Going for Infinity Poul Anderson Tom Doherty Associates Alight in the Void All One Universe The Armies of Elfland The Boat of a Million Years Conan the Rebel The Dancer from Atlantis The Day of Their Return Explorations The Fleet of Stars Genesis Going for Infinity Harvest of Stars Harvest of Fire Hoka! (with Gordon R. Dickson) Kinship with the Stars A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows The Long Night The Longest Voyage Maurai and Kith A Midsummer Tempest Mother of Kings No Truce with Kings Operation Chaos Operation Luna Past Times The Saturn Game The Shield of Time Starfarers The Stars Are Also Fire Tales of the Flying Mountains The Time Patrol There Will Be Time War of the Gods www.ebookyes.com This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in the stories in this volume are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. GOING FOR INFINITY Copyright © 2002 by The Trigonier Trust All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. ISBN 0-312-71017-8 First Edition: June 2002 Copyright Acknowledgments “The Saturn Game” was first published inAnalog Science Fact/Science Fiction , February 1981. Copyright © by Davis Publications, Inc. “Gypsy” was first published inAstounding Science Fiction , January 1950. Copyright © 1950 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., renewed © 1978 by Poul Anderson. “Sam Hall” was first published inAstounding Science Fiction , August 1953. Copyright © 1953 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., renewed © 1981 by Poul Anderson. “Death and the Knight” was first published inTales of the Knights Templar , Warner Books, 1995. Copyright © 1995 by Katherine Kurtz. “Journeys End” was first published inThe Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction , February 1957. Copyright © 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc., renewed © 1985 by Poul Anderson. “The Horn of Time the Hunter” was first published as “Homo Aquaticus” inAmazing Stories , September 1963. Copyright © 1963 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co., renewed © 1991 by Poul Anderson. “The Master Key” was first published inAnalog Science Fact/Science Fiction , July 1954. Copyright © 1954 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc., renewed © 1982 by Poul Anderson. “The Problem of Pain” was first published inThe Magazine of Fantasyand Science Fiction , February 1973. Copyright © 1973 by Mercury Press, Inc., renewed © 2001 by Poul Anderson. “Quest” was first published inAres ® , Winter 1983. Copyright © 1983 by TSR Hobbies, Inc. “Windmill” was first published inSaving Worlds , copyright © 1973 by Roger Elwood and Virginia Kidd, renewed © 2001 by Poul Anderson. Three Hearts and Three Lions(full-length version), copyright © 1961 by Poul Anderson, renewed © 1989 by Poul Anderson. “Epilogue” was first published inAnalog Science Fact/Science Fiction , March 1962. Copyright © 1962 by The Condé Nast Publications, Inc., renewed © 1990 by Poul Anderson. “Dead Phone” was first published inThe Saint Mystery Magazine , December 1964. Copyright © 1965 by Fiction Publishing Co., renewed © 1993 by Poul and Karen Anderson. “Goat Song” was first published inThe Magazine of Fantasy and ScienceFiction , February 1972. Copyright © 1972 by Mercury Press, Inc., renewed © 2000 by Poul Anderson. “Kyrie” was first published inThe Farthest Reaches , copyright © 1968 by Joseph Elder, renewed © 1996 by Poul Anderson. A Midsummer Tempestcopyright © 1974 by Poul Anderson. “The Shrine for Lost Children” was first published inThe Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction , October–November 1999. Copyright © 1999 by Poul Anderson. “The Queen of Air and Darkness” was first published inThe Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction , April 1971. Copyright © 1971 by Mercury Press, Inc., renewed © 1999 by Poul Anderson. New material copyright © 2001 by The Trigonier Trust. To Erik and Alexandra, wishing you a joyous future. Contents Introduction I The Saturn Game II Gypsy III Sam Hall IV Death and the Knight V Journeys End VI The Horn of Time the Hunter VII The Master Key VIII The Problem of Pain IX Quest X Windmill XI Three Hearts and Three Lions XII Epilogue XIII Dead Phone XIV Goat Song XV Kyrie XVI A Midsummer Tempest XVII The Shrine for Lost Children XVIII The Queen of Air and Darkness Introduction You hold this book thanks largely to Robert Gleason. Having been my editor for a long time, he felt that there ought to be something covering a still longer span, my writing through the half century since it first appeared. What he had in mind was not simply another collection, but a