across the seat. His fingers bit hard into her arm and his voice

sounded hoarse. "Eliz-abeth! Look at me, " he commanded. "Didn't you promise - haven't

you been taking your anti shots?"

"No…no," Beth faltered, "I wanted to - oh, Matt, I'm alone so much, and we've been

married now almost four years…"

"Oh, my God," said Matt slowly, and let go her arm. "Oh, my God!" he repeated, and

sank back, the color draining from his face.

"Will you stop saying that!" Beth raged. "When I tell you a thing like, " her voice caught

on the edge of a sob, and she buried her face in her scarf.

Matt's hand was rough as he jerked her head up, and the gray pallor around his mouth

terrified the girl. "You damn little fool," he shouted, then swallowed hard and lowered his

voice. "I guess it's my fault," he muttered. "I didn't want to scare you…you promised to

take the shots, so I trusted you - like an idiot!" He released her. "It's classified top-secret,

Beth, but it's why this place is closed to colonization, and it's why Terran men don't bring

their wives here. This damned, stinking, freak atmosphere! It's perfectly harmless to men,

and to most women. But for some reason, it plays hell with the female hormones if a

woman gets pregnant. For 60 years since Terra set up the Le-gation here - not one Terran

baby has been born alive. Not one, Beth. And eight out of ten women who get pregnant -

oh, God, Betty, I trusted you!"

She whispered "But this - this was a Terran colony, once."

"They've adapted - maybe. We've never found out why Centaurian women go into

seclusion when they're pregnant, or why they hide the children so carefully."

He paused, looking down at the thinning jungle of roofs. There would not be time to

explain it all to Beth. Even if she lived - but Matt did not want to think about that. They

never sent married men to this planet, but Centaurian custom could not admit a sin-gle

man to be mature enough to hold a place in gov-ernment. He had succeeded at this post

where single men, twice his age, had been laughed at by the Archons. But what good was

that now?

"Oh, God, Beth," he whispered, and his arms went out blindly to hold her close. "I don't

know what to do."

She sobbed softly, scared, against him. "Oh, Matt, I'm afraid! Can't we go home...home to

Terra? I want - I want to go home - to go home - "

"How can we?" the man asked drearily. "There won't be a star - ship leaving the planet for

three months. By that time, you wouldn't be able to live through blastoff. Even now, you

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couldn't pass a physical for space." He was silent for minutes, his arms strained around

her, and his eyes looked haunted. Then, al-most visibly, he managed to pull himself

together.

"Look, the first thing tomorrow, I'll take you to the Medical HQ. They've been working

on it. Maybe... don't worry, darling. We'll get along." His voice lapsed again, and Beth,

wanting desperately to believe him, could find no reassurance in the words. "You're going

to be all right," he told her again. "Aren't you?" But she clung to him and did not answer.

After a long, strained silence, he roused a little, and let her go, glancing from the

windbreak of the cariole cabin.

"Beth, darling, fix your face - " he urged her gently. "We'll be late, and you can't go down

looking like that - "

For a minute Beth sat still, simply not believing that after what she had told him, he would

still make her go to the detested dinner. Then, looking at his tense face, she suddenly

knew it was the one thing on earth - no, she corrected herself with grim humor, the one

thing on Theta Centaurus IV, Megaera, that she must do.

"Tell him not to land for a minute," she said shak-ily. She unfastened her wrist compact,

and silently began to repair the wreckage of her cosmetics. Above the Archonate, the

cariole maneuvered frantically for place with another careening skycab, and after what

seemed an imminent clash of tangled gyroscopes, slid on to the skyport only seconds

before it. Beth shrieked, and Matt flung the door open and abused the pilot in choice

Centaurian.

