The Magazine of fantasy and science fiction : a 30-year retrospective Read online

  There were no detectable neutrinos, no hyperons, no strange particles, no charmed particles, no colored particles, no quarks. Nor were there holograms, masers or lasers—just disintegrator guns.

  There were no tachyons, though hyperspace and subspace were at everyone's beck and call, with hyperatomic motors to take advantage of it.

  Robots were intelligent, but had platinum-iridium brains that had nothing to do with computers and were powered by a sliver of a battery whose disintegrating atoms lasted for a hundred years.

  How could robots have anything to do with computers when these were vast indeed and whole mountains had to be hollowed out to hold all the millions of vacuum tubes needed to keep a really big one going?

  There was no double helix, no recombinant-DNA, no broad-spectrum antibiotics, no hallucinogens, no chlorofluorocarbon-powered spray cans to endanger the ozone layer.

  And yet there are those who think that with the years it has become impossible to write science fiction—who think that science has killed all our plots by either making them come true or showing them to be false.

  Quite the reverse!

  Think back on the universe of 1949 when F&SF came into being and think how deprived we were.

  Imagine writing about Mars without those volcanoes and canyons and dry riverbeds, and with satellites whose measurements and appearance were completely unknown.

  Imagine a trip across the galaxy, with no mini-black holes to encounter, no tachyonic drive to help you on your way.

  Imagine writing about the twenty-first century, with no space settlements in lunar orbit, with no mass-drivers, with no solar power stations turning their large glittering wings to the Sun, with no genetic engineering of any account.

  Imagine exploring the solar system without ever sighting Chiron pursuing its lonely course between the orbits of Saturn and Uranus, or the thin rings that glint darkly about Jupiter and Uranus, or the small double-planet of Pluto-Charon, or the thin, vast cloud of drifting ice-balls, a light-year from the Sun, that are the parents of the occasional comets that come flashing through the inner solar system.

  Has science consumed our plots?

  Nonsense! Science has given us plots. For every 1949 notion that has vanished, we have anywhere from two to twenty 1979 notions we can use instead.

  In a way, then, an anthology of thirty years of a good science fiction magazine is not only a history of the magazine, but is a history of science, too, one that offers tantalizing glimpses, here and there, of the way in which advancing knowledge has offered the clever writer endless opportunities to do better, and to probe more deeply into the universe, into the human condition, and into the future of both.

  Fondly Fahrenheit

  Alfred Bester

  "Fondly Fahrenheit," first published in the August 1954 issue, is an SFWA Hall of Fame story. Its author, formerly F&SF's book reviewer, broke into the sf field in 1939 with a story called "The Broken Axiom" and has been contributing distinguished short fiction and novels ever since. His best-known books are The Demolished Man and The Stars My Destination.

  He doesn't know which of us I am these days, but they know one truth. You must own nothing but yourself. You must make your own life, live your own life and die your own death ... or else you will die another's.

  The rice fields on Paragon III stretch for hundreds of miles like checkerboard tundras, a blue and brown mosaic under a burning sky of orange. In the evening, clouds whip like smoke, and the paddies rustle and murmur.

  A long line of men marched across the paddies the evening we escaped from Paragon III. They were silent, armed, intent; a long rank of silhouetted statues looming against the smoking sky. Each man carried a gun. Each man wore a walkie-talkie belt pack, the speaker button in his ear, the microphone bug clipped to his throat, the glowing view-screen strapped to his wrist like a green-eyed watch. The multitude of screens showed nothing but a multitude of individual paths through the paddies. The annunciators uttered no sound but the rustle and splash of steps. The men spoke infrequently, in heavy grunts, all speaking to all.

  "Nothing here."

  "Where's here?"

  "Jenson's fields."

  "You're drifting too far west."

  "Close in the line there."

  "Anybody covered the Grimson paddy?"

  "Yeah. Nothing."

  "She couldn't have walked this far."

  "Could have been carried."

  "Think she's alive?"

  "Why should she be dead?"

