Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2

Mr. Smith handed over an envelope heavy with paper. “Don’t you wish to check these?”

Piedmont looked about the table. Besides himself, there was John Smith-Winston, the second, from England; Rami Mardu, from India; Warner Voss-Richer, of West Germany; Mito Fisuki, of Japan; Juan Santos, representing Italy, France and Spain. Piedmont said, “We have here a photo taken of you in 1900, sir; it is hardly necessary to identify you further. I might add, however, that during the past ten years we have had various celebrated scientists at work on the question of whether or not time travel was possible.”

Mr. Smith said, “So I have realized. In short, you have spent my money in investigating me.”

There was little of apology in Piedmont’s voice. “We have faithfully, some of us for all our adult lives, protected The Contract. I will not deny that the pay is the highest in the world; however it is only a job. Part of the job consists of protecting The Contract and your interests from those who would fraudulently appropriate the fortune. We spend millions every year in conducting investigations.”

“You’re right, of course. But your investigations into the possibilities of time travel . . . ?”

“Invariably the answer was that it was impossible. Only one physicist offered a glimmer of possibility.”

“Ah, and who was that?”

“A Professor Alan Shirey who does his research at one of the California universities. We were careful, of course, not to hire his services directly. When first approached he admitted he had never considered the problem but he became quite intrigued. However, he finally stated his opinion that the only solution would involve the expenditure of an amount of power so great that there was no such quantity available.”

“I see,” Mr. Smith said wryly. “And following this period for which you hired the professor, did he discontinue his investigations into time travel?”

Piedmont made a vague gesture. “How would I know?”

John Smith-Winston interrupted stiffly. “Sir, we have all drawn up complete accountings of your property. To say it is vast is an understatement beyond even an Englishman. We should like instructions on how you wish us to continue.”

Mr. Smith looked at him. “I wish to begin immediate steps to liquidate.”

“Liquidate!” six voices ejaculated.

“I want cash, gentlemen,” Smith said definitely. “As fast as it can be accomplished, I want my property converted into cash.”

Warner Voss-Richer said harshly, “Mr. Smith, there isn’t enough coinage in the world to buy your properties.”

“There is no need for there to be. I will be spending it as rapidly as you can convert my holdings into gold or its credit equivalent. The money will be put back into circulation over and over again.”

Piedmont was aghast. “But why?” He held his hands up in dismay. “Can’t you realize the repercussions of such a move? Mr. Smith, you must explain the purpose of all this...”

Mr. Smith said, “The purpose should be obvious. And the pseudonym of Mr. Smith is no longer necessary. You may call me Shirey—Professor Alan Shirey. You see, gentlemen, the question with which you presented me, whether or not time travel was possible, became consumingly interesting. I have finally solved, I believe, all the problems involved. I need now only a fantastic amount of power to activate my device. Given such an amount of power, somewhat more than is at present produced on the entire globe, I believe I shall be able to travel in time.”

“But, but why? All this, all this ... Cartels, governments, wars . . .” Warren Piedmont’s aged voice wavered, faltered.

Mr. Smith—Professor Alan Shirey—looked at him strangely. “Why, so that I may travel back to early Venice where I shall be able to make the preliminary steps necessary for me to secure sufficient funds to purchase such an enormous amount of power output.”

“And six centuries of human history,” said Rami Mardu, Asiatic representative, so softly as hardly to be heard. “Its meaning is no more than this ... ?”

Professor Shirey looked at him impatiently.

“Do I understand you to contend, sir, that there have been other centuries of human history with more meaning?”

This year “S-F” covers the s-front, quantitatively as well as qualitatively. Fifteen short stories, one verse parody of one novella, one satire and one article about too many movies bring you a pretty complete (and surprisingly proportionate) representation of the science-fantasy scene here and abroad. One story from Wales, via Canada; plus the peripatetic Mack Reynolds; together with Shanghai-born Ballard’s story from a British magazine, combine, I feel, to offer an appropriately international flavor.

This is Mr. Ballard’s first published science-fiction, and contains one of the very few entirely new s-f ideas of the last few years.

I first met Jane Ciracylides during the Recess, that world slump of boredom, lethargy and high summer which carried us all so blissfully through ten unforgettable years, and I suppose that may have had a lot to do with what went on between us. Certainly I can’t believe I could make myself as ridiculous now, but then again, it might have been just Jane herself.

Whatever else they said about her, everyone had to agree she was a beautiful girl, even if her genetic background was a little mixed. The gossips at Vermillion Sands soon decided there was a good deal of mutant in her, because she had a rich patina-golden skin and what looked like insects for eyes, but that didn’t bother either myself or any of my friends, one or two of whom, like Tony Miles and Harry Devine, have never since been quite the same to their wives.

We spent most of our time in those days on the wide cool balcony of my apartment off Beach Drive, drinking beer— we always kept a useful supply stacked in the refrigerator of my music shop on the street level—yarning in a desultory way and playing i-Go, a sort of decelerated chess which was popular then. None of the others ever did any work; Harry was an architect and Tony Miles sometimes sold a few ceramics to the tourists, but I usually put a couple of hours in at the shop each morning, getting off the foreign orders and turning the beer.

One particularly hot lazy day I’d just finished wrapping up a delicate soprano mimosa wanted by the Hamburg Oratorio Society when Harry phoned down from the balcony.

“Parker’s Choro-Flora?” he said. “You’re guilty of overproduction. Come on up here. Tony and I have something beautiful to show you.”

When I went up I found them grinning happily like two dogs who had just discovered an interesting tree.

“Well?” I asked. “Where is it?”

Tony tilted his head slightly. “Over there,” he indicated.

I looked up and down the street, and across the face of the apartment house opposite.

“Careful,” he warned me. “Don’t gape at her.”

I slid into one of the wicker chairs and craned my head round cautiously.

“Fourth floor,” Harry elaborated slowly, out of the side of his mouth. “One left from the balcony opposite. Happy now?”

“Dreaming,” I told him, taking a long slow focus on her. “I wonder what else she can do?”

Harry and Tony sighed thankfully. “Well?” Tony asked.

“She’s out of my league,” I said. “But you two shouldn’t have any trouble. Go over and tell her how much she needs you.”

Harry groaned. “Don’t you realize, this one is poetic, emergent, something straight out of the primal apocalyptic sea. She’s probably divine.”

The woman was strolling around the lounge, re-arranging the furniture, wearing almost nothing except a large abstract metallic hat. Even in shadow the long sinuous lines of her thighs and shoulders gleamed gold and burning. She was a walking galaxy of light. Vermillion Sands had never seen anything like her.