Fredric Brown - The Fredric Brown Megapack

Fredric Brown (1906-1972) is perhaps best remembered for his use of humor and his mastery of the “short-short” form (these days called flash fiction)—stories of one to three pages, often with ingenious plotting devices and surprise endings. He was just as accomplished in the mystery field as in science fiction, and he won an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his first novel, The Fabulous Clipjoint .

I discovered Fredric Brown’s work in the mid 1970s through the wonderful Science Fiction Hall of Fame anthology series. The concept of the series was that each volume contained some of the greatest science fiction stories published before 1965, as voted on by the membership of the Science Fiction Writers of America (and then winnowed down by each volume’s editor). The theory being, of course, that science fiction writers ought to know the best of the best.

SFWA members selected Fredric Brown’s story “Arena,” which is in this collection, as one of the top 20 science fiction stories. (“Arena” was also adapted as an episode of the original Star Trek TV series—you will probably recognize it as soon as you start reading.) I have chosen to lead off The Fredric Brown Megapack with “Arena” because, for anyone new to Fredric Brown’s fantastic work, this story is an ideal starting point.

But if you are already familiar with Brown’s work, I hope you will find a few tales new to you here. For the others, you will doubtless enjoy revisiting the work of one of science fiction’s masters.

Enjoy!

Carson opened his eyes and found himself looking upwards into a flickering blue dimness.

It was hot, and he was lying on sand, and a rock embedded in the sand was hurting his back. He rolled over to his side, off the rock, and then pushed himself up to a sitting position.

I’m crazy, he thought. Crazy—or dead—or something.

The sand was blue, bright blue. And there wasn’t any such thing as bright blue sand on Earth or any of the planets. Blue sand under a blue dome that wasn’t the sky nor yet a room, but a circumscribed area—somehow he knew it was circumscribed and finite, even though he couldn’t see to the top of it.

He picked up some of the sand in his hand and let it run through his fingers. It trickled down onto his bare leg. Bare?

He was stark naked, and already his body was dripping perspiration from the enervating heat, coated blue with sand wherever sand had touched it. Elsewhere his body was white.

He thought: Then this sand is really blue. If it seemed blue only because of the blue light, then I’d be blue also. But I’m white, so the sand is blue. Blue sand: there isn’t any blue sand. There isn’t any place like this place I’m in.

Sweat was running down in his eyes. It was hot, hotter than hell. Only hell—the hell of the ancients—was supposed to be red and not blue.

But if this place wasn’t hell, what was it? Only Mercury, among the planets, had heat like this, and this wasn’t Mercury. And Mercury was some four billion miles from… From?

It came back to him then, where he’d been: in the little one-man scouter, outside the orbit of Pluto, scouting a scant million miles to one side of the Earth Armada drawn up in battle array there to intercept the Outsiders.

That sudden strident ringing of the alarm bell when the rival scouter—the Outsider ship—had come within range of his detectors!

No one knew who the Outsiders were, what they looked like, or from what far galaxy they came, other than that it was in the general direction of the Pleiades.

First, there had been sporadic raids on Earth colonies and outposts; isolated battles between Earth patrols and small groups of Outsider spaceships; battles sometimes won and sometimes lost, but never resulting in the capture of an alien vessel. Nor had any member of a raided colony ever survived to describe the Outsiders who had left the ships, if indeed they had left them.

Not too serious a menace, at first, for the raids had not been numerous or destructive. And individually, the ships had proved slightly inferior in armament to the best of Earth’s fighters, although somewhat superior in speed and maneuverability. A sufficient edge in speed, in fact, to give the Outsiders their choice of running or fighting, unless surrounded.

Nevertheless, Earth had prepared for serious trouble, building the mightiest armada of all time. It had been waiting now, that armada, for a long time. Now the showdown was coming.

Scouts twenty billion miles out had detected the approach of a mighty fleet of the Outsiders. Those scouts had never come back, but their radiotronic messages had. And now Earth’s armada, all ten thousand ships and half-million fighting spacemen, was out there, outside Pluto’s orbit, waiting to intercept and battle to the death.

And an even battle it was going to be, judging by the advance reports of the men of the far picket line who had given their lives to report—before they had died—on the size and strength of the alien fleet.

Anybody’s battle, with the mastery of the solar system hanging in the balance, on an even chance. A last and only chance, for Earth and all her colonies lay at the utter mercy of the Outsiders if they ran that gauntlet—Oh yes. Bob Carson remembered now. He remembered that strident bell and his leap for the control panel. His frenzied fumbling as he strapped himself into the seat. The dot in the visiplate that grew larger. The dryness of his mouth. The awful knowledge that this was it for him, at least, although the main fleets were still out of range of one another.

This, his first taste of battle! Within three seconds or less he’d be victorious, or a charred cinder. One hit completely took care of a lightly armed and armoured one-man craft like a scouter.

Frantically—as his lips shaped the word “One”—he worked at the controls to keep that growing dot centered on the crossed spiderwebs of the visiplate. His hands doing that, while his right foot hovered over the pedal that would fire the bolt. The single bolt of concentrated hell that had to hit—or else. There wouldn’t be time for any second shot.

“Two.” He didn’t know he’d said that, either. The dot in the visiplate wasn’t a dot now. Only a few thousand miles away, it showed up in the magnification of the plate as though it were only a few hundred yards off. It was a fast little scouter, about the size of his.

An alien ship, all right!

“Thr—” His foot touched the bolt-release pedal.

And then the Outsider had swerved suddenly and was off the crosshairs. Carson punched keys frantically to follow.

For a tenth of a second, it was out of the visiplate entirely, and then as the nose of his scouter swung after it, he saw it again, diving straight towards the ground.

The ground?

It was an optical illusion of some sort. It had to be: that planet—or whatever it was—that now covered the visiplate couldn’t be there. Couldn’t possibly! There wasn’t any planet nearer than Neptune, three billion miles away—with Pluto on the opposite side of the distant pinpoint sun.

His detectors! They hadn’t shown any object of planetary dimensions, even of asteroid dimensions, and still didn’t.

It couldn’t be there, that whatever— it —was he was diving into, only a few hundred miles below him.

In his sudden anxiety to keep from crashing, he forgot the Outsider ship. He fired the front breaking rockets, and even as the sudden change of speed slammed him forward against the seat straps, fired full right for an emergency turn. Pushed them down and held them down, knowing that he needed everything the ship had to keep from crashing and that a turn that sudden would black him out for a moment.