(3/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume III: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories
Various
(3/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume III: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories
Various
Series: 15 [3]
Published: 2010
* * *
his 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 Poul Anderson, Phillip K. Dick, Randall Garrett, Harry Harrison, Murray Leinster, Walter M. Miller, Jr., H. Beam Piper, Clifford Simak, Robert Silverberg, Jack Williamson, and many others.
This collection is DRM free and includes an active table of contents for easy navigation.
Contents:
The Man Who Came Early, Poul Anderson
The Cuckoo Clock, Wesley Barefoot
Zen, Jerome Bixby
Say Hello for Me, Frank Coggins
The Guardians, Irving Cox
Martians Never Die, Lucius Daniel
Foundling on Venus, John and Dorothy De Coucy
Vital Ingredient, Charles De Vet
The Skull, Phillip K. Dick
The Eye of Allah, Charles W. Diffin
Tree, Spare that Woodman, Dave Dryfoos
Service With a Smile, Charles L. Fontenay
The Monster, Randall Garrett
The Last Supper, T.D. Hamm
The Passenger, Kenneth Harmon
Goodbye Dead Man!, Tom W. Harris
The Velvet Glove, Harry Harrison
Prelude to Space, Robert W. Haseltine
Tight Squeeze, Dean C. Ing
The Jameson Satellite, Neal R. Jones
A Matter of Importance, Murray Leinster
The One and the Many, Stephen Marlowe
Shepherd of the Planets, Alan Mattox
Planet of Dreams, James McKimmey
Stolen Brains, S.P. Meek
The Hoofer, Walter M. Miller Jr.
PRoblem, Alan Nourse
The Return, H. Beam Piper & John G. McGuire
Time and Time Again, H. Beam Piper
The Day of the Boomer Dukes, Frederick Pohl
The Hohokam Dig, Theodore Pratt
Make Mine Homogenized, Rick Raphael
Revolution, Mack Reynolds
Spawn of the Comet, H. Thompson Rich
Runaway, Joseph Samachson
DP, Arthur Dekker Savage
Pirates of the Gorm, Nat Schachner
Gone Fishing, James H. Schmitz
Alien Offer, Al Sevcik
Forever, Robert Sheckley
The Hour of Battle, Robert Sheckley
The Happy Unfortunate, Robert Silverberg
The Street That Wasn’t There, Clifford D. Simak & Carl Jacobi
The Delegate from Venus, Henry Slesar
The Big Fix, George O. Smith
Vortex Blaster, E.E. “Doc” Smith
The Planet of Dread, R.F. Starzl
Sweet Their Blood and Sticky, Albert F. Teichner
Homesick, Lyn Venable
The Meteor Girl, Jack Williamson
(3/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume III: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories
Various
Series: 15 [3]
Published: 2010
* * *
Halcyon Classics Series
THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION VOLUME III:
AN ANTHOLOGY OF 50 SHORT STORIES
Contents
The Man Who Came Early, Poul Anderson
The Cuckoo Clock, Wesley Barefoot
Zen, Jerome Bixby
Say Hello for Me, Frank Coggins
The Guardians, Irving Cox
Martians Never Die, Lucius Daniel
Foundling on Venus, John and Dorothy De Coucy
Vital Ingredient, Charles De Vet
The Skull, Phillip K. Dick
The Eye of Allah, Charles W. Diffin
Tree, Spare that Woodman, Dave Dryfoos
Service With a Smile, Charles L. Fontenay
The Monster, Randall Garrett
The Last Supper, T.D. Hamm
The Passenger, Kenneth Harmon
Goodbye Dead Man!, Tom W. Harris
The Velvet Glove, Harry Harrison
Prelude to Space, Robert W. Haseltine
Tight Squeeze, Dean C. Ing
The Jameson Satellite, Neal R. Jones
A Matter of Importance, Murray Leinster
The One and the Many, Stephen Marlowe
Shepherd of the Planets, Alan Mattox
Planet of Dreams, James McKimmey
Stolen Brains, S.P. Meek
The Hoofer, Walter M. Miller Jr.
