(2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories Read online

  (2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

  Various

  Series: 15 [2]

  Published: 2010

  * * *

  This Halcyon Classics ebook collection contains fifty short stories by more than forty masters of science fiction. Many of the stories in this collection were published during the heyday of popular science fiction magazines from the 1930s to the 1960s.

  Included within this work are stories by Ben Bova, Cordwainer Smith, Phillip K. Dick, Randall Garrett, Paul Ernst, Kurt Vonnegut, Harry Harrison, Jack Williamson, Lester Del Rey, Fredric Brown, Murray Leinster, C.M. Kornbluth, Walter M. Miller, Jr., Andre Norton, H. Beam Piper, and many others.

  This collection is DRM free and includes an active table of contents for easy navigation.

  Contents:

  A Question of Courage, J.F. Bone

  The Duelling Maching, Ben Bova

  Keep Out, Frederic Brown

  Indirection, Everett B. Cole

  The Game of Rat and Dragon, Cordwainer Smith

  The World Beyond, Raymond Cummings

  Victory, Lester Del Rey

  The Defenders, Phillip K. Dick

  The Hammer of Thor, Charles Willard Diffin

  The Planetoid of Peril, Paul Ernst

  The Jupiter Weapon, Charles L. Fontenay

  This World Must Die, H.B. Fyfe

  Psichopath, Randall Garrett

  The Man Who Hated Mars, Randall Garrett

  Hawk Carse, Anthony Gilmore

  The Helpful Hand of God, Tom Godwin

  A Scientist Rises, D.W. Hall

  Monsters of Mars, Edmond Hamilton

  The Sargasso of Space, Edmond Hamilton

  The K-Factor, Harry Harrison

  The Misplaced Battleship, Harry Harrison

  Walls of Acid, Henry Hasse

  Old Rambling House, Frank Herbert

  Made in Tanganyika, Carl Jacobi

  Sight Gag, Lawrence Janifer

  Get Out of Our Skies, E. K. Jarvis

  Cubs of the Wolf, Raymond F. Jones

  The Cosmic Expense Account, C.M. Kornbluth

  We Didn’t Do Anything Wrong, Hardly, Roger Kuykendall

  The Great Potlatch Riots, Allen Kim Lang

  Gambler’s World, Keith Laumer

  No Great Magic, Fritz Leiber

  The Ambulance Made Two Trips, Murray Leinster

  The Leader, Murray Leinster

  The Mississippi Saucer, Frank Belknap Long

  Summer Snow Storm, Stephen Marlowe

  The Attack From Space, S.P. Meek

  The Great Drought, S.P. Meek

  Death of Spaceman, Walter M. Miller, Jr.

  The People of the Crater, Andre Norton

  An Ounce of Cure, Alan Nourse

  Image of the Gods, Alan Nourse

  A Slave is a Slave, H. Beam Piper

  Day of the Moron, H. Beam Piper

  Pythias, Frederick Pohl

  The Hunters, Joseph Samachson

  The Judas Valley, Robert Silverberg

  Project Mastodon, Clifford D. Simak

  2BR02B, Kurt Vonnegut

  The Pygmy Planet, Jack Williamson

  (2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

  Various

  Series: 15 [2]

  Published: 2010

  * * *

  (2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

  Various

  Series: 15 [2]

  Published: 2010

  * * *

  Halcyon Classics Series

  THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION VOLUME II:

