Before They Were Giants (26 page)

Along the way, Niven has contributed several big ideas to science fiction as a whole, from the stripped-down Dyson Sphere that gave
Ringworld
its name to the carefully crafted races of his Known Space universe and the various maxims known as “Niven’s Laws” to SF fandom. Despite its relative brevity, “The Coldest Place,” with its Big Science premise, Known Space setting, and strange but plausible “alien,” retains a uniquely Niven flavor.

Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?

It’s the characters. I used them to better purpose in a later story, “Becalmed in Hell.” And it’s the puzzle—courtesy of Isaac Asimov. In an article he wrote that the night side of Mercury was likely the coldest place in the solar system, with no sunlight ever (as in his “The Dying Night”). This seemed counterintuitive, but hey.

If you were writing this today, what would you do differently? What are the story’s weaknesses, and how would you change them?

First, I’d leave out the pipe. An astronaut who smokes now seems silly. Second, I’d have to use a crater at Mercury’s pole to get anything like a “coldest place.” Even so, it’s hard to believe it’s that cold. Third—there’s not much action. I’d get Howie and Eric in trouble.

What inspired this story? How did it take shape? Where was it initially published?

It was inspired by the Asimov article, and took shape all in one tortured sitting: I wasn’t yet skilled at writing. Frederik Pohl selected it for
Worlds of If,
a magazine now defunct, which published a novice’s story in every issue.

Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?

It was my first sale, for $25 in 1960s money. That was all I needed to convince me that I was a writer. My family stopped bugging me to get a job. I was bemused, but not dismayed, when Mercury turned out to be something other than what I’d imagined.

How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?

I like to think I’ve gotten better. Even so, writing isn’t easier. I see more that needs improving. Also, it sometimes feels like I’ve used up all the good ideas.

What advice do you have for aspiring authors?

You work indoors and there’s no heavy lifting. It’s a good life, but it’s sometimes lonely. Try collaborating; but remember, some of the best can’t collaborate at all.

Any anecdotes regarding the story or your experiences as a fledgling writer?

This story was obsolete before it was printed. Some Russkis showed that Mercury had a thin atmosphere derived from the solar wind (protons = hydrogen.) Atmospheres conduct and circulate heat. Not much later the planet was shown to be rotating with respect to its Sun. There’s no “where midnight crosses the equator on the black back of Mercury.”

But Fred never asked for the money back.

<>

~ * ~

Mirrors and Burnstone

by Nicola Griffith

ink brushed a fingertip over the wall before her. It was smooth and smelled strange. A cloud unwound itself from the spring moon and silver light pinned her to the turf.

Motionless, she breathed slow and deep. This was unexpected. Just after dawn that day she and Oriyest had studied the clouds, decided they would stay heavy the whole night.

Cloud slid over the moon’s face once more and Jink gauged their denseness and speed, judging the time it would take to sing open the warehouse doors.

It should be safe.

She waited ten heartbeats until the night was once more thick and black, then ghosted along the smooth wall until she reached the glass doors. The floor hummed beneath her feet. To one side, the square of press-panel gleamed. She ignored it. Word had spread through the journeywomen: to press at random in the hope of opening the doors sent a signal to Port, that Outlandar centre of noise and light that had appeared on their world this season. She would sing the doors open.

She composed herself, back straight and legs slightly spread. She sang softly and listened with attention reflected vibration, adjusting here, compensating there. She stopped to test her work.

Almost. Four more fluting notes and the doors hissed open.

At her tread, lights clicked on automatically, making her blink. The doors slid closed. Under her bare feet, the foamplast was hard and cold. She hardly noticed, amidst the alien sights and smells: containers, sacks and crates; mechanisms standing free under thick coats of lubricant. She scented this way and that, laid a hand in wonder on a bulging sack. There was enough food here to feed herself and Oriyest for seasons ...

Jink was thoughtful. What did the Outlandar intend with such stores? The building was on grazing lands accorded seasons ago to Oriyest and herself. By that token, they were due a small portion of the goods stored. But what did the Outlandar know of such things? She looked at the largest store of food she had seen in her life. They would not miss a pouchful.

She squatted to examine a sack. It was not tied but sealed in some way unknown to her. She slipped her knife from her neck sheath and hefted it. It would be a shame to spoil such fine material, but there was no other way. She slid the blade down the side of the sack.

“Stop right there.”

Jink froze, then looked slowly over her shoulder. Mirrors. She had heard of such.

The figure in the slick, impact-resistant suit was pointing something at her. A weapon. It motioned her away from the sack.

“Move very slowly,” the voice said, “lie down on your belly, hands above your head.” The figure also mimed the instructions.

Jink could not tell if the voice was female or male. It came flat and filtered through the mirror-visored helmet. Nor did the suit give any indication. She did as she was told. The Mirror relaxed a little and holstered the weapon. A second Mirror stepped into view, levering up his visor. He looked down at Jink. “Hardly worth the bother, Day,” he said and spat on the floor. Day, the first Mirror, shrugged and unclipped her helmet.

