Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 207
“But—” I looked at Padma. “You mean I’m free!”
Padma shook his head.
“You’re only charged with a different force instead,” he said. “You received the full impact and charge of Jamethon’s self-sacrifice.”
He looked at me almost with sympathy, and in spite of the sunlight I began to shiver.
It was so. I could not deny it. Jamethon, in giving his life up for a belief, when I had thrown away all belief before the face of death, had melted and changed me as lightning melts and changes the uplifted sword-blade that it strikes. I could not deny what had happened to me.
“No,” I said, shivering, “I can’t do anything about it.”
“You can,” said Padma, calmly. “You will.”
He unclasped his hands that he had held together earlier.
“The purpose for which we calculated I should meet you here is accomplished now,” he said. “The idealism which was basic in you remains. Even your uncle couldn’t take it from you. He could only attack it so that the threat of death on New Earth could twist it for a while against itself. Now you’ve been hammered straight in the forge of events on St. Marie.”
I laughed, and the laugh hurt my throat still.
“I don’t feel straight,” I said.
“Give yourself time,” said Padma. “Healing takes time. New growth has to harden, like muscle, before it becomes useful. Now you understand much more about the faith of the Friendlies, the courage of the Dorsai—and something of the philosophical strength for man we work toward on the Exotics.”
He stopped and smiled at me. Almost an impish smile.
“It should have been clear to you a long while ago, Tam,” he said. “Your job’s the job of translator—between the old and the new. Your work will prepare the minds of the people on all the worlds—full-spectrum and Splinter Culture alike—for the day when the talents of the race will combine into the new breed.” The smile softened, his face saddened. “You’ll live to see more of it than I. Good-by, Tam.”
He turned. Through the still misty, but brightening air, I saw him walking alone toward the church, from which came the voice of the speaker within, now announcing the number of the final hymn.
* * * *
Dazedly, I turned away myself, went to my car and got in. Now the rain was almost over and the sky was brightening fast. The faint moisture fell, it seemed, more kindly; and the air was fresh and new.
I put the car windows open as I pulled out of the lot onto the long road back to the spaceport. And through the open window beside me I heard them beginning to sing the final hymn inside the church.
It was the Battle Hymn of the Friendly Soldiers that they sang. As I drove away down the road the voices seemed to follow me strongly Not sounding slowly and mournfully as if in sadness and farewell but strongly and triumphantly, as in a marching song on the lips of those taking up a route at the beginning of a new day.
Soldier, ask not—now, or ever,
Where to war your banners go.
The singing followed me as I drove away. And as I got farther into the distance, the voices seemed to blend until they sounded like one voice alone, powerfully singing. Ahead, the clouds were breaking. With the sun shining through, the patches of blue sky were like bright flags waving—like the banners of an army, marching forever forward into lands unknown.
I watched them, as I drove forward toward where they blended into open sky; and for a long time I heard the singing behind me, as I drove to the spaceport and the ship for Earth that waited in the sunlight.
* * * *
Copyright © 1964 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.
PHILIP JOSÉ FARMER
(1918–2009)
After several false starts, Philip José Farmer had a very successful career. It’s important to remember that violence and sexual content that might seem routine today could be shocking to editors (if not always to readers) in the 1950s—and Farmer played a big role in helping break the SF field out of a “there will be no sex in the world of the future, or at least they won’t talk about it” mindset.
Born in 1923 in Terre Haute, Indiana, Farmer was an avid reader of SF from childhood. He reportedly vowed to become a writer as early as the fourth grade. Farmer worked at a steel mill while attending night classes at Bradley University (and writing while not working). He graduated with a BA in English in 1950.
His 1952 novella ”The Lovers” was so explosive in its content (a graphic relationship between a man and an alien) that John W. Campbell at Astounding and Horace Gold at Galaxy both rejected it, but the story won a Hugo for Farmer and convinced him to try writing full-time. When he won $4,000 (a lot of money at the time) in a publisher’s contest soon after his decision seemed to have been vindicated—until his editor lost the manuscript and failed to make good on the promised money.
Farmer turned to technical writing to pay the bills while writing SF on the side. He would make it back to full-time writing in 1966, the year “Riverworld” was published to critical acclaim (and commercial success from the series of Riverworld books that followed). Two more Hugos followed as well, for “Riders of the Purple Wage” (1967) and To Your Scattered Bodies Go (1972). Farmer was named a Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master in 2001, the same year he won a World Fantasy Award for lifetime achievement. He died in his sleep in 2009.
RIVERWORLD, by Philip José Farmer
First published in Worlds of Tomorrow, January 1966
I
Tom Mix’s boat sailed around the bend of the river first. The pursuing boat sped around a few seconds less than a minute later. Both craft, the large chaser and the small chased, were bamboo catamarans: double-hulled, single-masted, fore-and-aft rigged with spinnakers. The sails were fashioned from the paperthin but tough intestinal lining of the river-serpent fish.
