Read The Very Best of F & SF v1 Online
Authors: Gordon Van Gelder (ed)
Tags: #Anthology, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction
The Very Best of F & SF v1 (2 page)
“This Moment of the Storm” by Roger
Zelazny. Copyright © 1966 by Mercury Press. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
June 1966. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate and The Pimlico
Agency, Inc.
“The Electric Ant” by Philip K. Dick.
Copyright © 1969 by Philip K. Dick. Copyright renewed by Laura Coelho,
Christopher Dick and Isolde Hackett. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
October 1969. Reprinted by permission of the Philip K. Dick Trust and the
Scovil Galen Ghosh Literary Agency, Inc.
“The Deathbird” by Harlan Ellison.
Copyright © 1973 by Harlan Ellison. Renewed, 2001 by The Kilimanjaro
Corporation. Reprinted by arrangement with, and permission of, the Author and
the Author’s agent, Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., New York. All rights
reserved. Harlan Ellison is a registered trademark of The Kilimanjaro
Corporation. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
March 1973.
“The Women Men Don’t See” by James Tiptree,
Jr. Copyright © 1976 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
December 1973. Reprinted by permission of the James Tiptree Estate and the
Virginia Kidd Agency.
“I See You” by Damon Knight. Copyright ©
1976 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
November 1976.
“The Gunslinger” by Stephen King. Copyright
© 1978 by Stephen King. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
October 1978. Permission
granted by the author. All rights reserved.
“The Dark” by Karen Joy Fowler. Copyright ©
1999 by Mercury Press, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
June 1991.
“Buffalo” by John Kessel. Copyright © 1991
by John Kessel. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
January 1991.
“Solitude” by Ursula K. Le Guin. Copyright
© 1994 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
December 1994.
“Mother Grasshopper” by Michael Swanwick.
Copyright © 1998 by Michael Swanwick. First published in
‘The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
April 1998.
“macs” by Terry Bisson. Copyright © 1999 by
Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
October/November 1999.
“Creation” by Jeffrey Ford. Copyright ©
2002 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
May 2002.
“Other People” by Neil Gaiman. Copyright ©
2001 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
October/November 2001.
“Two Hearts” by Peter S. Beagle. Copyright
© 2005 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy
& Science Fiction,
October/November 2005.
“Journey into the Kingdom” by M. Rickert.
Copyright © 2006 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
May 2006.
“The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate” by
Ted Chiang. Copyright © 2007 by Spilogale, Inc. First published in
‘The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction,
September 2007.
Introduction -
Gordon Van Gelder
Of Time and Third
Avenue - Alfred Bester
All Summer in a Day
- Ray Bradbury
One Ordinary Day,
with Peanuts - Shirley Jackson
A Touch of Strange
- Theodore Sturgeon
Flowers for Algernon
- Daniel Keyes
Harrison Bergeron –
Kurt Vonnegut
This Moment of the
Storm – Roger Zelazny
The Electric Ant –
Philip K. Dick
The Deathbird –
Harlan Ellison
®
The Women Men Don’t
See
–
James Tiptree, Jr.
Mother Grasshopper
– Michael Swanwick
Journey into the
Kingdom - M. Rickert
The Merchant and
the Alchemist’s Gate – Ted Chiang
“The magazine was conceived because we were
convinced that there was a good market for a periodical offering its readers a
representation of the best of the entire range of imaginative literature.... We’ve
tried in
F&SF
to represent at its best the field of imaginative fiction: the
literature of the impossible-made-convincing.”
Thus wrote
Anthony Boucher and J. Francis McComas some fifty-eight years ago, in the
introduction to the first “Best from
F&SF
” anthology. And here we
are today, still following the same vision.
I’m delighted to
use our Diamond Jubilee as an excuse for collecting our best stories in one
book, but I can’t pretend that this volume does the job. Just think: if I
limited myself to selecting but one story per year, we’d still wind up with a
book that’s more than twice as long as the one you’re reading now.