  AN ANTHOLOGY OF 50 SHORT STORIES

  Contents

  A Question of Courage, J.F. Bone

  The Duelling Maching, Ben Bova

  Keep Out, Frederic Brown

  Indirection, Everett B. Cole

  The Game of Rat and Dragon, Cordwainer Smith

  The World Beyond, Raymond Cummings

  Victory, Lester Del Rey

  The Defenders, Phillip K. Dick

  The Hammer of Thor, Charles Willard Diffin

  The Planetoid of Peril, Paul Ernst

  The Jupiter Weapon, Charles L. Fontenay

  This World Must Die, H.B. Fyfe

  Psichopath, Randall Garrett

  The Man Who Hated Mars, Randall Garrett

  Hawk Carse, Anthony Gilmore

  The Helpful Hand of God, Tom Godwin

  A Scientist Rises, D.W. Hall

  Monsters of Mars, Edmond Hamilton

  The Sargasso of Space, Edmond Hamilton

  The K-Factor, Harry Harrison

  The Misplaced Battleship, Harry Harrison

  Walls of Acid, Henry Hasse

  Old Rambling House, Frank Herbert

  Made in Tanganyika, Carl Jacobi

  Sight Gag, Lawrence Janifer

  Get Out of Our Skies, E. K. Jarvis

  Cubs of the Wolf, Raymond F. Jones

  The Cosmic Expense Account, C.M. Kornbluth

  We Didn’t Do Anything Wrong, Hardly, Roger Kuykendall

  The Great Potlatch Riots, Allen Kim Lang

  Gambler’s World, Keith Laumer

  No Great Magic, Fritz Leiber

  The Ambulance Made Two Trips, Murray Leinster

  The Leader, Murray Leinster

  The Mississippi Saucer, Frank Belknap Long

  Summer Snow Storm, Stephen Marlowe

  The Attack From Space, S.P. Meek

  The Great Drought, S.P. Meek

  Death of Spaceman, Walter M. Miller, Jr.

  The People of the Crater, Andre Norton

  An Ounce of Cure, Alan Nourse

  Image of the Gods, Alan Nourse

  A Slave is a Slave, H. Beam Piper

  Day of the Moron, H. Beam Piper

  Pythias, Frederick Pohl

  The Hunters, Joseph Samachson

  The Judas Valley, Robert Silverberg

  Project Mastodon, Clifford D. Simak

  2BR02B, Kurt Vonnegut

  The Pygmy Planet, Jack Williamson

  * * *

  Contents

  A QUESTION OF COURAGE

  by Jesse Franklin Bone

  I smelled the trouble the moment I stepped on the lift and took the long ride up the side of the "Lachesis." There was something wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it but five years in the Navy gives a man a feeling for these things. From the outside the ship was beautiful, a gleaming shaft of duralloy, polished until she shone. Her paint and brightwork glistened. The antiradiation shields on the gun turrets and launchers were folded back exactly according to regulations. The shore uniform of the liftman was spotless and he stood at his station precisely as he should. As the lift moved slowly up past no-man's country to the life section, I noted a work party hanging precariously from a scaffolding smoothing out meteorite pits in the gleaming hull, while on the catwalk of the gantry standing beside the main cargo hatch a steady stream of supplies disappeared into the ship's belly.

  I returned the crisp salutes of the white-gloved sideboys, saluted the colors, and shook hands with an immaculate ensign with an O.D. badge on his tunic.

  "Glad to have you aboard, sir," the ensign said.

  "I'm Marsden," I said. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden. I have orders posting me to this ship as Executive."

  "Yes, sir. We have been expecting you. I'm Ensign Halloran."

  "Glad to meet you, Halloran."

  "Skipper's orders, sir. You
are to report to him as soon as you come aboard."

  Then I got it. Everything was SOP. The ship wasn't taut, she was tight! And she wasn't happy. There was none of the devil-may-care spirit that marks crews in the Scouting Force and separates them from the stodgy mass of the Line. Every face I saw on my trip to the skipper's cabin was blank, hard-eyed, and unsmiling. There was none of the human noise that normally echoes through a ship, no laughter, no clatter of equipment, no deviations from the order and precision so dear to admirals' hearts. This crew was G.I. right down to the last seam tab on their uniforms. Whoever the skipper was, he was either bucking for another cluster or a cold-feeling automaton to whom the Navy Code was father, mother, and Bible.

  The O.D. stopped before the closed door, executed a mechanical right face, knocked the prescribed three times and opened the door smartly on the heels of the word "Come" that erupted from the inside. I stepped in followed by the O.D.

  "Commander Chase," the O.D. said. "Lieutenant Marsden."

  Chase! Not Cautious Charley Chase! I could hardly look at the man behind the command desk. But look I did--and my heart did a ninety degree dive straight to the thick soles of my space boots. No wonder this ship was sour. What else could happen with Lieutenant Commander Charles Augustus Chase in command! He was three classes up on me, but even though he was a First Classman at the time I crawled out of Beast Barracks, I knew him well. Every Midshipman in the Academy knew him--Rule-Book Charley--By-The-Numbers Chase--his nicknames were legion and not one of them was friendly. "Lieutenant Thomas Marsden reporting for duty," I said.

