So it sat and pondered the ways of men, who seemed to desire nothing so much in life as the acquisition of an element called “gold,” and yet acted so oddly when they were given a spaceship made of it.
The Twerlik sadly filed “screwy” in close juxtaposition to the men-concept in its brain, and when at last the men-things had lain upon the gray sand and moved no more, it transmuted their elements into that substance they loved so well with its last burst of waning strength.
Then it lay there upon the cool gray sand, sucking life from the dim, distant star of its planet, and thought and thought about men-things, and wondered if it would ever be satisfied to be nothing but a Twerlik forever, with no more creatures to be good to.
It knew one thing, however: it must not give men gold again. The next spaceship to land upon its planet, after two revolutions about the sun, was filled with men-things, too.
But these men-things had had an accident to the thing called their “reclamation tanks.” They were all thick-tongued and weak, and a quick analysis of their conversation showed the Twerlik that these men were different from the others. They desired nothing so much as a comparatively simple molecule known to them as water.
The Twerlik was only too eager to help.
And, when the transmutation of this second spaceship had been completed, right over the thirsty gray sands, the Twerlik proudly added “permeability” to its vocabulary.
And then there was the issue of the Sunday Times containing two separate pieces headlined, “Life on Mars?”
Sullivan’s article on the science page reported on recommendations made to the National Academy of Sciences by a meeting of distinguished scientists who declared, “We believe it entirely reasonable that Mars is inhabited with living organisms” and urged a program to land “an automated biological laboratory” on Mars in 1971 or 1973.
The piece on the editorial page said stiffly: “The biological exploration of Mars will not be cheap, and available funds for scientific research and development are limited.”
If I had any lingering doubts, they are gone. It is actually happening: the cosmonaut space-acrobatics and the Gemini launching programs are not simply part of a global drama of prestige and influence conflicts. We are actually on our way. In another year or two, someone will set foot (or spaceboot) on the moon’s surface for the first time. I know it is so now, because the Times is seriously disturbed about the cost of exploring for life on Mars.
Science has caught up with science fiction. We have gone too far with the hardware and techniques of space travel to leave much of a field for inventive imagination to work in. We have not yet gone far enough into space itself to acquire the new knowledge that will generate a whole new phase of speculative science and fiction.
Meantime, science fiction is leaping ahead of science, on today’s frontiers. The exciting new work is not in rocketry but in biochemistry, in behavioral psychology, in parapsychology, in anthropology and information theory and communications. And in a backwards way, this is bringing back the space story, but a different kind of space story.
A ROSE FOR ECCLESIASTES
Roger Zelazny
I
I was busy translating one of my Madrigals Macabre into Martian on the morning I was found acceptable. The intercom had buzzed briefly, and I dropped my pencil and flipped on the toggle in a single motion.
“Mister G,” piped Morton’s youthful contralto, “the old man says I should `get hold of that damned conceited rhymer` right away, and send him to his cabin.
Since there’s only one damned conceited rhymer...”
“Let not ambition mock thy useful toil.” I cut him off.
So, the Martians had finally made up their minds! I knocked an inch and a half of ash from a smoldering butt, and took my first drag since I had lit it. The entire month’s anticipation tried hard to crowd itself into the moment, but could not quite make it. I was frightened to walk those forty feet and hear Emory say the words I already knew he would say; and that feeling elbowed the other one into the background.
So I finished the stanza I was translating before I got up.
It took only a moment to reach Emory’s door. I knocked twice and opened it, just as he growled, “Come in.”
“You wanted to see me?” I sat down quickly to save him the trouble of offering me a seat.
“That was fast. What did you do, run?”
I regarded his paternal discontent:
Little fatty flecks beneath pale eyes, thinning hair, and an Irish nose; a voice a decibel louder than anyone else’s.....
Hamlet to Claudius: “I was working.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “Come off it. No one’s ever seen you do any of that stuff.”
I shrugged my shoulders and started to rise.
“If that’s what you called me down here—”
“Sit down!”
He stood up. He walked around his desk. He hovered above me and glared down. (A hard trick, even when I’m in a low chair.)
“You are undoubtably the most antagonistic bastard I’ve ever had to work with!”
he bellowed, like a belly-stung buffalo. “Why the hell don’t you act like a human being sometime and surprise everybody? I’m willing to admit you’re smart, maybe even a genius, but—oh, hell!” He made a heaving gesture with both hands and walked back to his chair.
“Betty has finally talked them into letting you go in.” His voice was normal again. “They’ll receive you this afternoon. Draw one of the jeepsters after lunch, and get down there.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s all, then.”
I nodded, got to my feet. My hand was on the doorknob when he said: “I don’t have to tell you how important this is. Don’t treat them the way you treat us.”
I closed the door behind me.
I don’t remember what I had for lunch. I was nervous, but I knew instinctively that I wouldn’t muff it. My Boston publishers expected a Martian Idyll, or at least a Saint-Exupery job on space flight. The National Science Association wanted a complete report on the Rise and Fall of the Martian Empire.
They would both be pleased. I knew.
That’s the reason everyone is jealous—why they hate me. I always come through, and I can come through better than anyone else.
I shoveled in a final anthill of slop, and made my way to our car barn. I drew one jeepster and headed it toward Tirellian.
Flames of sand, lousy with iron oxide, set fire to the buggy.
They swarmed over the open top and bit through my scarf; they set to work pitting my goggles.
The jeepster, swaying and panting like a little donkey I once rode through the Himalayas, kept kicking me in the seat of the pants. The Mountains of Tirellian shuffled their feet and moved toward me at a cockeyed angle.
Suddenly I was heading uphill, and I shifted gears to accommodate the engine’s braying. Not like Gobi, not like the Great Southwestern Desert, I mused. Just red, just dead...without even a cactus.
I reached the crest of the hill, but I had raised too much dust to see what was ahead. It didn’t matter, though; I have a head full of maps. I bore to the left and downhill, adjusting the throttle. A crosswind and solid ground beat down the fires. I felt like Ulysses in Malebolge—with a terza-rima speech in one hand and an eye out for Dante.
I rounded a rock pagoda and arrived.