In the Beginning (2 page)

I did, it must be said, learn a great deal about writing fiction from writing these stories: how to open a story in an interesting way and keep it moving, how to set a scene and sketch in a character (however roughly) without a lot of ponderous exposition, how to provide with a few quick touches the sort of color and inventiveness that make people want to read science fiction in the first place. So these stories have some technical interest and some historical interest, too, for they are, after all, the work of the same man who would write
Dying Inside,
“Sailing to Byzantium,” “Born with the Dead,” and all the other books and stories for which the Science Fiction Writers of America would reward me, in 2004, with the highest honor of the science-fiction world, its Grand Master award. Is it possible to detect the touch of a future Grand Master in these early stories? Maybe not, because even when they were written they represented the side of him that was producing, at improbably high volume, stories intended mainly to pay the rent, stories meant to be fun to read and nothing more. I never pretended that stories like “Guardian of the Crystal Gate” or “Citadel of Darkness” were the best science-fiction I had in me. But, for better or for worse, they were part of my evolutionary curve. I have never repudiated them, or anything else that I wrote along the way. And here they are again, these artifacts of a vanished age, sixteen of my earliest stories reprinted in book form for the first time, brought forth now into the bright eerie light of a new century that was far in the future when I wrote them.

Yokel with Portfolio

(1955)

All through my adolescence I dreamed of becoming a science fiction writer. Feverishly I wrote stories, typed them up, sent them off to the magazines of the day
(Astounding Science Fiction, Amazing Stories, Startling Stories,
and so forth.) They all came back.

But then, in 1953, when I was 18 and a sophomore at Columbia, I began to make my first sales—an article about science-fiction fandom, then a novel for teenage readers only a few years younger than myself, and then a short story. On the strength of these credentials I was able to get myself a literary agent—Scott Meredith, one of the pre-eminent science-fiction specialists of that era, who represented such notable clients as Arthur C. Clarke, Poul Anderson, Philip K. Dick, and Jack Vance.

My hope was that under the aegis of so powerful an agent my stories would get faster and more sympathetic attention from the editors than they had been getting when I sent them in myself. It didn’t quite work that way—maybe I got faster readings, sure, but my stuff was still competing with the stories of Messrs. Clarke, Anderson, Dick, and Vance for space in those editors’ magazines. Still, during the course of the next year or so Scott did manage to make a few tiny sales for me to a couple of minor s-f magazines. The first, in June, 1954, was a 1500-worder called “The Silent Colony.” Eight tense months later, in February of 1955, he produced a second one: “The Martian,” 3000 words, which Scott sold to William L. Hamling’s
Imagination,
an unpretentious little penny-a-word market that filled its pages with stories that various top-level writers (Gordon R. Dickson, Robert Sheckley, Philip K. Dick, Damon Knight) had been unable to sell to better-paying magazines. I was pleased to be joining their company. Even though these two sales had netted me a grand total of $40.50, I felt I was on my way toward the start of a career. And I was still only a junior in college, twenty years old, after all. There would be time later on to consider whether I could actually earn a living this way.

Three more months went by before my next sale: a second one to Hamling, “Yokel with Portfolio.” Looking at it now, I suppose that I wrote it with Horace Gold’s
Galaxy Science Fiction
in mind, or Anthony Boucher’s
Fantasy & Science Fiction,
since those two top-of-the-field editors were particularly fond of the sort of light, slick science fiction that I imagined “Yokel with Portfolio” to be. But the Meredith agency obviously didn’t think I was quite ready for prime time yet, for I see from the agency records that they sent it straight to
Imagination
in March of 1955 and that on May 8 Hamling bought it for $55. It was published in the November, 1955 issue of
Imagination
’s new companion magazine,
Imaginative Tales,
and here it is again for the first time in half a century—my third published short story, no classic but, I think, a decent enough job for the lad of twenty that I was at the time I wrote it.

It was just one of those coincidences that brought Kalainnen to Terra the very week that the bruug escaped from the New York Zoo. Since Kalainnen was the first Traskan to come to Terra in over a century, and since the bruug had lived peacefully in the zoo for all of the three or four hundred years or more since it had been brought there from outer space, the odds were greatly against the two events coinciding. But they did.