  He looked at the O.D. "That'll be all, Mr. Halloran," he said.

  "Aye, sir," Halloran said woodenly. He stepped backward, saluted, executed a precise about face and closed the hatch softly behind him.

  * * * * *

  "Sit down, Marsden," Chase said. "Have a cigarette."

  He didn't say, "Glad to have you aboard." But other than that he was Navy right down to the last parenthesis. His voice was the same dry schoolmaster's voice I remembered from the Academy. And his face was the same dry gray with the same fishy blue eyes and rat trap jaw. His hair was thinner, but other than that he hadn't changed. Neither the war nor the responsibilities of command appeared to have left their mark upon him. He was still the same lean, undersized square-shouldered blob of nastiness.

  I took the cigarette, sat down, puffed it into a glow, and looked around the drab 6 x 8 foot cubicle called the Captain's cabin by ship designers who must have laughed as they laid out the plans. It had about the room of a good-sized coffin. A copy of the Navy Code was lying on the desk. Chase had obviously been reading his bible.

  "You are three minutes late, Marsden," Chase said. "Your orders direct you to report at 0900. Do you have any explanation?"

  "No, sir," I said.

  "Don't let it happen again. On this ship we are prompt."

  "Aye, sir," I muttered.

  He smiled, a thin quirk of thin lips. "Now let me outline your duties, Marsden. You are posted to my ship as Executive Officer. An Executive Officer is the Captain's right hand."

  "So I have heard," I said drily.

  "Belay that, Mr. Marsden. I do not appreciate humor during duty hours."

  You wouldn't, I thought.

  "As I was saying, Marsden, Executive Officer, you will be responsible for--" He went on and on, covering the Code--chapter, book and verse on the duties of an Executive Officer. It made no difference that I had been Exec under Andy Royce, the skipper of the "Clotho," the ship with the biggest confirmed kill in the entire Fleet Scouting Force. I was still a new Exec, and the book said I must be briefed on my duties. So "briefed" I was--for a solid hour.

  Feeling angry and tired, I finally managed to get away from Rule Book Charley and find my quarters which I shared with the Engineer. I knew him casually, a glum reservist named Allyn. I had wondered why he always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. Now I knew.

  He was lying in his shock-couch as I came in. "Welcome, sucker," he greeted me. "Glad to have you aboard."

  "The feeling's not mutual," I snapped.

  "What's the matter? Has the Lieutenant Commander been rolling you out on the red carpet?"

  "You could call it that," I said. "I've just been told the duties of an Exec. Funny--no?"

  He shook his head. "Not funny. I feel for you. He told me how to be an engineer six months ago." Allyn's thin face looked glummer than usual.

  "Did I ever tell you about our skip--captain?" Allyn went on. "Or do I have to tell you? I see you're wearing an Academy ring."

  "You can't tell me much I haven't already heard," I said coldly. I don't like wardroom gossips as a matter of policy. A few disgruntled men on a ship can shoot morale to hell, and on a ship this size the Exec is the morale officer. But I was torn between two desires. I wanted Allyn to go on, but I didn't want to hear what Allyn had to say. I was like the proverbial hungry mule standing halfway between two haystacks of equal size and attractiveness. And like the mule I would stand there turning my head one way and the other until I starved to death.

  But Allyn solved my problem for me. "You haven't heard this," he said bitterly. "The whole crew applied for transfer when we came back to base after our last cruise. Of course, they didn't get it, but you get the idea. Us reservists and draftees get about the same consideration as the Admiral's dog--No! dammit!--Less than the dog. They wouldn't let a mangy cur ship out with Gutless Gus."

  Gutless Gus! that was a new one. I wondered how Chase had managed to acquire that sobriquet.

  * * * * *

  "It was on our last patrol," Allyn went on, answering my question before I asked it. "We were out at maximum radius when the detectors showed a disturbance in normal space. Chase ordered us down from Cth for a quick look--and so help me, God, we broke out right in the middle of a Rebel supply convoy--big, fat, sitting ducks all around us. We got off about twenty Mark VII torpedoes before Chase passed the word to change over. We scooted back into Cth so fast we hardly knew we were gone. And then he raises hell with Detector section for not identifying every class of ship in that convoy!