It was an hour before dusk. The shadows of the western mountains of the valley fell across the hills at their feet and stained half of the plain bordering the river. People were gathered in groups by the great mushroom-shaped stones that lined the riverbank, each a mile apart. About the time that the sinking sun touched the peaks, the stones would roar and spout flame and the hundreds of cylindrical gray containers on top of each stone would be filled with the evening meal, the liquor, the tobacco, the dreamgum.
Pushed by the wind and the strong current in the middle of the river, the vessels scudded along. At the turn, the stream broadened from its normal width of a mile to three miles, forming a “lake.” Many fishing boats were out on the river; thus, the two newcomers found themselves in the midst of a fleet.
The fleeing catamaran tacked to run between two fishing craft that were separated by only thirty feet. So close was the pursuing boat to its quarry by then, it had a quick decision to make. It could either follow the path of the first through the narrowing lane, or it could swing away to avoid a collision. The steersman took the course that would not permit the smaller vessel to gain distance—if he were lucky or skillful enough. The big boat leaned over and cut towards the opening. But by then the fishing craft had drifted too closely together.
All three crews shouted. The catamaran crashed bow first into the side of the nearest fisher near its bow. Only half the size of the catamaran, the single-hulled bamboo boat swung around, its stem traveling towards the left hull of the catamaran. Those in the smaller craft were hurled to the deck. All ten men aboard the catamaran were also knocked down by the impact; three went over the side and into the water.
* * * *
The pursued now became the attacker. It turned and beat up the wind towards the two caught in the collision. Although both were sinking from the water pouring into the stoved-in bows, they were settling very slowly. The captain of the catamaran shouted some orders; his men picked up their weapons and gathered near the port. Obviously, they intended to board the other boat; though for what purpose the others did not know.
Now the smaller catamaran neared the two cripples. There were only three on its deck, a woman at the helm, a man handling the sailropes, and Tom Mix in the bow. The woman wore the usual garb of the female river-dweller in this area, a brilliantly colored towel as a kilt around her waist and a thinner piece of cloth around her breasts. The sailhandler wore only a towel-kilt. But the man in the bow had a ten-gallon hat of woven straw on his head, a long black cloak made of towels fastened together with magnetic tabs and cowboy boots of river-serpent leather. Now, as his boat neared the others, he slipped off the boots and stood barefooted; his cloak and hat followed to the deck.
Mix picked up a heavy war-boomerang from the deck. It was two feet long, fashioned by sharp flint from a piece of hard white oak. One of its ends turned at the angle of 30 degrees. A formidable weapon in the hand of a skilled thrower, it could break a man’s arm at a distance of 500 feet.
At his feet lay a chert-headed axe, four more boomerangs, several oak spears with flint tips and a leather sling and leather bag of sling-stones. As soon as Mix’s craft came close enough to the other, he braced himself and threw the boomerang. It flew towards its target, the sun flashing off its pale surface, and struck a man in the neck. The man fell sidewise on the deck.
The others yelled and spread out along the deck, any intention of boarding the fisher boat forgotten. They threw clubs and spears, but all three on Mix’s boat hugged the deck, and the missiles hit no one. Immediately afterward, Mix jumped up and hurled a spear. It fell short of its mark, the torso of the nearest man, but it pierced his foot. He screamed and hopped around the deck until two men got him down and pulled the spear out.
During this encounter, the second fisher had come alongside and was starting to take those on the sinking fisher aboard. Seeing this, the catamaran captain ordered his crew to take the riverworthy boat. He led the attack; his men followed him onto the fisher alongside. This contained two men and a woman who had not yet gotten off; the other fisher now held four women and two men.
All of these turned to defend themselves. They thrust spears tipped with sharp bamboo blades. One woman whirled a stone in a sling over her head. The rock caught a man in his solar plexus. He doubled over, staggered back and started to fall just as a thrown spear plunged into his arm. One of his crew stumbled over him and received the point of a blade with the full weight of a defender on it.
* * * *
Shrieking, one of the women fell into the water between the boats, a spear in her breast. Then the defenders and attackers closed in a melee.
A moment later the other catamaran slid by. Mix worked smoothly with all the speed and finesse of a man who had practiced for hundreds of hours. His sling whirled three times and struck his target each time. Fortunately, he knew his pursuers and so did not have to worry about identity. One stone caught a man in the side of the neck. Another hit at the base of the spine. The third almost missed, but the captain of the boarders was sent writhing to the deck with a smashed kneecap. A knife slashed his jugular.
Again the little catamaran turned back toward the three boats, side by side, this time so swiftly that one of the hulls lifted completely from the water, and the sail swung violently around. It capsized almost, but it settled back; and with the wind behind it, it raced back up to its destination. Mix crouched by the bow, threw a spear that hit a man in the side and followed with a leap that brought him on the deck among the battlers.
His heavy axe rose and fell twice.
Suddenly outnumbered, the attackers tried to run back to their boat. Only one made it, and he was forced to dive into the river. Mix picked up a boomerang from the deck, lifted his arm to throw it at the bobbing head, then lowered it. Boomerangs were too hard to come by to waste on somebody who could no longer be a threat.
By then, the catamaran had been secured to the undamaged fisher with ropes of plaited bamboo fibers. Mix crossed the two sinking boats to the fisher. Except for the groaning of the wounded and the weeping of a woman, all were silent. They looked pale and spent; the fire of battle was gone from their faces.