Kalainnen, never having been on a world more complex than the agrarian backwater of civilization that was his native Trask, was considerably astonished at his first sight of gleaming towers of New York, and stood open-mouthed at the landing depot, battered suitcase in hand, while the other passengers from his ship
(Runfoot,
Procyon-Rigel-Alpha-Centauri-Sol third-rate runner) flocked past him to waiting friends and relatives. In a very short time the depot was cleared, except for Kalainnen and a tall young Terran who had been waiting for someone, and who seemed evidently troubled.

He walked up to Kalainnen. “I’m from the
Globe,”
the young man said, looking down at him. “I was told there was an alien from Trask coming in on this ship, and I’m here to interview him. Sort of a feature angle—weird monster from a planet no one knows very much about. Know where I can find him?”

The young Terran’s hair was long and green. Kalainnen felt acutely aware of his own close-cropped, undyed hair. No one had warned him about Terran fashions, and he was beginning to realize that he was going to be terribly out of style here.

“I
am from Trask,” Kalainnen said. “Can I help you?”

“Are you the one who came in just now? Impossible!”

Kalainnen frowned. “I assure you, sir, I am. I just arrived this very minute, from Trask.”

“But you look perfectly ordinary,” said the reporter, consulting some scribbled notes. “I was told that Traskans were reptiles, sort of like dinosaurs but smaller. Are you
sure
you’re from Trask? Procyon IV, that is.”

“So that’s it,” Kalainnen said. “You’re mistaken, young man. The inhabitants of Procyon IV are reptiles, all right, in more ways than one. But that’s Quange. Trask is Procyon of Terran descent; the Traskans are not aliens but from Terra. We were settled in—”

“That doesn’t matter,” said the reporter, closing his notebook. “No news in you. Reptiles would be different. Hope you enjoy your stay.”

He walked away, leaving Kalainnen alone in the depot. It had not been exactly a promising introduction to Terra, so far. And he hadn’t even had a chance to ask for anything yet.

He checked out of the depot, passed through customs without much difficulty (the only problem was explaining where and what Trask was; the planet wasn’t listed in the Registry any more) and headed out into the busy street.

It made him sick.

There were shining autos buzzing by, and slick little copters, and hordes of tall people in plastiline tunics, their hair dyed in fanciful colors, heading for unknown destinations at awesome speed. The pavement was a deep golden-red, while the buildings radiated soft bluish tones. It was not at all like Trask, quiet, peaceful Trask. For an unhappy moment Kalainnen wondered whether the best thing for Trask would not be for him to turn around and take the next liner back; did he really want to turn it into another Terra? But no: the technology of Trask had fallen centuries behind that of the rest of the galaxy’s, and he had come for aid. Trask had been virtually forgotten by Terra and was stagnating, off in its corner of the sky. Kalainnen’s mission was vital to Trask’s continued existence.

Before he left they had dressed him in what they thought were the latest Terran styles and cropped his hair in approved fashion. But, as he walked through the crowded streets of the metropolis, it became more and more apparent that they were centuries behind in dress, as well. He was hopelessly out of date.

“Yokel!” called a high, childish voice. “Look at the yokel!” Kalainnen glanced up and saw a small boy pointing at him and giggling. A woman with him—his mother, probably—seized him roughly by the wrist and pulled him along, telling him to hush. But Kalainnen could see on her face a surreptitious smile, as if she agreed with the boy’s derision.

The rest of the walk was a nightmare of snickers and open laughs. Even the occasional alien he saw seemed to be sneering at him, Kalainnen trudged along, feeling horridly short and dumpy-looking, regretting his old-fashioned clothes and close-cut hair and battered suitcase, and regretting the whole foolish journey. Finally he found the address he was heading for—a hotel for transient aliens—and checked in.

The hotel had facilities for all sorts of monstrosities, but, since Trask was an Earth-type planet, he accepted one of the ordinary rooms, and sank gratefully down on a pneumochair.

“Hello,” said the chair. “Welcome to Terra.”

Kalainnen leaped up in fright and looked around the room. There was no one else present. Probably some sort of advertising stunt, he concluded. Piped in from above. He sat down again in relief.