  The slow refrain swept up and down the long line of beaters advancing toward the smoky sunset. The line of beaters wavered like a writhing snake, but never ceased its remorseless advance. One hundred men spaced fifty feet apart. Five thousand feet of ominous search. One mile of angry determination stretching from east to west across a compass of heat. Evening fell. Each man lit his search lamp. The writhing snake was transformed into a necklace of wavering diamonds.

  "Clear here. Nothing."

  "Nothing here."

  "Nothing."

  "What about the Allen paddies?"

  "Covering them now."

  "Think we missed her?"

  "Maybe."

  "We'll beat back and check."

  "This'll be an all-night job."

  "Allen paddies clear."

  "God damn! We've got to find her!"

  "We'll find her."

  "Here she is. Sector seven. Tune in."

  The line stopped. The diamonds froze in the heat. There was silence. Each man gazed into the glowing green screen on his wrist, tuning to sector seven. All tuned to one. All showed a small nude figure awash in the muddy water of a paddy. Alongside the figure an owner's stake of bronze read: vandaleur. The ends of the line converged toward the Vandaleur field. The necklace turned into a cluster of stars. One hundred men gathered around a small nude body, a child dead in a rice paddy. There was no water in her mouth. There were fingermarks on her throat. Her innocent face was battered. Her body was torn. Clotted blood on her skin was crusted and hard.

  "Dead three-four hours at least."

  "Her mouth is dry."

  "She wasn't drowned. Beaten to death."

  In the dark evening heat the men swore softly. They picked up the body. One stopped the others and pointed to the child's fingernails. She had fought her murderer. Under the nails were particles of flesh and bright drops of scarlet blood, still liquid, still uncoagulated.

  "That blood ought to be clotted too."

  "Funny."

  "Not so funny. What kind of blood don't clot?"

  "Android."

  "Looks like she was killed by one."

  "Vandaleur owns an android."

  "She couldn't be killed by an android."

  "That's android blood under her nails."

  "The police better check."

  "The police'll prove I'm right."

  "But androids can't kill."

  "That's android blood, ain't it?" ,

  "Androids can't kill. They're made that way."

  "Looks like one android was made wrong."

  "Jesus!"

  And the thermometer that day registered 92.9° gloriously Fahrenheit.

  So there we were aboard the Paragon Queen enroute for Megaster V, James Vandaleur and his android. James Vandaleur counted his money and wept. In the second-class cabin with him was his android, a magnificent synthetic creature with classic features and wide blue eyes. Raised on its forehead in a cameo of flesh were the letters MA, indicating that this was one of the rare multiple aptitude androids, worth $57,000 on the current exchange. There we were, weeping and counting and calmly watching.

  "Twelve, fourteen, sixteen. Sixteen hundred dollars," Vandaleur wept. "That's all. Sixteen hundred dollars. My house was worth ten thousand. The land was worth five. There was furniture, cars, my paintings, etchings, my plane, my And nothing to show for everything but sixteen hundred dollars. Christ!"

  I leaped up from the table and turned on the android. I pulled
a strap from one of the leather bags and beat the android. It didn't move.

  "I must remind you," the android said, "that I am worth fifty-seven thousand dollars on the current exchange. I must warn you that you are endangering valuable property."

  "You damned crazy machine," Vandaleur shouted.

  "I am not a machine," the android answered. "The robot is a machine. The android is a chemical creation of synthetic tissue."

  "What got into you?" Vandaleur cried. "Why did you do it? Damn you!" He beat the android savagely.

  "I must remind you that I cannot be punished," I said. "The pleasure-pain syndrome is not incorporated in the android synthesis."

  "Then why did you kill her?" Vandaleur shouted. "If it wasn't for kicks, why did you "

  "I must remind you," the android said, "that the second-class cabins in these ships are not soundproofed."

  Vandaleur dropped the strap and stood panting, staring at the creature he owned.

  "Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?" I asked.

  "I don't know," I answered.