Mix put his ten-gallon hat back on, secured the long black cloak around his neck, and slipped on his dark-red and sable riverserpent boots. He came back to the fisher deck, removed his hat with a flourish, grinned, and said, “Tom Mix at your service, ladies and gentlemen. And many thanks for your help in saving us.”
A man said, “Bare bones o’ God, stranger, I scarcely comprehend your speech. Yet it seems to be somewhat English.”
Mix put his hat back on and rolled his eyes as if beseeching help from above. “Still in the 17th century! Well, at least I can understand your lingo a little bit. What’s your handle, amigo?”
“Handle? Amigo?”
“Your name, friend. And who’s your boss? I’d like to offer my services. I need him, and I think he’s going to need me.”
“Stafford’s the lord hereabouts,” a woman said. She was looking at him strangely. The others were, too. But it was not only he they regarded so peculiarly. The man who had handled the sail on the catamaran and was now standing by Mix’s side was receiving as much attention.
Mix grinned and said, “No, he’s not my twin brother or any sort of brother to me, aside from that kinship that comes from being human. He was born on Earth some thousand years before me and in a place far off from my native Pennsylvania. It’s only a trick of fate he resembles me so. A lucky one for him, otherwise he might not have gotten loose from Kramer.”
He did not explain his remark. “My friends and I have had a tough time for the last couple of days. We’re tired and hungry. I’d like permission to stay at your place for a few days before we go on down the river. Do you think your boss…lord…would object?”
“Far from it, sir,” the woman said. “He welcomes good fighting men in the hopes they’ll stay. And he rewards them well. But tell me, these men—they must be Kramer’s—why were they so intent on killing you they chased you into a place where they are forbidden to enter under pain of death?”
“That’s a long story,” said Mix. He smiled. His smile was very attractive, and he knew it. “You evidently know of Kramer the Burner. These two—Bithniah and Yeshua—were prisoners of his. I got them loose, along with a bunch of others. We three were the only ones to make it to a boat. The rest you know.”
Abruptly, he turned away to give orders to his two boat-mates. All boarded the catamaran, untied the ropes binding the two boats, hoisted sail, and slipped away. The woman steered toward the western shore; he stood in the prow with his long black cloak whipping to one side of him while he stared at the scene ahead.
II
As almost everywhere in the never-ending valley, there was the plain, a mile wide and flat as the floor of a house. This was covered with the short-bladed grass that no amount of trampling could kill. Beyond the plain, the hills began. These started out as mounds about 20 feet high but became broader and higher as they progressed toward the mountains. Unlike the plain, which had only a few trees here and there, the hills were thick with forest. Eighty out of every hundred were the indestructible “irontrees,” the deep-rooted monsters with bark that resisted fire and would shrug off the swing of the sharpest steel axe—if any had existed on this world. Among them grew the five hundred to thousand-feet high pines, oak, ash, elm, alder and other varieties. Beneath the trees grew long-bladed grass and the bamboo groves.
Beyond the hills, the mountains soared. The lower parts were rugged with canyons and fissures and little plateaus. But, at the five thousand foot height, the mountains became an unbroken cliff, Smooth as glass, they soared straight up for another five thousand feet or even leaned outwards near the top. They were unclimbable, as every man who had tried them could testify.
Both sides of the valley were alike. However, one area of the river did differ from another in a few respects. A man could sail for ten thousand miles and see only green in the vegetation. Then, suddenly, as if a thin wall divided one area from another, the valley bloomed. Huge vines wreathed themselves around every tree and even the larger bamboo. From the vines grew flowers of many sizes, shapes, and every shade of the spectrum.
For ten thousand miles both sides of the river valley would explode with color. Then, just as abruptly as it had ceased, the trees would resume their ascetic green.
But this area trumpeted with the flourish of hue.
* * * *
Mix gave the order, and Yeshua lowered the sail. Bithniah steered the catamaran straight onto the bank, which rose gently from the river, up onto the grass. Many hands among the crowd on the bank seized the boat and drew its hulls entirely onto the land. Yeshua finished furling the sail, and he and the woman came down onto the grass.
The three newcomers were surrounded by men and women eager to get answers to their questions. Yeshua and Bithniah spoke English, but with a heavy accent that made them unintelligible to anybody unused to them. Mix barely started a sentence before he was interrupted by other interrogators. In a few minutes, he was rescued. Some men dressed in leather cuirasses and helmets, 17th-century style, arrived. They were soldiers sent by Stafford to bring Mix and his friends to the Council Hall. Mix glanced at the sun, which was about to touch the tip of the mountains.
“I’m hungry. Couldn’t we wait until we charged our buckets?”
He gestured at the mushroom-shaped stone structure, six feet high and several hundred broad, that stood a few feet from the river’s edge. The gray cylinders of the others were inserted in the depressions on the surface.
“Buckets?” said the sergeant. “We call them copias, stranger. Short for cornucopia. Give me your copias. We will charge them for you, and you can fill your bellies after Stafford’s seen you.”
