Contents Introduction, Robert Hoskins The Civilization Game, Clifford D. Simak Trojan Horse Laugh, John D. MacDonald The End of the Line, James H. Schmitz Territory, Poul Anderson The Sickness, William Tenn Copyright © 1971 by Robert Hoskins All rights reserved Acknowledgements: THE CIVILIZATION GAME by Clifford D. Simak. Copyright © 1958 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Robert P. Mills, Ltd. TROJAN HORSE LAUGH, by John D. MacDonald. Copyright 1949 by Street & Smith, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Max Wilkinson Associates. THE END OF THE LINE, by James H. Schmitz. Copyright 1951 by Street & Smith, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc. TERRITORY, By Poul Anderson. Copyright © 1963 by Conde Nast. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc. THE SICKNESS, by William Tenn. Copyright © 1955 by Royal Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Henry Morrison, Inc. FIRST PRINTING, JUNE, 1971 SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. U.R. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARCA REGISTRADA ILECEIO EN WINNIPEG, CANADA SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSIC, MENTOR AND PLUME BOOKS are published in Canada by The New American Library of Canada Limited, Scarborough, Ontario PRINTED IN CANADA COVER PRINTED IN U.S.A. Introduction What is tomorrow? Until Man came along, the creatures of this planet lived only on the raw data of the immediate present. Lower forms of life had instinct, but no conceptual language, no gift for analogies. Man was the first creature on this planet with a cortex complex enough to learn from the past or to speculate on the future; at last, after an unknown number of eons, somebody was around who could make a stab at understanding the meaning of now . . . and once that concept was formalized, it was only a step to its analogs, yesterday and tomorrow. Because Man is a natural question-asker, we've been fascinated by these concepts ever since. In large measure, this is due to simple anxiety. We're unsure of ourselves and the world around us. We think we know what tomorrow will bring—the sun will rise, the seasons will change, life will continue. These expectations form the basis of our whole life plan. If the future were completely unpredictable there would be no point in plans . . . but then, there might not even be a race of creatures such as we. Lower creatures do not know—or understand —the meaning of tomorrow. They live always in the present, moving through the great time stream like chips tossed upon a river current, carried where nature will. Because Man does have that capacity to question, however, the future has come to have a real existence, firmly foundationed upon today and our myriad yesterdays. In these pages, you will see five visions of tomorrow by five of the best questioners around, for science fiction is nothing more than an extension of our natural inquisitiveness about life and the world into the far-distant tomorrow. Science fiction opens a door—an infinity of doors —to possible tomorrows, and the stories here are attempts at finding the secret keys to those doors. Are any of these visions correct? Come back in twenty years—or two hundred or two thousand—and ask again. For the present, settle yourself as these five men tickle your imagination with the question-feather—for tomorrow is coming at you faster than you think. Right now it's only twenty-four hours away. Close your eyes and you can see it coming. Open your imagination and come with us ... come to tomorrow! ROBERT HOSKINS New York City The Civilisation Game By Clifford D. Simak In a today and a future marked by increasing urban growth, Clifford D. Simak is the master of the simple life. Here he treats of a tomorrow in which the business of politics will carry the mark of shame ... and to be elected President of the nation is to earn the ultimate dishonor.... For some time, Stanley Paxton had been hearing the sound of muffled explosions from the west. But he had kept on, for there might be a man behind him, trailing him, and he could not change his course. For if he was not befuddled, the homestead of Nelson Moore lay somewhere in the hills ahead. There he would find shelter for the night and perhaps even transportation. Communication, he knew, must be ruled out for the moment; the Hunter people would be monitoring, alert for any news of him. One Easter vacation, many years ago, he had spent a few days at the Moore homestead, and all through this afternoon he had been haunted by a sense of recognition for certain landmarks he had sighted. But his visit to these hills had been so long ago that his memory hazed and there was no certainty. As the afternoon had lengthened toward an early evening, his fear of the trailing man began to taper off. Perhaps, he told himself, there was no one, after all. Once, atop a hill, he had crouched in a thicket for almost half an hour and had seen no sign of any follower. Long since, of course, they would have found the wreckage of his flier but they might have arrived too late and so, consequently, have no idea in which direction he had gone. Through the day, he'd