“You know what they said: every, repeat, every intruder on Company property to be apprehended and brought to Port. We let this one go and some hard-nosed lieutenant hears of it, bang goes all that accumulated R&R. Or worse.”

Jink listened hard, understanding most of the words but making little sense of the whole. She held herself still when Day squatted down by her head.

“Don’t be scared. You’ll come to no harm from us.”

Jink said nothing. She sensed no violence in the Mirror but would take no risks.

“She doesn’t understand a word, Day. Just get her on her feet and I’ll call a pickup.”

He raised her left wrist to his mouth and spoke into the com strapped there. Jink heard the indifference, the boredom in his voice as he recited a string of numbers to Port Central. Day leaned and casually hauled Jink to her feet.

Jink breathed slowly, stayed calm. Day’s gloved fingers were still curled loosely round her elbow. The Mirror turned to her partner.

“All okay?”

“Yeah. Be ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Want to wait outside?”

“No.” He stamped his boots on the floor. “It’s cold enough in here. We’d freeze out there.”

Jink wondered at that. Cold? It was spring.

The Mirror eyed Jink, in her shift. “Skinny thing, isn’t she?”

“They all look the same,” Day said. “Like wisps of straw.”

Jink held her silence but thought privately that the Mirrors were as graceful as boulders.

She felt a faint disturbance, a wrongness in the foamplast beneath her feet. She tried to listen, stiffening with effort.

Day must have felt her captive’s muscles tense and tightened her grip. “Don’t try anything, skinny. The doors are locked good this time.” She tapped the key box on her hip. “Besides, now we’ve reported you, we’d have to hunt you down even if you did escape. Which isn’t really likely. No,” she said easily, “you just keep quiet and behave and in a few days you’ll be back with your family. Or whatever.”

Jink was not listening. Did the Mirrors not feel it? Burnstone, going unstable beneath their feet. When she spoke, her voice was harsh with fear. “Leave. Now.”

Day looked at her. “Well, it speaks. You’re a sly one.” She did not seem perturbed. “The pickup’ll be a few minutes yet. There’s no rush.”

“No. We have to leave now.” She did not pull free of the tight hand around her arm but turned slowly to Day, then the other Mirror.

“We stand on burnstone. We must be very, very careful. Tread like flies on an eggshell.”

“What’s she talking about, Day?”

“Don’t know. Sounds . . .” She looked hard at Jink’s strained face. “What’s burnstone?”

“Beneath the soil. A stone that burns. If you hit it too hard, or dig near it, you let—”

She heard a noise from the other Mirror. She turned. He was lighting a cigarillo.

“No!”

But it was too late. The match strip, still alight, was already falling from his fingers. Jink moved.

While the Mirrors were still hearing her shout, she pushed away Day’s grip with a strength they did not know she possessed. Even before the tiny spark hit the ground, she was running. Straight towards the glass doors.

“Hey! Stop! You’ll. . .” Day fumbled for the key box.

Jink crossed her arms over her head and dived through the glass.

Day cursed and ran towards the shattered door. There was blood everywhere.

Jink knew she was hurt but she had no thought in her mind but running. She ran with all her strength. She heard the soft whump of the erupting fireball just before the edge of expanding air caught her and tumbled her head over heels. She rolled but the force of the explosion drove her straight into an outcrop of rock. Her thoughts went runny and red. Pain all over. She hung on to consciousness, forced herself to her feet. After the fireball, there were always a few minutes before the burn really took hold. She stumbled back towards the remains of the warehouse.

A quick glance told her that the other Mirror was dead. She stepped over shards of glass and pieces of smouldering plastic to where Day lay; she was unconscious but breathing. Jink could not see much wrong with her. Hissing against the pain, she bent and grasped the Mirror’s suit at the neck seal, hauled Day across the grass. Her hands ached with the effort. She dragged the unconscious Mirror behind the same rocks she had crashed into earlier. There was shelter enough only for one. Day would have to stay here and Jink would run for it.

She rolled Day close to the rock as she could, tucking the flopping arms away. Day’s wristcom blinked green. Jink hesitated, then squatted. She unfastened the strap and the com dropped into her palm. Despite her dizziness, she took three quick breaths and looked back into her memory, forcing it to be clear. Once again, she watched the Mirror touch two buttons, then speak. She opened her eyes. Pressed the buttons.

“PORT CENTRAL.” The voice was flat, tinny. Jink held the com close to her mouth, as she had seen the Mirror do.

“Burnstone,” she croaked. The flames had caught at her throat.

“PORT CENTRAL,” the voice repeated.

“Burnstone,” Jink said, fighting spinning nausea, “your Mirrors have started a burn!”

“WHO IS THIS. NAME AND NUMBER.”

Jink looked at it. The voice tried another tack.