  "First it was malicious mischief. Small things. Petty destruction. I should have known there was something wrong with you then. Androids can't destroy. They can't harm. They "

  "There is no pleasure-pain syndrome incorporated in the android synthesis."

  "Then it got to arson. Then serious destruction. Then assault . . . that engineer on Rigel. Each time worse. Each time we had to get out faster. Now it's murder. Christ! What's the matter with you? What's happened?"

  "There are no self-check relays incorporated in the android brain."

  "Each time we had to get out of it was a step downhill. Look at me. In a second-class cabin. Me. James Paleologue Vandaleur. There was a time when my father was the wealthiest Now, sixteen hundred dollars in the world. That's all I've got. And you. Christ damn you!"

  Vandaleur raised the strap to beat the android again, then dropped it and collapsed on a berth, sobbing. At last he pulled himself together.

  "Instructions," he said.

  The multiple aptitude android responded at once. It arose and awaited orders.

  "My name is now Valentine. James Valentine. I stopped off on Paragon III for only one day to transfer to this ship for Megaster V.

  My occupation: Agent for one privately owned MA android which is for hire. Purpose of visit: To settle on Megaster V. Fix the papers."

  The android removed Vandaleur's passport and papers from a bag, got pen and ink and sat down at the table. With an accurate, flawless hand—an accomplished hand that could draw, write, paint, carve, engrave, etch, photograph, design, create and build—it meticulously forged new credentials for Vandaleur. Its owner watched me miserably.

  "Create and build," I muttered. "And now destroy. Oh, God! What am I going to do? Christ! If I could only get rid of you. If I didn't have to live off you. God! If only I'd inherited some guts instead of you."

  Dallas Brady was Megaster's leading jewelry designer. She was short, stocky, amoral and a nymphomaniac. She hired Vandaleur's multiple aptitude android and put me to work in her shop. She seduced Vandaleur. In her bed one night, she asked abruptly: "Your name's Vandaleur, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I murmured. Then: "No! No! It's Valentine. James Valentine."

  "What happened on Paragon?" Dallas Brady asked. "I thought androids couldn't kill or destroy property. Prime Directives and Inhibitions set up for them when they're synthesized. Every company guarantees they can't."

  "Valentine!" Vandaleur insisted.

  "Oh, come off it," Dallas Brady said. "I've known for a week. I haven't hollered copper, have I?"

  "The name is Valentine."

  "You want to prove it? You want I should call the cops?" Dallas reached out and picked up the phone.

  "For God's sake, Dallas!" Vandaleur leaped up and struggled to take the phone from her. She fended him off, laughing at him, until he collapsed and wept in shame and helplessness.

  "How did you find out?" he asked at last.

  "The papers are full of it. And Valentine was a little too close to Vandaleur. That wasn't smart, was it?"

  "I guess not. I'm not very smart."

  "Your android's got quite a record, hasn't it? Assault. Arson. Destruction. What happened on Paragon?"

  "It kidnaped a child. Took her out into the rice fields and murdered her."

  "Raped her?"

  "I don't know."

  "They're going to catch up with you."

  "Don't I know it? Christ! We've been running for two years now. Seven planets in two years. I must have abandoned fifty thousand dollars worth of property in two years."

  "You better find out what's wrong with it."

  "How can I? Can I walk into a repair clinic and ask for an overhaul? What am I going to say? 'My android's just turned killer. Fix it.' They'd call the police right off." I began to shake. "They'd have that android dismantled inside one day. I'd probably be booked as accessory to murder."

  "Why didn't you have it repaired before it got to murder?"

  "I couldn't take the chance," Vandaleur explained angrily. "If they started fooling around with lobotomies and body chemistry and endocrine surgery, they might have destroyed its aptitudes. What would I have left to hire out? How would I live?"

  "You could work yourself. People do."

  "Work at what? You know I'm good for nothing. How could I compete with specialist androids and robots? Who can, unless he's got a terrific talent for a particular job?"

  "Yeah. That's true."