  "And when Bancroft, that's the Exec whom you've relieved, asked for a quick check to confirm our kills, Chase sat on him like a ton of brick. 'I'm not interested in how many poor devils we blew apart back there,' our Captain says. 'Our mission is to scout, to obtain information about enemy movements and get that information back to Base. We cannot transmit information from a vaporized ship, and that convoy had a naval escort. Our mission cannot be jeopardized merely to satisfy morbid curiosity. Request denied. And, Mr. Bancroft, have Communications contact Fleet. This information should be in as soon as possible.' And then he turned away leaving Bancroft biting his fingernails. He wouldn't even push out a probe--scooted right back into the blue where we'd be safe!

  "You know, we haven't had one confirmed kill posted on the list since we've been in space. It's getting so we don't want to come in any more. Like the time--the 'Atropos' came in just after we touched down. She was battered--looked like she'd been through a meat grinder, but she had ten confirmed and six probable, and four of them were escorts! Hell! Our boys couldn't hold their heads up. The 'Lachesis' didn't have a mark on her and all we had was a few possible hits. You know how it goes--someone asks where you're from. You say the 'Lachesis' and they say 'Oh, yes, the cruise ship.' And that's that. It's so true you don't even feel like resenting it."

  I didn't like the bitter note in Allyn's voice. He was a reservist, which made it all the worse. Reservists have ten times the outside contacts we regulars do. In general when a regular and reservist tangle, the Academy men close ranks like musk-oxen and meet the challenge with an unbroken ring of horns. But somehow I didn't feel like ringing up.

  I kept hoping there was another side to the story. I'd check around and find out as soon as I got settled. And if there was another side, I was going to take Allyn apart as a malicious trouble-maker. I felt sick to my stomach.

  * * * * *
/>   We spent the next three days taking on stores and munitions, and I was too busy supervising the stowage and checking manifests to bother about running down Allyn's story. I met the other officers--Lt. Pollard the gunnery officer, Ensign Esterhazy the astrogator, and Ensign Blakiston. Nice enough guys, but all wearing that cowed, frustrated look that seemed to be a "Lachesis" trademark. Chase, meanwhile, was up in Flag Officer's Country picking up the dope on our next mission. I hoped that Allyn was wrong but the evidence all seemed to be in his favor. Even more than the officers, the crew was a mess underneath their clean uniforms. From Communications Chief CPO Haskins to Spaceman Zelinski there was about as much spirit in them as you'd find in a punishment detail polishing brightwork in Base Headquarters. I'm a cheerful soul, and usually I find no trouble getting along with a new command, but this one was different. They were efficient enough, but one could see that their hearts weren't in their work. Most crews preparing to go out are nervous and high tempered. There was none of that here. The men went through the motions with a mechanical indifference that was frightening. I had the feeling that they didn't give a damn whether they went or not--or came back or not. The indifference was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Yet there was nothing you could put your hand on. You can't touch people who don't care.

  Four hours after Chase came back, we lifted gravs from Earth. Chase was sitting in the control chair, and to give him credit, we lifted as smooth as a silk scarf slipping through the fingers of a pretty woman. We hypered at eight miles and swept up through the monochromes of Cth until we hit middle blue, when Chase slipped off the helmet, unfastened his webbing, and stood up.

  "Take over, Mr. Marsden," he said. "Lay a course for Parth."

  "Aye, sir," I replied, slipping into the chair and fastening the web. I slipped the helmet on my head and instantly I was a part of the ship. It's a strange feeling, this synthesis of man and metal that makes a fighting ship the metallic extension of the Commander's will. I was conscious of every man on duty. What they saw I saw, what they heard I heard, through the magic of modern electronics. The only thing missing was that I couldn't feel what they felt, which perhaps was a mercy considering the condition of the crew. Using the sensor circuits in the command helmet, I let my perception roam through the ship, checking the engines, the gun crews, the navigation board, the galley--all the manifold stations of a fighting ship. Everything was secure, the ship was clean and trimmed, the generators were producing their megawatts of power without a hitch, and the converters were humming contentedly, keeping us in the blue as our speed built to fantastic levels.