“Hello,” said the chair. “Welcome to Terra.”

He frowned. How often were they going to welcome him? He looked around the room for the loudspeaker, hoping to find it and rip it out. There was no sign of one. He sat down again.

“Hello,” the chair said a third time. “Welcome to Terra.”

“So that’s it!” Kalainnen said, looking at the chair. He wondered if every chair in the hotel spoke to its extraterrestrial occupant, and, if so, how long the occupants could stand it.

Pressing gingerly on the seat of the pneumochair revealed that the voice was activated by weight. He dropped his suitcase heavily on the chair, ignoring the fourth welcome, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, waiting for chimes or some other sign of welcome. Nothing was forthcoming. He leaned back, and rested.

Tomorrow he would have to try to get an audience with the Colonial Minister, in hopes of arranging some sort of technical-assistance program for Trask. But now, he thought, as he swung his legs up and got under the covers, the first thing was to get some sleep. Terra was a cold and unfriendly world, and his appearance was not calculated to win him any friends. He would rest. The bed was much too soft, and he longed for the simple life on Trask.

Just as he began to drop off into sleep, a sudden and powerful buzzing noise jolted him out of bed.

Astonished, he looked around, wondering what the buzzing meant. It was repeated, and this time he realized it was a signal that someone was at the door. A visitor, so soon? There were no other Traskans on Terra; of that, he was fairly certain.

After a moment’s confusion with the photo-electric device that controlled the door, he got it open. The green, reptilian face of a Quangen stared blandly up at him.

***

“Oh,” the Quangen said. “They told me someone was here from the Procyon system, and I was sort of hoping—”

“Yes,” said Kalainnen. “I know. You were hoping I was from your planet, not mine. Sorry to disappoint you. Anything else I can do for you?” He stared at the Quangen coldly. Little love was lost between the neighboring planets.

“You needn’t be so inhospitable, friend,” said the Quangen. “Our peoples are not the best of friends at home, but we’re almost brothers this far from Procyon.”

The Quangen was right, Kalainnen conceded to himself. Poor company was better than none at all, anyway.

“You’re right. Come on in,” he said. The Quangen nodded his head—the equivalent of a smile—and stomped in, flicking his tail agilely over his shoulder to prevent it from being caught in the door.

“What brings you to Terra?” said the Quangen.

“I might ask the same of you,” Kalainnen said.

“You can, if you want too,” said the reptile. “Look, fellow: I told you before, maybe our planets don’t get along too well, but that’s no reason why
we
shouldn’t. I see no harm in telling you that I’m here on a technical-aid mission. It’s about time Quange caught up with the rest of the galaxy. I’ll bet that’s why you’re here, too.”

Kalainnen debated for a moment and then decided there was no reason why he shouldn’t admit it.

“You’re right,” he said. “I have an appointment with the Colonial Minister for tomorrow.” It wasn’t quite the truth—he was only going to
try
to get an appointment the next day—but an old Traskan proverb warns against being too honest with Quangens.

“Oh, you do, eh?” said the Quangen, twirling the prehensile tip of his tail around his throat in an expression of, Kalainnen knew, amusement. “That’s very interesting. I’ve been waiting two years and I haven’t even come close to him. How do you rate such quick service?” He looked meaningfully at Kalainnen, flicking his tail from side to side.

“Well,” said Kalainnen, nearly sitting down in the chair and avoiding it at the last moment, “well—”

“I know,” said the Quangen. “You can’t help being a Traskan, even on Terra. I’ll forgive you. But you don’t really have an appointment tomorrow, do you?”

“No,” Kalainnen said. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t even applied yet. I just got here.”

“I thought so,” the reptile said. “In two years I’ve gotten as far as the First Assistant Undersecretary. The Colonial Minister is a very busy man, and there are more outworld planets than you can imagine. I’ve been living here. The hotel’s full of outworlders like us who are stuck here waiting to see some bureaucrat or other. I’ll introduce you around tomorrow. After two years it’s good to see someone from the same system.”

Kalainnen frowned. They hadn’t told him the mission might go on and on for a matter of years. As it was, a single afternoon on Terra had been a profoundly distressing experience. And two years?