PRoblem, Alan Nourse
The Return, H. Beam Piper & John G. McGuire
Time and Time Again, H. Beam Piper
The Day of the Boomer Dukes, Frederick Pohl
The Hohokam Dig, Theodore Pratt
Make Mine Homogenized, Rick Raphael
Revolution, Mack Reynolds
Spawn of the Comet, H. Thompson Rich
Runaway, Joseph Samachson
DP, Arthur Dekker Savage
Pirates of the Gorm, Nat Schachner
Gone Fishing, James H. Schmitz
Alien Offer, Al Sevcik
Forever, Robert Sheckley
The Hour of Battle, Robert Sheckley
The Happy Unfortunate, Robert Silverberg
The Street That Wasn’t There, Clifford D. Simak & Carl Jacobi
The Delegate from Venus, Henry Slesar
The Big Fix, George O. Smith
Vortex Blaster, E.E. "Doc" Smith
The Planet of Dread, R.F. Starzl
Sweet Their Blood and Sticky, Albert F. Teichner
Homesick, Lyn Venable
The Meteor Girl, Jack Williamson
* * *
Contents
THE MAN WHO CAME EARLY
By Poul Anderson
Yes, when a man grows old he has heard so much that is strange there's little more can surprise him. They say the king in Mittagard has a beast of gold before his high seat, which stands up and roars. I have it from Filif Eriksson, who served in the guard down there, and he is a steady fellow when not drunk. He has also seen the Greek fire used, it burns on water.
So, priest, I am not unwilling to believe what you say about the White Christ--I have been in England and France myself, and seen how the folk prosper. He must be a very powerful god, to ward so many realms... and did you say that everyone who is baptized will be given a white robe? I would like to have one. They mildew, of course, in this cursed wet Iceland weather, but a small sacrifice to the houseelves should--No sacrifices? Come now! I'll give up horseflesh if I must, my teeth not being what they were, but every sensible man knows how much trouble the elves make if they're not fed.
... Well, let's have another cup and talk about it. How do you like the beer? It's my own brew, you know. The cups I got in England, many years back. I was a young man then... time goes, time goes. Afterward I came back and inherited this, my father's steading, and have not left it since. Well enough to go in viking as a youth, but grown older you see where the real wealth lies: here, in the land and the cattle.
Stoke up the fires, Hjalt! It's growing cold. Sometimes I think the winters are colder than when I was a boy. Thorbrand of the Salmondale says so, but he believes the gods are angry because so many are turning from them. You'll have trouble winning Thorbrand over, priest. A stubborn man. Myself I am open-minded, and wil
ling to listen at least.
... Now then. There is one point on which I must correct you. The end of the world is not coming in two years. This I know.
And if you ask me how I know, that's a very long tale, and in some ways a terrible one. Glad I am to be old, and safely in the earth before that great tomorrow comes. It will be an eldritch time before the frost giants march... oh, very well, before the angel blows his battle horn. One reason I hearken to your preaching is that I know the White Christ will conquer Thor. I know Iceland is going to be Christian erelong, and it seems best to range myself on the winning side.
No, I've had no visions. This is a happening of five years ago, which my own household and neighbors can swear to. They mostly did not believe what the stranger told; I do, more or less, if only because I don't think a liar could wreak so much harm. I loved my daughter, priest, and after it was over I made a good marriage for her. She did not naysay it, but now she sits out on the ness-farm with her husband and never a word to me; and I hear he is ill pleased with her silence and moodiness, and spends his nights with an Irish concubine. For this I cannot blame him, but it grieves me.
Well, I've drunk enough to tell the whole truth now, and whether you believe it or not makes no odds to me. Here... you, girls!... fill these cups again, for I'll have a dry throat before I finish the telling.