  "I lived off my old man all my life. Damn him! He had to go bust just before he died. Left me the android and that's all. The only way I can get along is living off what it earns."

  "You better sell it before the cops catch up with you. You can live off fifty grand. Invest it."

  "At 3 per cent? Fifteen hundred a year? When the android returns 15 per cent on its value? Eight thousand a year. That's what it earns. No, Dallas. I've got to go along with it."

  "What are you going to do about its violence kick?"

  "I can't do anything . . . except watch it and pray. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Nothing. It's none of my business. Only one thing ... I ought to get something for keeping my mouth shut."

  "What?"

  "The android works for me for free. Let somebody else pay you, but I get it for free."

  The multiple aptitude android worked. Vandaleur collected its fees. His expenses were taken care of. His savings began to mount. As the warm spring of Megaster V turned to hot summer, I began investigating

  farms and properties. It would be possible, within a year or two, for us to settle down permanently, provided Dallas Brady's demands did not become rapacious.

  On the first hot day of summer, the android began singing in Dallas Brady's workshop. It hovered over the electric furnace which, along with the weather, was broiling the shop, and sang an ancient tune that had been popular half a century before.

  Oh, it's no feat to beat the heat.

  All reet! All reet!

  So jeet your seat

  Be fleet be fleet

  Cool and discreet

  Honey . . .

  It sang in a strange, halting voice, and its accomplished fingers were clasped behind its back, writhing in a strange rumba all their own. Dallas Brady was surprised.

  "You happy or something?" she asked.

  "I must remind you that the pleasure-pain syndrome is not incorporated in the android synthesis," I answered. "All reet! All reet! Be fleet be fleet, cool and discreet, honey . . ."

  Its fingers stopped their writhing and picked up a heavy pair of iron tongs. The android poked them into the glowing heart of the furnace, leaning far forward to peer into the lovely heat.

  "Be careful, you damned fool!" Dallas Brady exclaimed. "You want to fall in?"

  "I must remind you that I am worth fifty-seven thousand dollars on the current exchange," I said. "It is forbidden to endanger valuable property. All reet! All reet!
Honey . . ."

  It withdrew a crucible of glowing gold from the electric furnace, turned, capered hideously, sang crazily, and splashed a sluggish gobbet of molten gold over Dallas Brady's head. She screamed and collapsed, her hair and clothes flaming, her skin crackling. The android poured again while it capered and sang.

  "Be fleet be fleet, cool and discreet, honey . . ." It sang and slowly poured and poured the molten gold. Then I left the workshop and rejoined James Vandaleur in his hotel suite. The android's charred clothes and squirming fingers warned its owner that something was very much wrong.

  Vandaleur rushed to Dallas Brady's workshop, stared once, vomited and fled. I had enough time to pack one bag and raise nine hundred dollars on portable assets. He took a third class cabin on the Megaster Queen which left that morning for Lyra Alpha. He took me with him. He wept and counted his money and I beat the android again.

  And the thermometer in Dallas Brady's workshop registered 98.1° beautifully Fahrenheit.

  On Lyra Alpha we holed up in a small hotel near the university. There, Vandaleur carefully bruised my forehead until the letters MA were obliterated by the swelling and the discoloration. The letters would reappear again, but not for several months, and in the meantime Vandaleur hoped the hue and cry for an MA android would be forgotten. The android was hired out as a common laborer in the university power plant. Vandaleur, as James Venice, eked out life on the android's small earnings.

  I wasn't too unhappy. Most of the other residents in the hotel were university students, equally hard up, but delightfully young and enthusiastic. There was one charming girl with sharp eyes and a quick mind. Her name was Wanda, and she and her beau, Jed Stark, took a tremendous interest in the killing android which was being mentioned in every paper in the galaxy.

  "We've been studying the case," she and Jed said at one of the casual student parties which happened to be held this night in Vandaleur's room. "We think we know what's causing it. We're going to do a paper." They were in a high state of excitement.

  "Causing what?" somebody wanted to know.