So I’ve
assembled a book of roughly two dozen of our best stories. I feel a bit like I’ve
taken a few chunks off the top of an iceberg and claimed to have represented
the entire floating mass. There are several thousand more great stories in our
inventory. (I’ve tried to bring a few more to light this year by running
reprints in the magazine, but trust me—even with those reprints, we’ve barely
begun to represent all the goodies. )
A big note of
thanks needs to go out to all the thousands of people who have made the
magazine happen, from the founding editors and publishers to the many talented
writers, artists, cartoonists, editors, proofreaders, circulation managers,
distributors, and suppliers, but personally, I feel the biggest debt of
gratitude to you, the reader. In my thirteen years at
F&SF,
I’ve been
continually impressed and astonished by the wisdom, wit, and support of our
readers, and I’d like to say thanks. You make the magic happen.
The late, great Alfred Bester
(1913-1987) wrote short fiction, radio scripts, and comic books in the late
1930s and ’40s, but he really hit his stride in the 1950s... much to the good
fortune of
F&SF,
since he published many of his
classic short stories in our pages, including “The Pi Man,” “5, 271, 009,”
“Fondly Fahrenheit,” and “The Men Who Murdered Mohammed.” He also reviewed
books for us in the early ’60s, during which time he ruffled quite a few
feathers with his outspoken opinions. “Of Time and Third Avenue” appeared in
the tenth issue of
F&SF
and I find that it remains a joy
after a dozen readings.
What
Macy hated
about the man was the fact that he
squeaked. Macy didn’t know if it was the shoes, but he suspected the clothes.
In the backroom of his Tavern, under the poster that asked:WHO FEARS MENTION
THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE? Macy inspected the stranger. He was tall, slender, and
very dainty. Although he was young, he was almost bald. There was fuzz on top
of his head and over his eyebrows. When he reached into his jacket for a
wallet, Macy made up his mind. It was the clothes that squeaked.
“MQ, Mr. Macy,” the
stranger said in a staccato voice. “Very good. For rental of this backroom
including exclusive utility for one chronos—”
“One whatos?” Macy
asked nervously.
“Chronos. The
incorrect word? Oh yes. Excuse me. One hour.”
“You’re a
foreigner,” Macy said. “What’s your name? I bet it’s Russian.”
“No. Not foreign,”
the stranger answered. His frightening eyes whipped around the backroom. “Identify
me as Boyne.”
“Boyne!” Macy
echoed incredulously.
“MQ. Boyne.” Mr.
Boyne opened a wallet like an accordion, ran his fingers through various
colored papers and coins, then withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. He jabbed it at
Macy and said: “Rental fee for one hour. As agreed. One hundred dollars. Take
it and go.”
Impelled by the
thrust of Boyne’s eyes, Macy took the bill and staggered out to the bar. Over
his shoulder he quavered: “What’ll you drink?”
“Drink? Alcohol?
Never!” Boyne answered.
He turned and
darted to the telephone booth, reached under the pay-phone and located the
lead-in wire. From a side pocket he withdrew a small glittering box and clipped
it to the wire. He tucked it out of sight, then lifted the receiver.
“Co-ordinates
West 73-58-15,” he said rapidly, “North 40-45-20. Disband sigma. You’re
ghosting...” After a pause he continued: “Stet. Stet! Transmission clear. I
want a fix on Knight. Oliver Wilson Knight. Probability to four significant
figures. You have the co-ordinates... 99.9807? MQ. Stand by...”
Boyne poked his
head out of the booth and peered toward the Tavern door. He waited with steely
concentration until a young man and a pretty girl entered. Then he ducked back
to the phone. “Probability fulfilled. Oliver Wilson Knight in contact. MQ. Luck
my Para.” He hung up and was sitting under the poster as the couple wandered
toward the backroom.
The young man
was about twenty-six, of medium height and inclined to be stocky. His suit was
rumpled, his seal-brown hair was rumpled, and his friendly face was crinkled by
good-natured creases. The girl had black hair, soft blue eyes, and a small
private smile. They walked arm in arm and liked to collide gently when they
thought no one was looking. At this moment they collided with Mr. Macy.
“I’m sorry, Mr.
Knight,” Macy said. “You and the young lady can’t sit back there this
afternoon. The premises have been rented.”
Their faces
fell. Boyne called: “Quite all right, Mr. Macy. All correct. Happy to entertain
Mr. Knight and friend as guests.”