It begins, then, on a day in early summer, five years ago. At that time, my wife Ragnhfld and I had only two unwed children still living with us: our youngest son Helgi, of seventeen winters, and our daughter Thorgunna, of eighteen. The girl, being fair, had already had suitors. But she refused them, and I am not a man who would compel his daughter. As for Helgi, he was ever a lively one, good with his hands but a breakneck youth. He is now serving in the guard of King Olaf of Norway. Besides these, of course, we had about ten housefolk--two Irish thralls, two girls to help with the women's work, and half a dozen hired carles. This is not a small steading.
You have not seen how my land lies. About two miles to the west is the bay; the thorps at Reykjavik are about five miles south. The land rises toward the Long Jokull, so that my acres are hilly; but it's good hayland, and there is often driftwood on the beach. I've built a shed down there for it, as well as a boathouse.
There had been a storm the night before, so Helgi and I were going down to look for drift. You, coming from Norway, do not know how precious wood is to us Icelanders, who have only a few scrubby trees and must bring all our timber from abroad. Back there men have often been burned in their houses by their foes, but we count that the worst of deeds, though it's not unknown.
I was on good terms with my neighbors, so we took only hand weapons. I my ax, Helgi a sword, and the two carles we had with us bore spears. It was a day washed clean by the night's fury, and the sun fell bright on long wet grass. I saw my garth lying rich around its courtyard, sleek cows and sheep, smoke rising from the roof hole of the hall, and knew I'd not done so ill in my lifetime. My son Helgi's hair fluttered in the low west wind as we left the steading behind a ridge and neared the water. Strange how well I remember all which happened that day, somehow it was a sharper day than most.
When we came down to the strand, the sea was beating heavy, white and gray out to the world's edge. A few gulls flew screaming above us, frightened off a cod washed up onto the shore. I saw there was a litter of no few sticks, even a baulk of timber... from some ship carrying it that broke up during the night, I suppose. That was a useful find, though, as a careful man, I would later sacrifice to be sure the owner's ghost wouldn't plague me.
We had fallen to and were dragging the baulk toward the shed when Helgi cried out. I ran for my ax as I looked the way he pointed. We had no feuds then, but there are always outlaws.
This one seemed harmless, though. Indeed, as he stumbled nearer across the black sand I thought him quite unarmed and wondered what had happened. He was a big man and strangely clad -- he wore coat and breeches and shoes like anyone else, but they were of peculiar cut and he bound his trousers with leggings rather than thongs. Nor had I ever seen a helmet like his: it was almost square, and came down to cover his neck, but it had no nose guard; it was held in place by a leather strap. And this you may not believe, but it was not metal--yet had been cast in one piece!
He broke into a staggering run as he neared, and flapped his arms and croaked something. The tongue was none I had ever heard, and I have heard many; it was like dogs barking. I saw that he was clean-shaven and his black hair cropped short, and thought he might be French. Otherwise he was a young man, and good-looking, with blue eyes and regular features. From his skin I judged that he spent much time indoors, yet he had a fine manly build.
"Could he have been shipwrecked?" asked Helgi.
"His clothes are dry and unstained," I said; "nor has he been wandering long, for there's no stubble on his chin. Yet I've heard of no strangers guesting hereabouts."
We lowered our weapons, and he came up to us and stood gasping. I saw that his coat and the shirt behind was fastened with bonelike buttons rather than laces, and were of heavy weave. About his neck he had fastened a strip of cloth tucked into his coat. These garments were all in brownish hues. His shoes were of a sort new to me, very well cobbled. Here and there on his coat were bits of brass, and he had three broken stripes on each sleeve; also a black band with white letters, the same letters being on his helmet. Those were not runes, but Roman letters thus: MP. He wore a broad belt, with a small clublike thing of metal in a sheath at the hip and also a real club.
"Then he must be a warlock," muttered my carle Sigurd. "Why else all those tokens?"
"They may only be ornament, or to ward against witchcraft," I soothed him. Then, to the stranger. "I be Ospak Ullsson of Bollstead. What is your errand?"
