Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol IX
Various
Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol IX
Various
Halcyon Press Ltd. (2010)
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roduct Description
This Halcyon Classics ebook collection contains fifty science fiction short stories and novellas by more than forty different authors. Most 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 H. Beam Piper, Murray Leinster, Poul Anderson, Mack Reynolds, Randall Garrett, Robert Sheckley, Stanley Weinbaum, Alan Nourse, Harl Vincent, and many others.
This collection is DRM free and includes an active table of contents for easy navigation.
Contents:
INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION
By Poul Anderson
THE MIND MASTER
by Arthur J. Burks
THE ULTIMATE WEAPON
by John Wood Campbell
TO REMEMBER CHARLIE BY
By Roger Dee
LET 'EM BREATHE SPACE!
By Lester Del Rey
THE DEMI-URGE
By Thomas M. Disch
PHARAOH'S BROKER
By Ellsworth Douglass
THE MAN WHO STAKED THE STARS
By Charles Dye
THE TALKATIVE TREE
By H. B. Fyfe
CUM GRANO SALIS
By Randall Garrett
THE DARK WORLD
By Henry Kuttner
THE INVADERS
By Murray Leinster
THE SOLAR MAGNET
By S. P. Meek
THE COFFIN CURE
by Alan E. Nourse
THE DARK DOOR
By Alan E. Nourse
NAUDSONC
By H. Beam Piper
OMNILINGUAL
By H. Beam Piper
DANGER
by Fletcher Pratt and Irvin Lester
MR. CHIPFELLOW'S JACKPOT
by Dick Purcell
THE GREEN BeRET
By Tom Purdom
A FILBERT IS A NUT
By Rick Raphael
MEDAL OF HONOR
By Mack Reynolds
MERCENARY
By Mack Reynolds
THE DEATH-CLOUD
By Nat Schachner and Arthur L. Zagat
WATCH THE SKY
by James H. Schmitz
DEATH WISH
By Robert Sheckley
WARRIOR RACE
By Robert Sheckley
TWO PLUS TWO MAKES CRAZY
By Walt Sheldon
THE SUCCESS MACHINE
By Henry Slesar
HELPFULLY YOURS
By Evelyn E. Smith
NARAKAN RIFLES, ABOUT FACE!
By Jan Smith
STOP LOOK AnD DIG
By George O. Smith
THE VENUS TRAP
By Evelyn E. Smith
THE HOUSE FROM NOWHERE
by Arthur G. Stangland
INSIDE JOHN BARTH
By William W. Stuart
THE JUNKMAKERS
By Albert Teichner
HIGH DRAGON BUMP
By Don Thompson
LARSON'S LUCK
By Gerald Vance
MARTIAN V. F. W.
By G. L. Vandenburg
SILVER DOME
By Harl Vincent
STRANGE ALLIANCE
By Bryce Walton
THE IDEAL
By Stanley G. Weinbaum
The RISK PROFESSION
By Donald E. Westlake
TO MARS VIA THE MOON
By Mark Wicks
THE INHABITED
By Richard Wilson
THE VERY SECRET AGENT
By Mari Wolf
THE GHOST WORLD
By Sewell Peaslee Wright
NO MOVING PARTS
By Murray F. Yaco
THE LANSON SCREEN
By Arthur Leo Zagat
Halcyon Classics Series
THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION VOLUME IX:
AN ANTHOLOGY OF 50 SHORT STORIES
Revised Edition
Contents
INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION
By Poul Anderson
THE MIND MASTER
by Arthur J. Burks
THE ULTIMATE WEAPON
by John Wood Campbell
TO REMEMBER CHARLIE BY
By Roger Dee
LET 'EM BREATHE SPACE!
By Lester Del Rey
THE DEMI-URGE
By Thomas M. Disch
PHARAOH'S BROKER
By Ellsworth Douglass
THE MAN WHO STAKED THE STARS
By Charles Dye
THE TALKATIVE TREE
By H. B. Fyfe
CUM GRANO SALIS
By Randall Garrett
THE DARK WORLD
By Henry Kuttner
THE INVADERS
By Murray Leinster
THE SOLAR MAGNET
By S. P. Meek
THE COFFIN CURE
by Alan E. Nourse
THE DARK DOOR
By Alan E. Nourse
NAUDSONCE
By H. Beam Piper
OMNILINGUAL
By H. Beam Piper
DANGER
by Fletcher Pratt and Irvin Lester
MR. CHIPFELLOW'S JACKPOT
by Dick Purcell
THE GREEN BERET
By Tom Purdom
A FILBERT IS A NUT
By Rick Raphael
MEDAL OF HONOR
By Mack Reynolds
MERCENARY
By Mack Reynolds
THE DEATH-CLOUD
By Nat Schachner and Arthur L. Zagat
WATCH THE SKY
by James H. Schmitz
DEATH WISH
By Robert Sheckley
WARRIOR RACE
By Robert Sheckley
TWO PLUS TWO MAKES CRAZY
By Walt Sheldon
THE SUCCESS MACHINE
By Henry Slesar
HELPFULLY YOURS
By Evelyn E. Smith
NARAKAN RIFLES, ABOUT FACE!