kept close watch of the cloudy sky and was satisfied that no scouting flier had passed overhead to spot him. Now, with the setting of the sun behind an angry cloud bank, he felt momentarily safe. He came out of a meadow and began to climb a wooded hill. The strange boomings and concussions seemed fairly close at hand and he could see the flashes of explosions lighting up the sky. He reached the hilltop and stopped short, crouching down against the ground. Below him, over a square mile or more of ground, spread the rippling flashes, and in the pauses between the louder noises, he heard faint chatterings that sent shivers up his spine. He crouched, watching the flashes ripple back and forth in zigzag patterning and occasionally a small holocaust of explosions would suddenly break out and then subside as quickly. Slowly he stood up and wrapped his cloak about him and raised the hood to protect his neck and ears. On the near side of the flashing area, at the bottom of the hill, was some sort of four-square structure looming darkly in the dusk. And it seemed as well that a massive, hazy bowl lay inverted above the entire area, although it was too dark to make out what it was. Paxton grunted softly to himself and went quickly down the hill until he reached the building. It was, he saw, a sort of observation platform, solidly constructed and raised well above the ground with the top half of it made of heavy glass that ran all the way around. A ladder went up one side to the glassed-in platform. "What's going on up there?" he shouted, but his voice could be scarcely heard above the crashing and thundering that came from out in front. So he climbed the ladder. When his head reached the level of the glassed-in platform area, he halted. A boy, not more than 14 years of age, stood at the front of the platform, staring out into a noisy sea of fire. A pair of binoculars was slung about his neck and to one side of him stood a massive bank of instruments. Paxton clambered up the rest of the way and stepped inside the platform. "Hello, young man!" he shouted. The youngster turned around. He seemed an engaging fellow, with a cowlick down his forehead. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't hear you." "What is going on here?" "A war," said the boy. "Pertwee just launched his big attack. I'm hard-pressed to hold him off." Paxton gasped a little. "But this is most unusual!" he protested. The boy wrinkled up his forehead. "I don't understand." "You are Nelson Moore's son?" "Yes, sir, I am Graham Moore." "I knew your father many years ago. We went to school together." "He will be glad to see you, sir," the boy said brightly, sensing an opportunity to rid himself of this uninvited kibitzer. "You take the path just north of west. It will lead you to the house." "Perhaps," suggested Paxton, "you could come along and show me." "I can't leave just yet," said Graham. "I must blunt Pertwee's attack. He caught me off my balance and has been saving up his firepower and there were some manoeuvres that escaped me until it was too late. Believe me, sir, I'm in an unenviable position." "This Pertwee?" "He's the enemy. We've fought for two years now." "I see," said Paxton solemnly and retreated down the ladder. He found the path and followed it and found the house, set in a swale between two hillocks. It was an old and rambling affair among great clumps of trees. The path ended on a patio and a woman's voice asked: "Is that you, Nels?" She sat in a rocking chair on the smooth stone flags and was little more than a blur of whiteness - a white face haloed by white hair. "Not Nels," he said. "An old friend of your son's." From here, he noticed, through some trick of acoustics in the hills, one could barely hear the sound of battle, although the sky to the east was lighted by an occasional flash of heavy rockets or artillery fire. "We are glad to have you, sir," the old lady said, still rocking gently back and forth. "Although I do wish Nelson would come home. I don't like him wandering around after it gets dark." "My name is Stanley Paxton. I'm with Politics." "Why, yes," she said, "I remember now. You spent an Easter with us, 20 years ago. I'm Cornelia Moore, but you may call me Grandma, like all the rest of them." "I remember you quite well," said Paxton. "I hope I'm not intruding." "Heavens, no. We have few visitors. We're always glad to see one. Theodore especially will be pleased. You'd better call him Granther." "Granther?" "Grandfather. That's the way Graham said it when he was a tyke." "I met Graham. He seemed to be quite busy. He said Pertwee had caught him off his balance." "That Pertwee plays too rough," said Grandma, a little angrily. A robot catfooted out onto the patio. "Dinner is ready, madam," it said. "We'll wait for Nelson," Grandma told it. "Yes, madam. He should be in quite soon. We shouldn't wait too long. Granther has already started on his second brandy." "We have a guest, Elijah. Please show him to his room. He is a friend of Nelson's." "Good evening, sir," Elijah said. "If you will follow me. And your luggage. Perhaps I can carry it." "Oh, course you can," said Grandma drily. "I wish, Elijah, you'd stop