Knight and the
girl turned to Boyne uncertainly. Boyne smiled and patted the chair alongside
him. “Sit down,” he said. “Charmed, I assure you.”
The girl said: “We
hate to intrude, but this is the only place in town where you can get genuine
stone gingerbeer.”
“Already aware
of the fact, Miss Clinton.” To Macy he said: “Bring gingerbeer and go. No other
guests. These are all I’m expecting.”
Knight and the
girl stared at Boyne in astonishment as they sat down slowly. Knight placed a
wrapped parcel of books on the table. The girl took a breath and said: “You
know me... Mr... ?”
“Boyne. As in
Boyne, Battle of. Yes, of course. You are Miss Jane Clinton.
This is Mr.
Oliver Wilson Knight. I rented premises particularly to meet you this afternoon.”
“This supposed
to be a gag?” Knight asked, a dull flush appearing on his cheeks.
“Gingerbeer,” answered
Boyne gallantly as Macy arrived, deposited bottles and glasses, and departed in
haste.
“You couldn’t
know we were coming here,” Jane said. “We didn’t know ourselves... until a few
minutes ago.”
“Sorry to
contradict, Miss Clinton.” Boyne smiled. “The probability of your arrival at
Longitude 73-58-15 Latitude 40-45-20 was 99.9807 percent. No one can escape
four significant figures.”
“Listen,” Knight
began angrily, “if this is your idea of—”
“Kindly drink
gingerbeer and listen to my idea, Mr. Knight.” Boyne leaned across the table
with galvanic intensity. “This hour has been arranged with difficulty and much
cost. To whom? No matter. You have placed us in an extremely dangerous
position. I have been sent to find a solution.”
“Solution for
what?” Knight asked.
Jane tried to
rise. “I... I think we’d b-better be go—”
Boyne waved her
back, and she sat down like a child. To Knight he said: “This noon you entered
premises of J. D. Craig & Co., dealer in printed books. You purchased,
through transfer of money, four books. Three do not matter, but the fourth...” He
tapped the wrapped parcel emphatically. “That is the crux of this encounter.”
“What the hell
are you talking about?” Knight exclaimed.
“One bound
volume consisting of collected facts and statistics.”
“The Almanac?”
“The Almanac.”
“What about it?”
“You intended to
purchase a 1950 Almanac.”
“I bought the ’50
Almanac.”
“You did not!”
Boyne blazed. “You bought the Almanac for 1990.”
“What?”
“The World
Almanac for 1990,” Boyne said clearly, “is in this package. Do not ask how.
There was a mistake that has already been disciplined. Now the error must be
adjusted. That is why I am here. It is why this meeting was arranged. You
cognate?”
Knight burst
into laughter and reached for the parcel. Boyne leaned across the table and
grasped his wrist. “You must not open it, Mr. Knight.”
“All right.” Knight
leaned back in his chair. He grinned at Jane and sipped gingerbeer. “What’s the
pay-off on the gag?”
“I must have the
book, Mr. Knight. I would like to walk out of this Tavern with the Almanac
under my arm.”
“You would, eh?”
“I would.”
“The 1990
Almanac?”
“Yes.”
“If,” said
Knight, “there was such a thing as a 1990 Almanac, and if it was in that
package, wild horses couldn’t get it away from me.”
“Why, Mr.
Knight?”
“Don’t be an
idiot. A look into the future? Stock market reports... Horse races... Politics.
It’d be money from home. I’d be rich.”
“Indeed yes.” Boyne
nodded sharply. “More than rich. Omnipotent. The small mind would use the
Almanac from the future for small things only. Wagers on the outcome of games
and elections. And so on. But the intellect of dimensions..
. your
intellect... would
not stop there.”
“You tell me,” Knight
grinned.
“Deduction. Induction.
Inference.” Boyne ticked the points off on his fingers. “Each fact would tell
you an entire history. Real estate investment, for example. What lands to buy
and sell. Population shifts and census reports would tell you. Transportation.
Lists of marine disasters and railroad wrecks would tell you whether rocket
travel has replaced the train and ship.”
“Has it?” Knight
chuckled.