"I compliment you on your perfect command of our language," murmured a soft creamy

voice, and Matt flushed darkly as he saw the Archon standing at the very foot of the

roofport. He murmured confused apology; it was hardly the way to begin a formal

evening. The Archon lipped a buttery smile. "I pray you do not think of it. I disregard

speech of yours. It is again not spoken." With an air of esthetic unconcern, he gestured

welcome at Beth, and she stepped down, feeling clumsy and awkward. "I stand where you

ex-pect me not, only because I think Senior Wife mine in cariole this one," the Archon

continued. Out of cour-tesy to his guests, he was speaking a mangled dialect of Galactic

Standard; Beth wished irritably that he would talk Centaurian. She understood it as well

as Matt did. She also had the uncomfortable feeling that the Archon sensed her irritation

and that it amused him; a sizable fraction of the Megaeran population was slightly

telepathic.

"You must excusing Cassiana," the Archon offered languidly as he conducted his guests

across the great open skycourt which was the main room of a Centaurian home. "She went

to the City, one of our families visiting, for she is rhu'ad, and must be ever at their call

when she is needed. And Second Wife is most fortunately in seclusion, so you must

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excusing her also," he continued as they approached the lighted penthouse. Beth

murmured the expected compliments on Nethle's coming child. "Youngest wife then be

our hostess, and since she not used to formal custom, we be like barbarian this night."

Matt gave his wife a vicious nudge in the ribs. "Cut that out," he whispered, savagely, and

with an effort that turned her face crimson, Beth managed to sup-press her rising giggles.

Of course there was nothing even faintly informal in the arrangement of the pent-house

room into which they were conducted, nor in the classic and affected poses of the other

guests. The women in their stiff metallic robes cast polite, aloof glances at Beth's soft drapery,

and their greetings were chilly, musical murmurs. Under their slitted, hostile eyes, Beth felt

despairingly that she and Matt were intruders here, barbaric atavisms; too big and muscu-lar,

too burned by yellow sun, blatantly and vulgarly colorful. The Centaurians were little and

fragile, not one over five feet tall, bleached white by the red - violet sun, their foamy, blue -

black hair a curious metallic halo above stiff classicized robes. Humans? Yes - but their

evolution had turned off at right angles a thou-sand years ago. What had those centuries done

to Megaera and its people?

Swathed in a symbolic costume, Rai Jeth - san's young-est wife Wilidh sat stiffly in the great

Hostess Chair. She spoke to the guests formally, but her mouth quirked up at Beth in the

beginnings of a giggle. "Oh, my good little friend," she whispered in Galactic Stan-dard, "I die

with these formals! These are Cassiana's friends, and not mine, for no one knew she would not

be here tonight! And they laugh at me, and stick up their backs, all stiff, like this - " she made

a rude gesture, and her topaz eyes glinted with mischief. "Sit here by me, Beth, and talk of

something very dull and stupid, for I die trying not to disgrace me by laughing! When

Cassiana comes back."

Wilidh's mirth was infectious. Beth took the indi-cated seat, and they talked in whispers,

holding hands after the fashion of Centaurian women. Wilidh was too young to have adopted

the general hostility toward the Terran woman; in many ways, she reminded Beth of an eager

schoolgirl. It was hard to remember that this merry child had been married as long as Beth

herself; still more incredible that she was already the mother of three children.

Suddenly Wilidh turned color, and stood up, stam-mering confused apologies. "Forgive me,

forgive me, Cassiana - "

Beth also rose, but the Archon's Senior Wife gestured for them to resume their seats. Cassiana

was not dressed for formal dining. Her gray street wrap was still folded over a plain dress of

dark thin stuff, and her face looked naked without cosmetics, and very tired. "Never mind,

Wilidh. Remain hostess for me, if you will." She smiled flittingly at Beth. "I am sorry I am not

here to greet you." Acknowledging their re-plies with a weary politeness, Cassiana moved

past them like a wraith, and they saw her walking across the skycourt, and disappearing down

the wide stairway that led to the lower, private parts of the house.

She did not rejoin them until the formal dinner had been served, eaten and removed, and the

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ASPHEREBOOKASPHEREBOOKFirstpublishedintheUSAbyDawBooksInc.1988FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbySphereBooksLimited1990Copyright©MarionZimmerBradley1985Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsys em,ortransmitted,inanyformorbyanymeanswithoutthepriorpermissioninwriting...

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Bradley, Marion Zimmer - The Best of MZB

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