Forbidden Planets

“The sixteen stories include an impressive array of styles and points of attack. The overall standard of quality is very high. It’s a very good book. It’s practically a miracle for a mass-market paperback anthology.”

—
SF Site
for
Mars Probes

“Crowther has, in
Mars Probes
, assembled a collection of stories that takes its eyes off the collective scientific ball and manages to be both refreshing and funny. It stands a very good chance of being the best original SF anthology of the year.”

—
Locus

“
Constellations
is an excellent original anthology, and it certainly displays the richness of contemporary British SF to great effect.”

—
Locus

“The writers provided a host of differing perspectives so that the audience obtains a fun collection with no two stories alike and none weak. All new stories, Peter Crowther has put together a five star anthology that will enhance his reputation for editing fine off planetary collections.”

—
The Midwest Book Review
for
Constellations

FORBIDDEN
PLANETS

DAW Anthologies Edited by Peter Crowther:

HEAVEN SENT
MOON SHOTS
MARS PROBES
CONSTELLATIONS

eISBN : 978-1-101-11618-0

DAW Book Collectors No. 1385.

DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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First paperback printing, November 2006

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Afterword:
Forbidden Planet
,” copyright © 2006 by Stephen Baxter.

Introduction

S
ometime in the early 1950s MGM Studios contacted me to write a screenplay for a film—the film turned out to be
Forbidden Planet
.

This request came from a gentleman named, incredibly, Nickie Nayfack. I didn’t believe the name, so I checked with MGM and found that he was a relative of one of the studio producers.

I turned down the project and later regretted it because when I saw the film with the Id on the screen, I realized that this was the most important idea in the picture. If MGM had mentioned that to me then, I would have been intrigued and might have done something of a larger size with the Id than was done in the final film.

But if I had taken the job, the first thing I would have done would have been kill Robby the Robot or, if I had let him live, laser beam his storage batteries. For this, I think, a world would have worshiped me to the end of time. On the other hand, Robby the Robot’s worshipers would have reviled me beyond reason.

But there’s absolutely no doubting that Altair 4 was truly an unwelcoming place. And I should know. Because before 1955—and certainly afterward—I had written about a few forbidden planets of my own, hostile worlds where you wouldn’t want to be stranded . . . even fully armed.

The concept of the inhospitable location—be it a planet, a haunted house, or a graveyard—has long been a staple of fantastic fiction. It’s the kind of stuff I used to read as a small boy growing up in Illinois.

I remember being read to from Edgar Allan Poe by my Aunt Neva when I was sick in bed in late 1928 and, the very next year, reading the comic-strip adventures of
Buck Rogers
that started to appear in the daily newspapers.
Buck Rogers
offered me a trip to the asteroids, Venus, Mercury, and, yes, even Jupiter itself! And all in 1929 when Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins hadn’t even been born yet!

And then, at my Uncle Bion’s house in the summer of 1930, I discovered bookshelves filled with even more exotic worlds . . . Edgar Rice Burroughs’ wonderful creation,
John Carter of Mars
, who, some two years later, inspired me to write my own tales of the Red Planet, sometimes depicting it as a friendly world and other times as a place of mystery and intrigue. The first of those stories, “The Million Year Picnic,” appeared in the summer of 1946 in
Planet Stories
.

So here we are, some sixty years later, with
Forbidden Planets
, tales of far-off places where Man isn’t greeted with open arms. Open jaws, perhaps . . . but open arms? Never! In any event, Peter Crowther has gathered a fine bunch of writers to give their own take on alien worlds, honoring that film I almost wrote the screenplay for. I often wonder what kind of job I would have made of it! One thing is certain: I would have destroyed Robby the Robot early on and let all the characters behave. What a delightful thought!

Meanwhile, here are a dozen fine stories about mankind facing up to the perils that may lie ahead on distant worlds. Enjoy!

Ray Bradbury

Los Angeles
July 2005

Passion Ploy

Matthew Hughes

“W
hat exactly is it?” Luff Imbry asked. He walked around the object that occupied the center of the small table in the secluded rear room of the tavern known as Bolly’s Snug, viewing it from several angles and blinking at the way it caught the light.

“I took it off Chiz Ramoulian,” said Dain Ganche.

“Took it?” Imbry’s round, multichinned face showed a mild concern. Provenance could be a contentious issue when buying items of value behind closed doors. Chiz Ramoulian was only a minor hoodlum, yet he moved through the back streets of the City of Olkney attended by a reputation for sudden and inventive violence. He had also exhibited a knack for locating those with whom he had business. “Took it how?”

Ganche crossed corded arms across a broad chest. “I found him in an alley near the slider that comes from the spaceport. He was sitting against a wall, blurry eyed and cradling this in his arms. I reminded him that he owed me a substantial sum from a joint enterprise.” Like Imbry, Ganche regularly invested in highly profitable ventures whose details were known only to those directly involved in their execution. “I suggested that this object would settle the score. Then I took it.”

Imbry’s gaze returned to the glittering thing on the table. He was finding it difficult to look away. “And he was content with that?”

Ganche’s heavy lips took a reflective bend. “He made a noise or two, but nothing actionable. To put it all in a single word, he seemed . . . distracted. But, then, he has a fondness for Red Abandon, and once he cracks a flask, he does not leave it till it’s drained. That may account for his mood. In any case, a scroot patrol picked him up shortly after.”

“Hmm,” said Imbry. He again circled the table and examined the item. “It is inarguably beautiful,” he murmured. Indeed, beauty seemed almost too flimsy a word to fling around in its presence. It compelled the eyes.

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