retrospective—besides stories, something about their origins, backgrounds, contexts, a historical overview of the science fiction and fantasy field throughout those decades. Of course, this isn’t really possible. I have been only one writer among many, and how wonderfully diverse a lot they were and are! Simply naming the giants, from Asimov to Zelazny, with brief remarks about what each accomplished, would require a volume. Besides, who would be unfairly left out? No few who were less prolific or less widely acclaimed gave us classic works, pervasively and lastingly influential. All I can safely say is that the best of it offers us mind-opening ideas, narrative vitality, and a high literary standard. Lest this look too pompous, let me just say that good science fiction and fantasy are entertaining. They engage our attention in ways agreeable and often challenging. Good art of every kind does, of course, including the most solemn or tragic. In that sense, Mozart’sRequiem and Shakespeare’sHamlet are entertaining, as are, in their different ways, a Duke Ellington jazz concert or aP. G. Wodehouse story. You could even call themfun . I don’t claim that the finest achievements in our field belong on the same heights as the acknowledged great literature of the world. I merely think they are well worth reading. Beyond that, let posterity be the judge. Nor will I attempt a history of the field. Several already exist. What I offer here is one man’s experience of it—not from its origins, which lie very far back, but through some sixty years—as reader, writer, and acquaintance, often friend, of a number of people who had much to do with its evolution. Even so limited an undertaking must necessarily be incomplete, a sketch, leaving out vastly more than it touches on. I can only hope that it will give a little perspective. More importantly, I hope you’ll find the stories and factual anecdotes…entertaining. This is no autobiography. My entry in the Gale ResearchContemporary Authors series tells as much about my life as I would ever want anybody to publish. However, chances are you haven’t seen that. Since this book deals with my personal experience, probably a little background is in order. Every writer, like every other human being, is unique, partly because of the accidents of heredity, partly because of the events of his or her life, perhaps especially early life. In relating what I think has most influenced the course that my particular career took, I hope to suggest the infinite variety that has done it for others. My ancestors were mostly Danish, with a few dashes of other nationalities and, on my father’s side, one branch that became American soon after the Civil War, although maintaining contact with the old country. His surname was originally spelled “Andersen”—no relation to Hans Christian. As small boys, my brother and I were excited on getting the impression that one of our forebears had been a pirate, then disappointed to learn that he was actually a perfectly legitimate privateer in the Napoleonic Wars, who afterward settled down as a merchant in Copenhagen. The seafaring tradition persisted; my paternal grandfather was the captain of a ship on the Greenland run. He met and married a lady on the American side, and my father was born in Philadelphia. However, the home was in Denmark and he was educated there together with his brother. The skipper took his young sons along on two or three voyages, high points in my father’s life. He wanted to be a mariner himself, but dutifully heeded the old man’s dying wish and gave up the dream. Instead, he studied engineering. When the United States entered the first World War he patriotically came back to enlist in the army. There he grew tired of explaining how his name was spelled, and Anglicized it to Anderson. After discharge, he remained in the States. My maternal grandfather was Poul Hertz. He stemmed from the poet and playwright Henrik Hertz, his wife from the poet Carsten Hauch, but he himself was a physician in Copenhagen. Among their children was my mother Astrid. Always adventurous, she worked for a year as a medical secretary in a hospital, then with the Danish diplomatic mission to Switzerland at the end of the war, and then crossed over to Washington, D.C., to take a similar post at the Danish Legation (now Embassy). She and my father had been schoolmates for a while in Denmark, but lost touch with one another. By sheer chance, they met again. Soon they were dating, and in January 1926 they were married. I joined them on 25 November of the same year. My mother named me after her own father, Poul, thereby throwing me right back into the same