By Jan Smith
STOP LOOK AND DIG
By George O. Smith
THE VENUS TRAP
By Evelyn E. Smith
THE HOUSE FROM NOWHERE
by Arthur G. Stangland
INSIDE JOHN BARTH
By William W. Stuart
THE JUNKMAKERS
By Albert Teichner
HIGH DRAGON BUMP
By Don Thompson
LARSON'S LUCK
By Gerald Vance
MARTIAN V. F. W.
By G. L. Vandenburg
SILVER DOME
By Harl Vincent
STRANGE ALLIANCE
By Bryce Walton
THE IDEAL
By Stanley G. Weinbaum
The RISK PROFESSION
By Donald E. Westlake
TO MARS VIA THE MOON
By Mark Wicks
THE INHABITED
By Richard Wilson
THE VERY SECRET AGENT
By Mari Wolf
THE GHOST WORLD
By Sewell Peaslee Wright
NO MOVING PARTS
By Murray F. Yaco
AN EMPTY BOTTLE
By Mari Wolf
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Contents
INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION
By Poul Anderson
Ever think how deadly a thing it is if a machine has amnesia-- or how easily it can be arranged....
"Well, yes," Amspaugh admitted, "it was a unique war in many ways, including its origin. However, there are
so many analogies to other colonial revolutions--" His words trailed off as usual.
"I know. Earth's mercantile policies and so forth," said Lindgren. He fancies himself a student of interplanetary history. This has led to quite a few arguments since Amspaugh, who teaches in that field, joined the Club. Mostly they're good. I went to the bar and got myself another drink, listening as the mine owner's big voice went on:
"But what began it? When did the asterites first start realizing they weren't pseudopods of a dozen Terrestrial nations, but a single nation in their own right? There's the root of the revolution. And it can be pinned down, too."
"'Ware metaphor!" cried someone at my elbow. I turned and saw Missy Blades. She'd come quietly into the lounge and started mixing a gin and bitters.
The view window framed her white head in Orion as she moved toward the little cluster of seated men. She took a fat cigar from her pocket, struck it on her shoe sole, and added her special contribution to the blue cloud in the room after she sat down.
"Excuse me," she said. "I couldn't help that. Please go on." Which I hope relieves you of any fear that she's an Unforgettable Character. Oh, yes, she's old as Satan now; her toil and guts and conniving make up half the biography of the Sword; she manned a gun turret at Ceres, and was mate of the Tyrfing on some of the earliest Saturn runs when men took their lives between their teeth because they needed both hands free; her sons and grandsons fill the Belt with their brawling ventures; she can drink any ordinary man to the deck; she's one of the three women ever admitted to the Club. But she's also one of the few genuine ladies I've known in my life.
"Uh, well," Lindgren grinned at her. "I was saying, Missy, the germ of the revolution was when the Stations armed themselves. You see, that meant more than police powers. It implied a degree of sovereignty. Over the years, the implication grew."
"Correct." Orloff nodded his bald head. "I remember how the Governing Commission squalled when the Station managers first demanded the right. They foresaw trouble. But if the Stations belonging to one country put in space weapons, what else could the others do?"
"They should have stuck together and all been firm about refusing to allow it," Amspaugh said. "From the standpoint of their own best interests, I mean."
"They tried to," Orloff replied. "I hate to think how many communications we sent home from our own office, and the others must have done the same. But Earth was a long way off. The Station bosses were close. Inverse square law of political pressure."
"I grant you, arming each new little settlement proved important," Amspaugh said. "But really, it expressed nothing more than the first inchoate stirrings of asteroid nationalism. And the origins of that are much more subtle and complex. For instance ... er...."
"You've got to have a key event somewhere," Lindgren insisted. "I say that this was it."
A silence fell, as will happen in conversation. I came back from the bar and settled myself beside Missy. She looked for a while into her drink, and then out to the stars. The slow spin of our rock had now brought the Dippers into view. Her faded eyes sought the Pole Star--but it's Earth's, not our own any more--and I wondered what memories they were sharing. She shook herself the least bit and said:
"I don't know about the sociological ins and outs. All I know is, a lot of things happened, and there wasn't any pattern to them at the time. We just slogged through as best we were able, which wasn't really very good. But I can identify one of those wriggling roots for you, Sigurd. I was there when the question of arming the Stations first came up. Or, rather, when the incident occurred that led directly to the question being raised."
Our whole attention went to her. She didn't dwell on the past as often as we would have liked.
