The Year's Best Science Fiction 11

And at night he would stare up at the sky, never knowing why, seeking something that he could not name among the distant and glittering stars, the dying echo of a song that had once (and only once) been sung, and which would never now be sung again.

Tilley, on Tilley:

I’m a fellow of the British Display Society, and until recently spent eight years in charge of display and exhibitions for the South Western Electricity Board (packed it in at Christmas, in order to practice privately as a graphic designer!. As you’ve already gathered, I’m a longtime jazzer—played clarinet around my home town (Bridgewater, in Somerset) for quite a while, and led my own band for about eighteen months. I took up tenor sax about six years ago, something I wish I’d done sooner, and still do my ham-fisted impersonation of Lester young occasionally.

I started writing about eleven years ago, and my first published story won a Best First Story award in the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I’ve had fifteen (I think) stories published altogether—about three-quarters of my total output—most of them in British magazines and three in F&SF. I’m probably the slowest and least prolific writer working in any field, the chief reason being that I find it such darned hard graft. I love it, but it beats the stuffing out of me, which is why, questions of quality apart, I could never attempt it as a full-time career. . . .

“I’ll be quite happy to keep on trying to develop my craftsmanship, because I hate sloppy, colourless writing. Far too much writing, in all fields, lacks light and shade and any sort of appreciation of the rhythm and flow of words. I think it’s possible that my work in design has helped to keep me conscious of the value of balance and emphasis, which means that my approach to both fields is probably much closer than I’ve ever deliberately made it. (An Interesting thought, and one that’s only occurred to me as I write this letter.1

Even more interesting, I thought as I read it, is the probable interaction with his other field: some circuit-rider of tomorrow’s far-flung lecture halls is going to have a rich topic in the relationship between jazz and s-f as parallel art forms of the mid-twentieth. (Not too many people span both areas creatively, but the overlap in fans is considerable and jazzmen tend to dig s-f, just as the writers tend to be jazz listeners.)

Bob Tilley’s letter was a delight to receive, not only for the self-evident reason, but on two further counts. I knew I had seen his name before, probably in New Worlds, certainly not often. It was gratifying to learn that he was not one of the startlingly proficient newcomers who keep popping up—and as suddenly vanishing—but a working craftsman from whom we may expect more in future. Besides which, it is not often that one writer’s letter provides me with a built-in introduction to the next story. I left out one sentence up there . . .

I’ve no desire whatever to be an Innovator, and confess myself in awe of Jim Ballard, one of the most talented and dedicated men I ever met. He’s great, isn’t he?

They lived in a house on the mountain Tlaxihuatl half a mile below the summit. The house was built on a lava flow like the hide of an elephant. In the afternoon and evening the man, Charles Vandervell, sat by the window in the lounge, watching the fire displays that came from the crater. The noise rolled down the mountain-side like a series of avalanches. At intervals a falling cinder hissed as it extinguished itself in the water tank on the roof. The woman slept most of the time in the bedroom overlooking the valley or, when she wished to be close to Vandervell, on the settee in the lounge.

In the afternoon she woke briefly when the devilsticks man performed his dance by the road a quarter of a mile from the house. This mendicant had come to the mountain for the benefit of the people in the village below the summit, but his dance had failed to subdue the volcano and prevent the villagers from leaving. As they passed him pushing their carts he would rattle his spears and dance, but they walked on without looking up. When he became discouraged and seemed likely to leave, Vandervell sent the house-boy out to him with an American dollar. From then on the stick-dancer came every day.

“Is he still here?” the woman asked. She walked into the lounge, folding her robe around her waist. “What’s he supposed to be doing?”

“He’s fighting a duel with the spirit of the volcano,” Vandervell said. “He’s putting a lot of thought and energy into it, but he hasn’t a chance.”

“I thought you were on his side,” the woman said. “Aren’t you paying him a retainer?”

“That’s only to formalize the relationship. To show him that I understand what’s going on. Strictly speaking, I’m on the volcano’s side.”

A shower of cinders rose a hundred feet above the crater, illuminating the jumping stick-man.

“Are you sure it’s safe here?”

Vandervell waved her away. “Of course. Go back to bed and rest. This thin air is bad for the complexion.”

“I feel all right. I heard the ground move.”

“It’s been moving for weeks.” He watched the stick-man conclude his performance with a series of hops, as if leapfrogging over a partner. “On his diet that’s not bad.”

“You should take him back to Mexico City and put him in one of the cabarets. He’d make more than a dollar.”

“He wouldn’t be interested. He’s a serious artist, this Nijinsky of the mountain side. Can’t you see that?”

The woman half-filled a tumbler from the decanter on the table. “How long are you going to keep him out there?”

“As long as he’ll stay.” He turned to face the woman. “Remember that. When he leaves it will be time to go.”

The stick-man, a collection of tatters when not in motion, disappeared into his lair, one of the holes in the lava beside the road.

“I wonder if he met Springman?” Vandervell said. “On balance it’s possible. Springman would have come up the south face. This is the only road to the village.”

“Ask him. Offer him another dollar.”

“Pointless—he’d say he had seen him just to keep me happy.”

“What makes you so sure Springman is here?”

“He was here,” Vandervell corrected. “He won’t be here any longer. I was with Springman in Acapulco when he looked at the map. He came here.”

The woman carried her tumbler into the bedroom.

“We’ll have dinner at nine,” Vandervell called to her. “I’ll let you know if he dances again.”

Left alone, Vandervell watched the fire displays. The glow shone through the windows of the houses in the village so that they seemed to glow like charcoal. At night the collection of hovels was deserted, but a few of the men returned during the day.

In the morning two men came from the garage in Ecuatan to reclaim the car which Vandervell had hired. He offered to pay a month’s rent in advance, but they rejected this and pointed at the clinkers that had fallen on to the car from the sky. None of them was hot enough to burn the paintwork. Vandervell gave them each fifty dollars and promised to cover the car with a tarpaulin. Satisfied, the men drove away.

After breakfast Vandervell walked out across the lava seams to the road. The stick-dancer stood by his hole above the bank, resting his hands on the two spears. The cone of the volcano, partly hidden by the dust, trembled behind his back. He watched Vandervell when he shouted across the road. Vandervell took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it under a stone. The stick-man began to hum and rock on the balls of his feet.