difficulty; but I’ve been too stubborn to change, and it has of course become a trademark. The pronunciation is not an Anglo-Saxon noise, so I’ll answer to any. This was in Bristol, Pennsylvania. I have no memory of that town, because I was an infant when my father got a new job and we moved to Port Arthur, Texas. He did well in those Depression years, becoming chief estimator at the Texaco offices. My brother John, born in 1930, and I enjoyed a happy boyhood—except for school—in a pleasant suburb that still had plenty of vacant lots for kids to play in. Yet our father’s heart was always with the sea. He had a fair-sized collection of books about it, he did a beautiful model of theFlying Cloud, and he built two large motor sailers in succession, both namedHobo , for family and friends to spend many delightful hours on the waters reaching into Louisiana. Insisting, quite rightly, that we boys learn proper English and everything else appropriate to being American, our parents nevertheless also made a point of speaking Danish at home, so that John and I grew up bilingual. We have always been grateful for that. Though he couldn’t get enough vacation time to go along, our father twice sent his wife and us on extended visits with her family overseas, not exactly usual when travel was by rail and ship. Thus I got acquainted early on with that charming country. I hope all this detail hasn’t been too boring. The aim has simply been to look at some important influences on me as a writer. You can see where certain recurring themes in my stories come from—the sea, Scandinavian history and culture, a solid and loving home life. That last suffered a shattering blow in late 1937, when John’s and my father was killed in an automobile accident. He was our mother’s one and only man. In spite of several offers over the years, she never remarried. We two boys were all that really mattered. Not that she ever wanted to dominate us, emotionally or in any other way. Throughout, she did her best to raise us into independent manhood. In 1938 she took us back to Denmark. She had plenty of influential connections there to help us. But after some months she left again. Another war was too clearly coming. Besides, we were Americans, and her sons ought to grow up in their own country. Port Arthur, though, was too haunted. She got her old job back with the Danish diplomatic corps in Washington. Here the Smithsonian Institution and a scientifically minded classmate, Neil Waldrop, had their effects on me. Otherwise this was not a very fortunate period, and Mother quit next year. Her brother Jakob—Jack— had settled in Minnesota, where his wife had kinfolk. He proposed that they two siblings buy small farms there and work them together. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Mother had been left enough money for her share of the venture, and she thought it would provide us boys with a wholesome environment. After a cross-country trip, which introduced me to the wonders of the West and the Pacific Coast, we lodged at the college town Northfield while our farmland and buildings were being readied, and took possession in the summer of 1940. In nearly every way it was a dreadful mistake. Uncle Jack soon went into war work and made a lot of money, but was of no help to us. We had no man on our premises except for a series of expensive, often incompetent hirelings. Neighbors joined each other for such jobs as threshing, but could do little else for us. John and I were on hand for chores morning and evening, as well as having more time on weekends and in the summers—and in winter when we’d get snowed in for several days—but otherwise, besides school in Northfield, there was a long bus ride to and fro. In any event, already then forty acres weren’t enough to make pay. In about four years Mother had gone broke. She never felt it was an utter loss. At least the necessities of farm life imposed a discipline on her fatherless boys which probably did stand us in good stead afterward. And you can find such themes in my writing as countryside, cold, storm, animals, and men and women who make their livings with their hands. Distance joined with wartime gasoline rationing to keep us isolated from most activities in town. That troubled me less than it did my outgoing brother. By nature I was bookish and not very social. A childhood ear infection that left me hard of hearing reinforced this. I turned to our bookshelves, which included a number of Scandinavian works. And, to be sure, there was science fiction. After I’d left the Washington area, Neil Waldrop and I kept up a correspondence. When he sent me a package of science fiction