putting on airs when there's company." "I have no luggage," Paxton said, embarrassed. He followed the robot across the patio and into the house, going down the central hall and up the very handsome winding staircase. The room was large and filled with old-fashioned furniture. A sedate fireplace stood against one wall. "I'll light a fire," Elijah said. "It gets chilly in the autumn once the sun goes down. And damp. It looks like rain.' Paxton stood in the centre of the room, trying to remember. Grandma was a painter and Nelson was a naturalist, but what about old Granther? ' "The old gentleman," said the robot, stooping at the fireplace, "will send you up a drink. He'll insist on brandy, but if you wish it, I could get you something else." "No, thank you. Brandy will be fine." "The old gentleman's in great fettle. He'll have a lot to tell you. He's just finished his sonata, sir, after working at it for almost seven years, and he's very proud of it. There were times, I don't mind telling you, when it was going badly, that he wasn't fit to live with. If you'd just look here at my bottom, sir, you can see a dent ..." "So I see," said Paxton uncomfortably. The robot rose from before the fireplace and the flames began to crackle, crawling up the wood. "I'll go for your drink," Elijah said. "If it takes a little longer than seems necessary, do not become alarmed. The old gentleman undoubtedly will take this opportunity to lecture me about hewing to civility, now that we have a guest." Paxton walked to the bed, took off his cloak and hung it on a bedpost. He walked back to the fire and sat down in a chair, stretching out his legs toward the warming blaze. It had been wrong of him to come here, he thought. These people should not be involved in his problems and his dangers. Theirs was the quiet world, the easygoing, thoughtful world, while his world of Politics was all clamour and excitement and sometimes agony and fear. He'd not tell them, he decided. And he'd stay just the night and be off before the dawn. Somehow or other he would work out a way to get in contact with his party. Somewhere else he'd find people who would help him. There was a knock at the door. Apparently it had not taken Elijah as long as it had thought. "Come in," Paxton called. It was not Elijah; it was Nelson Moore. He still wore a rough walking jacket and his boots had mud upon them and there was a streak of dirt across his face where he'd brushed back his hair with a grimy hand. "Grandma told me you were here," he said, shaking Paxton by the hand. "I had two weeks off," said Paxton, lying like a gentleman. "We just finished with an exercise. It might interest you to know that I was elected President." "Why, that is fine," said Nelson enthusiastically. "Yes, I suppose it is." "Let's sit down." "I'm afraid I may be holding up the dinner. The robot said —" Nelson laughed. "Elijah always rushes us to eat. He wants to get the day all done and buttoned up. We've come to expect it of him and we pay him no attention." "I'm looking forward to meeting Anastasia," Paxton said. "I remember that you wrote of her often —" "She's not here," said Nelson. "She - well, she left me. Almost five years ago. She missed Outside too much. None of us should marry outside Continuation." "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have —" "It's all right, Stan. It's all done with now. There are some who simply do not fit into the project. I've wondered many times, since Anastasia left, what kind of folks we are. I've wondered if it all is worth it." "All of us think that way at times," said Paxton. "There have been times when I've been forced to fall back on history to find some shred of justification for what we're doing here. There's a parallel in the monks of the so-called Middle Ages. They managed to preserve at least part of the knowledge of the Hellenic world. For their own selfish reasons, of course, as Continuation has its selfish reasons, but the human race was the real beneficiary." "I go back to history, too," said Nelson. "The one that I come up with is a Stone Age savage, hidden off in some dark corner, busily flaking arrows while the first spaceships are being launched. It all seems so useless, Stan ..." "On the face of it, I suppose it is. It doesn't matter in the least that I was elected President in our just-finished exercise, there may be a day when that knowledge and technique of politics may come in very handy. And when it does, all the humn race will have to do is come back here to Earth and they he living art. This campaign that I waged was a dirty one, Stan. I'm not proud of it." "Th.ere's a good deal of dirty things in the human culture," Nelson said, "but if we commit ourselves at all, it must be all the humans the vicious with the noble, the dirty with the splendid." A door opened quietly and Elijah glided in. It had two cups on a tray. "I heard you come in," it said to Nelson, "so I brought you something, too." "Thank you," Nelson said. "That was kind of you." Elijah shuffled in some embarrassment. "If you don't mind, would you hurry just a little? The old gentleman has almost killed the bottle. I'm afraid of what might happen to him