A slow, private smile crossed her lips. She looked beyond us again. "As a matter of fact," she murmured, "I got my husband out of it." Then quickly, as if to keep from remembering too much:
"Do you care to hear the story? It was when the Sword was just getting started. They'd established themselves on SSC 45--oh, never mind the catalogue number. Sword Enterprises, because Mike Blades' name suggested it--what kind of name could you get out of Jimmy Chung, even if he was the senior partner? It'd sound too much like a collision with a meteorite--so naturally the asteroid also came to be called the Sword. They began on the borrowed shoestring that was usual in those days. Of course, in the Belt a shoestring has to be mighty long, and finances got stretched to the limit. The older men here will know how much had to be done by hand, in mortal danger, because machines were too expensive. But in spite of everything, they succeeded. The Station was functional and they were ready to start business when--"
* * * * *
It was no coincidence that the Jupiter craft were arriving steadily when the battleship came. Construction had been scheduled with this in mind, that the Sword should be approaching conjunction with the king planet, making direct shuttle service feasible, just as the chemical plant went into service. We need not consider how much struggle and heartbreak had gone into meeting that schedule. As for the battleship, she appeared because the fact that a Station in just this orbit was about to commence operations was news important enough to cross the Solar System and push through many strata of bureaucracy. The heads of the recently elected North American government became suddenly, fully aware of what had been going on.
Michael Blades was outside, overseeing the installation of a receptor, when his earplug buzzed. He thrust his chin against the tuning plate, switching from gang to interoffice band. "Mike?" said Avis Page's voice, "You're wanted up front."
"Now?" he objected. "Whatever for?"
"Courtesy visit from the NASS Altair. You've lost track of time, my boy."
"What the ... the jumping blue blazes are you talking about? We've had our courtesy visit. Jimmy and I both went over to pay our respects, and we had Rear Admiral Hulse here to dinner. What more do they expect, for Harry's sake?"
"Don't you remember? Since there wasn't room to entertain his officers, you promised to take them on a personal guided tour later. I made the appointment the very next watch. Now's the hour."
"Oh, yes, it comes back to me. Yeah. Hulse brought a magnum of champagne with him, and after so long a time drinking recycled water, my capacity was shot to pieces. I got a warm glow of good fellowship on, and offered--Let Jimmy handle it, I'm busy."
"The party's too large, he says. You'll have to take half of them. Their gig will dock in thirty minutes."
"Well, depute somebody else."
"That'd be rude, Mike. Have you forgotten how sensitive they are about rank at home?" Avis hesitated. "If what I believe about the mood back there is true, we can use the good will of high-level Navy personnel. And any other influential people in sight."
Blades drew a deep breath. "You're too blinking sensible. Remind me to fire you after I've made my first ten million bucks."
"What'll you do for your next ten million, then?" snipped his secretary-file clerk-confidante-adviser-et cetera.
"Nothing. I'll just squander the first."
"Goody! Can I help?"
"Uh ... I'll be right along." Blades switched off. His ears felt hot, as often of late when he tangled with Avis, and he unlimbered only a few choice oaths.
"Troubles?" asked Carlos Odonaju.
Blades stood a moment, looking around, before he answered. He was on the wide end of the Sword, which was shaped roughly like a truncated pyramid. Beyond him and his half dozen men stretched a vista of pitted rock, jutting crags, gulf-black shadows, under the glare of floodlamps. A few kilometers away, the farthest horizon ended, chopped off like a cliff. Beyond lay the stars, crowding that night which never ends. It grew very still while the gang waited for his word. He could listen to his own lungs and pulse, loud in the spacesuit; he could even notice its interior smell, blend of plastic and oxygen cycle chemicals, flesh and sweat. He was used to the sensation of hanging upside down on the surface, grip-soled boots holding him against that fractional gee by which the
asteroid's rotation overcame its feeble gravity. But it came to him that this was an eerie bat-fashion way for an Oregon farm boy to stand.
Oregon was long behind him, though, not only the food factory where he grew up but the coasts where he had fished and the woods where he had tramped. No loss. There'd always been too many tourists. You couldn't escape from people on Earth. Cold and vacuum and raw rock and everything, the Belt was better. It annoyed him to be interrupted here.
Could Carlos take over as foreman? N-no, Blades decided, not yet. A gas receptor was an intricate piece of equipment. Carlos was a good man of his hands. Every one of the hundred-odd in the Station necessarily was. But he hadn't done this kind of work often enough.
"I have to quit," Blades said. "Secure the stuff and report back to Buck Meyers over at the dock, the lot of you. His crew's putting in another recoil pier, as I suppose you know. They'll find jobs for you. I'll see you here again on your next watch."
* * * * *
He waved--being half the nominal ownership of this place didn't justify snobbery, when everyone must work together or die--and stepped off toward the nearest entry lock with that flowing spaceman's pace which always keeps one foot on the ground. Even so, he didn't unshackle his inward-reeling lifeline till he was inside the chamber.
On the way he topped a gaunt ridge and had a clear view of he balloons that were attached to the completed receptors. Those that were still full bulked enormous, like ghostly moons. The Jovian gases that strained their tough elastomer did not much blur the stars seen through them; but they swelled high enough to catch the light of the hidden sun and shimmer with it. The nearly discharged balloons hung thin, straining outward. Two full ones passed in slow orbit against the constellations. They were waiting to be hauled in and coupled fast, to release their loads into the Station's hungry chemical plant. But there were not yet enough facilities to handle them at once--and the Pallas Castle would soon be arriving with another--Blades found that he needed a few extra curses.