magazines, I was promptly and thoroughly hooked. We’d write stories in longhand, swapping them back and forth for comment, which strengthened that habit in me. Not that I intended to become a writer. But maybe, just maybe I could moonlight at it, and someday see my work in print alongside the creations of Robert Heinlein, L. Sprague de Camp, and the other gods. Through a friend, Mother got a position in the library at Carleton College in Northfield, where she worked until retirement, widely beloved, sparkling good company right up to the end many years later —but it was from her that I learned what indomitability means. She managed to sell the farm, which helped finance my further education. Rejected for military service because of my scarred eardrums, I entered the University of Minnesota in 1944, with a major in physics, minors in mathematics and chemistry. Though I did not become a scientist, this training has clearly been basic to much of what I do and how I go about it. In those years I finally got up the courage to submit my stories, and sold two or three while still an undergraduate. I did not go on to graduate studies; the money was exhausted. Instead, I supported myself precariously by writing while I searched for a job. The search grew more and more half-hearted, until presently I realized that a writer was what nature had cut me out for. John won honest employment, becoming a geologist and full professor. College also brought me out of my shell. When I discovered and joined the Minneapolis Fantasy Society, it led to enduring friendships, some love affairs, and a network of fellow enthusiasts around the world. That’s where this book properly begins. —POULANDERSON I There are times when somehow the spirit opens up to the awe and mystery of the universe. Afterward dailiness returns; but those minutes or hours live on, not only as memories. They become a part of life itself, giving it much of its meaning and even its direction. They have come to me when I have been camped out under skies wholly clear and dark, more full of stars than of night. Once it happened when I held a primitive hand ax, a piece of flint chipped into shape in the Middle Acheulean period, perhaps a hundred thousand years ago, by a hunter—Homo erectus, not yet Neandertal—and saw a tiny fossil embedded in it, left by a mollusc in a sea that drained and dried away perhaps a hundred million years ago. And others—but surely you too have had your moments. My earliest that I recall goes back to childhood, age six or seven or thereabouts. We lived in a new suburb, with plenty of vacant lots for boys to romp in and no street lights. Nor did anybody anywhere have air conditioning. One evening after a hot summer day we went outside to enjoy the cool. Twilight gathered, purple and quiet. Stars began to blink forth. “That red one,” said my mother. “Is that Mars?” “I believe so,” answered my father. He had made a few voyages with his own father, a sea captain, when navigation was mainly celestial. “Do you think there’s life on it?” “Who knows?” Wonder struck through me like lightning. I’d learned a little about the planets, of course. Now suddenly it came fully home to me, that I was looking at a whole otherworld, as real as the ground beneath my feet but millions of miles remote and altogether strange. Thereafter I could not read enough astronomy books. We had a fourteenth-editionEncyclopaedia Britannica . Again and again I went back to its articles on the planets, and I can still see the blurry telescopic photographs, as if they lay here before me, and none of their glamour has faded. Mars was foremost—were those markings regions of growth amidst ruddy deserts and canals that watered them? —but what had made the craters and rays on the Moon, what did the clouds of Venus hide, what were the belts and zones and Great Red Spot of Jupiter? Saturn of the jewelwork rings had a magic all its own. To this day, the sight of it through a telescope brings the same enchantment as did the very first such viewing; beauty never grows wearisome. The years passed, until late in 1980 my wife Karen and I found ourselves at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena to witness Voyager One’s flyby of this very planet. We’d been there for earlier events of the series, and would return for later ones, with press credentials to admit us. A number of science fiction writers did likewise; their kind of work had made its slow way from pulpish disrepute to respectability, many working scientists were openly among their readers, and they themselves were often interviewed. Those were great reunions of the old gang. But the purpose was