“Flight records
would tell you which company’s stock should be bought. Lists of postal receipts
would tell you which are the cities of the future. The Nobel Prize winners
would tell you which scientists and what new inventions to watch. Armament
budgets would tell you which factories and industries to control. Cost of
living reports would tell you how best to protect your wealth against inflation
or deflation. Foreign exchange rates, stock exchange reports, bank suspensions
and life insurance indexes would provide the clues to protect you against any
and all disasters.”
“That’s the idea,”
Knight said. “That’s for me.”
“You really
think so?”
“I know so.
Money in my pocket. The world in my pocket.”
“Excuse me,” Boyne
said keenly, “but you are only repeating the dreams of childhood. You want
wealth. Yes. But only won through endeavor... your own endeavor. There is no
joy in success as an unearned gift. There is nothing but guilt and unhappiness.
You are aware of this already.”
“I disagree,” Knight
said.
“Do you? Then
why do you work? Why not steal? Rob? Burgle? Cheat others of their money to
fill your own pockets?”
“But I—” Knight
began, and then stopped.
“The point is
well taken, eh?” Boyne waved his hand impatiently. “No, Mr. Knight. Seek a
mature argument. You are too ambitious and healthy to wish to steal success.”
“Then I’d just
want to know if I would be successful.”
“Ah? Stet. You
wish to thumb through the pages looking for your name. You want reassurance.
Why? Have you no confidence in yourself? You are a promising young attorney.
Yes. I know that. It is part of my data. Has not Miss Clinton confidence in
you?”
“Yes,” Jane said
in a loud voice. “He doesn’t need reassurance from a book.”
“What else, Mr.
Knight?”
Knight
hesitated, sobering in the face of Boyne’s overwhelming intensity. Then he
said: “Security.”
“There is no
such thing. Life is insecurity. You can only find safety in death.”
“You know what I
mean,” Knight muttered. “The knowledge that life is worth planning. There’s the
H-Bomb.”
Boyne nodded
quickly. “True. It is a crisis. But then, I’m here. The world will continue. I
am proof.”
“If I believe
you.”
“And if you do not?”
Boyne blazed. “You do not want security. You want courage.” He nailed the
couple with a contemptuous glare. “There is in this country a legend of pioneer
forefathers from whom you are supposed to inherit courage in the face of odds.
D. Boone, E. Allen, S. Houston, A. Lincoln, G. Washington and others. Fact?”
“I suppose so,” Knight
muttered. “That’s what we keep telling ourselves.”
“And where is
the courage in you? Pfui! It is only talk. The unknown terrifies you. Danger
does not inspire you to fight, as it did D. Crockett; it makes you whine and
reach for the reassurance in this book. Fact?”
“But the
H-Bomb...”
“It is a danger.
Yes. One of many. What of that? Do you cheat at Solhand?”
“Solhand?”
“Your pardon.” Boyne
reconsidered, impatiently snapping his fingers at the interruption to the white
heat of his argument. “It is a game played singly against chance relationships
in an arrangement of cards. I forget your noun...”
“Oh!” Jane’s
face brightened. “Solitaire.”
“Quite right.
Solitaire. Thank you, Miss Clinton.” Boyne turned his frightening eyes on
Knight. “Do you cheat at Solitaire?”
“Occasionally.”
“Do you enjoy
games won by cheating?”
“Not as a rule.”
“They are
thisney, yes? Boring. They are tiresome. Pointless. Null-Co-ordinated. You wish
you had won honestly.”
“I suppose so.”
“And you will
suppose so after you have looked at this bound book. Through all your pointless
life you will wish you had played honestly the games of life. You will verdash
that look. You will regret. You will totally recall the pronouncement of our
great poet-philosopher Trynbyll who summed it up in one lightning, skazon line.
‘The Future is Tekon,’
said
Trynbyll. Mr. Knight, do not cheat. Let me implore you to give me the Almanac.”
“Why don’t you
take it away from me?”
“It must be a
gift. We can rob you of nothing. We can give you nothing.”
“That’s a lie.
You paid Macy to rent this backroom.”
“Macy was paid,
but I gave him nothing. He will think he was cheated, but you will see to it
that he is not. All will be adjusted without dislocation.”