if I don't get back to the table." Dinner had been finished and young Graham hustled off to bed. Granther unearthed, with great solemnity, another bottle of good brandy. "That boy is a caution," he declared. "I don't know what's come of him. Imagine him out there all day long, fighting fool battles. If he was going to take up something, I should think he'd want it to be useful. There's nothing more useless than a General when there are no wars." Grandma clacked her teeth together with impatience. "It isn't that we hadn't tried. We gave him every chance there was. But he wasn't interested in anything until he took up warring." "He's got guts," said Granther proudly. "That much I'll say of him. He up and asked me the other day would I write him battle music. Me!" yelled Granther, thumping his chest, write battle music!" "He's got the seeds of destruction in him," declared Grandma seriously. "He doesn't want to build. He just wants to bust." "Don't look at me," Nelson said to Paxton. "I gave up long ago. Granther and Grandma took him over from me right after Anastasia left. To hear them talk, you'd think they hated him. But let me lift a finger to him and the both of them -" "We did the best we could," said Grandma. "We gave him every chance. We bought him all the testing kits. You remember?" "Sure," said Granther, busy with the bottle. "I remember well. We bought him that ecology kit and you should have seen the planet he turned out. It was the most pitiful, down-at-heels, hungover planet you ever saw. And then we tried robotry —" "He did right well at that," said Grandma tartly. "Sure, he built them. He enjoyed building them. Recall the time he geared the two of them to hate each other and they fought until they were just two piles of scrap? I never saw anyone have such a splendid time as Graham during the seven days they fought." "We could scarcely get him in to meals," said Grandma. Granther handed out the brandy. "But the worst of all," he decided, "was the time we tried religion. He dreamed up a cult that was positively gummy. We made short work of that ..." "And the hospital," said Grandma. "That was your idea, Nels. . ." "Let's not talk about it," pleaded Nelson grimly. "I am sure Stanley isn't interested." Paxton picked up the cue Nelson was offering him. "I was going to ask you, Grandma, what kind of painting you are doing. I don't recall that Nelson ever told me." "Landscapes," the sweet-faced old lady said. "I've been doing some experimenting." "And I tell her she is wrong," protested Granther. "To experiment is wrong. Our job is to maintain tradition, not to let our work go wandering off in whatever direction it might choose." "Our job," said Grandma bitterly, "is to guard the techniques. Which is not to say we cannot strive at progress, if it still is human progress. Young man," she appealed to Paxton, "isn't that the way you see it?" "Well, in part," evaded Paxton, caught between two fires. "In Politics, we allow evolvement, naturally, but we make sure by periodic tests that we are developing logically and in the human manner. And we make very sure we do not drop any of the old techniques, no matter how outmoded they may seem. And the same is true in Diplomacy. I happen to know a bit about Diplomacy, because the two sections work very close together and —" "There!" Grandma said. "You know what I think?" said Nelson quietly. "We are a frightened race. For the first time in our history, the human race is a minority and it scares us half to death. We are afraid of losing our identity in the great galactic matrix. We're afraid of assimilation." "That's wrong, son," Granther disagreed. "We are not afraid, my boy. We're just awful smart, that's all. We had a great culture at one time and why should we give it up? Sure, most humans nowadays have adopted the galactic way of life, but that is not to say that it is for the best. Some day we may want to turn back to the human culture or we may find that later on we can use parts of it. And this way, if we keep it alive here in Project Continuation, it will be available, all of it or any part, any time we need it. And I'm not speaking, mind you, from the human view alone, because some facet of our culture might sometime be badly needed, not by the human race as such, but by the Galaxy itself." "Then why keep the project secret?" "I don't think it's really secret," Granther said. "It's just that no one pays much attention to the human race and none at all to Earth. The human race is pretty small potatoes against all the rest of them and Earth is just a worn-out planet that doesn't amount to shucks." He asked Paxton: "You ever hear it was secret, boy?" "Why, I guess not," said Paxton. "All I ever understood was that we didn't go around shooting off our mouths about it. I've thought of Continuation as a sort of sacred trust. We're the guardians who watch over the tribal medicine bag while the rest of humanity is out among the stars getting civilised." The old man chortled. "That's about the size of it. We're just a bunch of bushmen, but mark me well, intelligent and even dangerous bushmen." "Dangerous?" asked Paxton. "He means Graham," Nelson told him quietly.