always to experience the achievement and discoveries at first hand—to share, in however small a way, in yet another fulfillment of a lifelong dream, and find that the reality was more wondrous than any of our imaginings. Now, as revelation after revelation unfolded, I couldn’t help feeling a little extra excitement, even tension. I’d lately written a story set on Iapetus. It would see magazine publication in a couple of months. Voyager was going to scan that enigmatic Saturnian moon. Would my speculations prove completely mistaken? It’s a risk that science fiction always takes, a risk that in the long run becomes an inevitability. But would this piece of mine have any run of might-be-so at all? Not worth worrying about. I gave myself back to the wonders before me. The Saturn Game 1 If we would understand what happened, which is vital if we would avoid repeated and worse tragedies in the future, we must begin by dismissing all accusations. Nobody was negligent; no action was foolish. For who could have predicted the eventuality, or recognized its nature, until too late? Rather should we appreciate the spirit with which those people struggled against disaster, inward and outward, after they knew. The fact is that thresholds exist throughout reality, and that things on their far sides are altogether different from things on their hither sides. TheChronos crossed more than an abyss, it crossed a threshold of human experience. —Francis L. Minamoto, Death Under Saturn: A Dissenting View (Apollo University Communications, Leyburg, Luna, 2057) “The City of Ice is now on my horizon,”Kendrick says. Its towers gleam blue . “My griffin spreads his wings to glide.”Wind whistles among those great, rainbow-shimmering pinions. His cloak blows back from his shoulders; the air strikes through his ring mail and sheathes him in cold . “I lean over and peer after you.”The spear in his left hand counterbalances him. Its head flickers palely with the moonlight that Wayland Smith hammered into the steel . “Yes, I see the griffin,”Ricia tells him , “high and far, like a comet above the courtyard walls. I run out from under the portico for a better look. A guard tries to stop me, grabs my sleeve, but I tear the spider- silk apart and dash forth into the open.”The elven castle wavers as if its sculptured ice were turning to smoke. Passionately, she cries, “Is it in truth you, my darling?” “Hold, there!”warns Alvarlan from his cave of arcana ten thousand leagues away . “I send your mind the message that if the King suspects this is Sir Kendrick of the Isles, he will raise a dragon against him, or spirit you off beyond any chance of rescue. Go back, Princess of Maranoa. Pretend you decide that it is only an eagle. I will cast a belief-spell on your words.” “I stay far aloft,”Kendrick says . “Save he use a scrying stone, the Elf King will not be aware this beast has a rider. From here I’ll spy out city and castle.”And then—? He knows not. He knows simply that he must set her free or die in the quest. How long will it take him, how many more nights will she lie in the King’s embrace? “I thought you were supposed to spy out Iapetus,” Mark Danzig interrupted. His dry tone startled the three others into alertness. Jean Broberg flushed with embarrassment, Colin Scobie with irritation; Luis Garcilaso shrugged, grinned, and turned his gaze to the pilot console before which he sat harnessed. For a moment silence filled the cabin, and shadows, and radiance from the universe. To help observation, all lights were out except a few dim glows at instruments. The sunward ports were lidded. Elsewhere thronged stars, so many and so brilliant that they well-nigh drowned the blackness which held them. The Milky Way was a torrent of silver. One port framed Saturn at half phase, dayside pale gold and rich bands amidst the jewelry of its rings, nightside wanly ashimmer with starlight and moonlight upon clouds, as big to the sight as Earth over Luna. Forward was Iapetus. The spacecraft rotated while orbiting the moon, to maintain a steady optical field. It had crossed the dawn line, presently at the middle of the inward-facing hemisphere. Thus it had left bare, crater-pocked land behind it in the dark, and was passing above sunlit glacier country. Whiteness dazzled, glittered in sparks and shards of color, reached fantastic shapes heavenward; cirques, crevasses, caverns brimmed with blue. “I’m sorry,” Jean Broberg whispered. “It’s too beautiful, unbelievably beautiful, and…almost like the place where our game had brought us—Took us by surprise—” “Huh!” Mark Danzig said. “You had a pretty good idea of what to expect, therefore you made your