He stood with his chest heaving and a wildness in his eyes. He must have run a long way. Then he moaned and sat down and covered his face.
"H--he's sick, best we get him to the house," said Helgi. His eyes gleamed--we see so few new faces here.
"No... no..." The stranger looked up. "Let me rest a moment "
He spoke the Norse tongue readily enough, though with a thick accent not easy to follow and with many foreign words I did not understand.
The other carle, Grim, hefted his spear. "Have vikings landed?" he asked.
"When did vikings ever come to Iceland?" I snorted. "It's the other way around--"
The newcomer shook his head, as if it had been struck. He got shakily to his feet "What happened?" he said. "What happened to the city?"
"What city?" I asked reasonably,
"Reykjavik!" he groaned. "Where is it?"
"Five miles south, the way you came--unless you mean the bay itself," I said.
"No! There was only a beach, and a few wretched huts, and--"
"Best not let Hjalmar Broadnose hear you call his thorp that," I counseled.
"But there was a city!" he cried. Wfldness lay in his eyes. "I was crossing the street, it was a storm, and there was a crash and then I stood on the beach and the city was gone!"
"He's mad," said Sigurd, backing away. "Be careful... if he starts to foam at the mouth, it means he's going berserk."
"Who are you?" babbled the stranger. "What are you doing in those clothes? Why the spears?"
"Somehow," said Helgi, "he does not sound crazed only frightened and bewildered. Something evil has happened to him."
"I'm not staying near a man under a curse!" yelped Sigurd, and started to run away.
"Come back!" I bawled. "Stand where you are or I'll cleave your louse-bitten head!"
That stopped him, for he had no kin who would avenge him; but he would not come closer. Meanwhile the stranger had calmed down to the point where he could at least talk evenly.
"Was it the aitchbomb?" He asked. "Has the war started?"
He used that word often, aitchbomb, so I know it now, though unsure of what it means. It seems to be a kind of Greek fire. As for the war, I knew not which war he meant, and to
ld him so.
"There was a great thunderstorm last night," I added. "And you say you were out in one too. Perhaps Thor's hammer knocked you from your place to here."
"But where is here?" he replied. His voice was more dulled than otherwise, now that the first terror had lifted,
"I told you. This is Hfflstead, which is on Iceland."
"But that's where I was!" he mumbled. "Reykjavik... what happened? Did the aitchbomb destroy everything while I was unconscious?"
"Nothing has been destroyed," I said.
"Perhaps he means the fire at Olafsvik last month," said Helgi.
"No, no, no!" He buried his face in his hands. After a while he looked up and said. "See here. I am Sergeant Gerald Roberts of the United States Army base on Iceland. I was in Reykjavik and got struck by lightning or something. Suddenly I was standing on the beach, and got frightened and ran. That's all. Now, can you tell me how to get back to the base?"
Those were more or less his words, priest. Of course, we did not grasp half of it, and made him repeat it several times and explain the words. Even then we did not understand, except that he was from some country called the United States of America, which he said lies beyond Greenland to the west, and that he and some others were on Iceland to help our folk against their enemies. Now this I did not consider a lie--more a mistake or imagining. Grim would have cut him down for thinking us stupid enough to swallow that tale, but I could see that he meant it.
Trying to explain it to us cooled him off. "Look here," he said, in too reasonable a tone for a feverish man, "perhaps we can get at the truth from your side. Has there been no war you know of? Nothing which--well, look here. My country's men first came to Iceland to guard it against the Germans... now it is the Russians, but then it was the Germans. When was that?"
Helgi shook his head. "That never happened that I know of," he said. "Who are these Russians?" He found out later that Gardariki was meant. "Unless," he said, "the old warlocks--"
"He means the Irish monks," I explained. "There were a few living here when the Norsemen came, but they were driven out. That was, hm, somewhat over a hundred years ago. Did your folk ever help the monks?"
