C. M. Kornbluth, page 1
30-03-2023
From The Back Cover:
"The present collection – the first ever published of his shorter fiction – includes both one of his earliest stories (“Thirteen O’Clock”) and a brand new novelette “Gomez,” which appears here in print for the first time. Told with excitement and power, these stories display the delightfully ironic imagination of a writer who is master of his craft."
by C. M. Kornbluth
TAKEOFF
THE SYNDIC
THE EXPLORERS
with Frederik Pohl
THE SPACE MERCHANTS
SEARCH THE SKY
THIS IS AN ORIGINAL COLLECTION—NOT A REPRINT
PUBLISHED BY BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.
The
Explorers
SHORT STORIES
by C. M. KORNBLUTH
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Contents:-
Foreword
Gomez
The Mindworm
THE ROCKET OF 1955
The Altar at Midnight
Thirteen O'Clock
The Goodly Creatures
Friend to Man
With These Hands
That Share of Glory
Printing History:
First edition: August, 1954
Second edition: March, 1963
"The Mindworm" and "The Rocket of 1955" appeared in Worlds Beyond, Copyright 1950 and 1951 respectively by Hfllman Periodicals, Inc.; "With These Hands" and "The Altar at Midnight" appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, Copyright 1951 and 1952 respectively by Galaxy Publishing Corporation; "Thirteen O'clock" appeared in Stirring Science Stories, Copyright 1941 by Albing Publications; "The Goodly Creatures" appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Copyright 1952 by Fantasy House, Inc.; "Friend of Man" appeared in 10 Story Fantasy, Copyright 1951 by Avon Periodicals, Inc.; "That Share of Glory" appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, Copyright 1952 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.©
COPYRIGHT ©, 1954, BY C. M. KORNBLUTH
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 54-9671
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.
101 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 3, N. Y.
To my parents,
Samuel and Deborah Kornbluth
Foreword
BY FREDERIK POHL
IN THE beginning there was S. D. Gottesman. Gottesman was born in the early stages of World War II, and science-fiction readers liked him very much. He became a fixture in half-a-dozen magazines of the time—some of them no longer with us—and shortly was joined by a number of other by-lines, attached to much the same sort of wry and colorful story. There was Cecil Corwin and Ganriel Barclay and Walter C. Davies and a good many more, and if the stories seemed closely related to each other, it was easy enough to understand. For behind these pen-names—eighteen or nineteen of them—stood a single bland-faced, sharp-tongued teenager, whose real name was Cyril Kornbluth.
How many stories did Kornbluth write before he was old enough to vote? Legend says dozens—but legend is wrong, for in truth the number was in the scores. There were magazines which, for the total length of their careers, published more words originally set on paper by Kornbluth than by all their other contributors combined. But all of the stories were masked; it was not until after the war that Kornbluth's own name first appeared in a magazine . . . and, at that, the magazines were detective stories, not science fiction.
But then Kornbluth came back to the fold. Casting the pseudonymous chrysalids off, he settled down to serious work. He began writing wonderful little short stories—like "The Mindworm" and "Friend to Man." That was easy enough, so he raised his sights to novelettes; and the extra length allowed him extra scope to delve into the whole complex structure of the future societies he envisioned. "That Share of Glory" is an example—a detailed and plausible and, once you look at it closely, a frighteningly clear look into Kornbluth's private crystal ball. By then he had hit his stride; and the results have delighted hundreds of thousands of readers. Novels—brilliant ones—like the syndic and takeoff; short stories and novelettes besides. It is probably untrue that science-fiction magazines would have suspended publication if there had been no Kornbluth—but they would not have been nearly as much fun. Kornbluth is a very special favorite of my own—as anyone might come to suspect from the fact that he and I have collaborated on many stories together, shorts and novelettes in the old days, more recently such novels as the space merchants, search the sky, and gladiator-at-law. But it is no personal prejudice, I vow, that makes me say that Kornbluth the Writer is something worth watching. For brilliant conceptions and literate use of words, for exciting imagination and characters to make it real, the science-fiction field is fortunate in many talented writers—but none better than he.
—Frederik Pohl
Gomez
Now that I'm a cranky, constipated old man I can afford to say that the younger generation of scientists makes me sick to my stomach. Short-order fry cooks of destruction, they hear through the little window the dim order: "Atom bomb rare, with cobalt sixty!" and sing it back and rattle their stinking skillets and sling the deadly hash—just what the customer ordered, with never a notion invading their smug, too-heated havens that there's a small matter of right and wrong that takes precedence even over their haute cuisine.
There used to be a slew of them who yelled to high heaven about it. Weiner, Urey, Szilard, Morrison—dead now, and worse. Unfashionable. The greatest of them you have never heard of. Admiral MacDonald never did clear the story. He was Julio Gomez, and his story was cleared yesterday by a fellow my Jewish friends call Malach Hamovis, the Hovering Angel of Death. A black-bordered letter from Rosa advised me that Malach Hamovis had come in on runway six with his flaps down and picked up Julio at the age of thirty-nine. Pneumonia.
"But," Rosa painfully wrote, "Julio would want you to know he died not too unhappy, after a good though short life with much of satisfaction . . ."
I think it will give him some more satisfaction, wherever he is, to know that his story at last is getting told.
It started twenty-two years ago with a routine assignment on a crisp October morning. I had an appointment with Dr. Sugarman, the head of the physics department at the University. It was the umpth anniversary of something or other—first atomic pile, the test A-bomb, Nagasaki—I don't remember what, and the Sunday editor was putting together a page on it. My job was to interview the three or four University people who were Manhattan District grads.
I found Sugarman in his office at the top of the modest physics building's square gothic tower, brooding through a pointed-arch window at the bright autumn sky. He was a tubby, jowly little fellow. I'd been seeing him around for a couple of years at testimonial banquets and press conferences, but I didn't expect him to remember me. He did, though, and even got the name right.
"Mr. Vilchek?" he beamed. "From the Tribune?"
"That's right, Dr. Sugarman. How are you?"
"Fine; fine. Sit down, please. Well, what shall we talk about?"
"Well, Dr. Sugarman, I'd like to have your ideas on the really fundamental issues of atomic energy, A-bomb control and so on. What in your opinion is the single most important factor in these problems?"
His eyes twinkled; he was going to surprise me. "Education!" he said, and leaned back waiting for me to register shock.
I registered. "That's certainly a different approach, doctor. How do you mean that, exactly?"
He said impressively: "Education—technical education—is the key to the underlying issues of our time. I am deeply concerned over the unawareness of the general public to the meaning and accomplishments of science. People underrate me—underrate science, that is —because they do not understand science. Let me show you something." He rummaged for a moment through papers on his desk and handed me a sheet of lined tablet paper covered with chicken-track handwriting. "A letter I got," he said. I squinted at the penciled scrawl and read:
October 12
Esteemed Sir:
Beg to introduce self to you the atomic Scientist as a youth 17 working with diligence to perfect self in Mathematical Physics. The knowledge of English is imperfect since am in New-York 1 year only from Puerto Rico and due to Father and Mother poverty must wash the dishes in the restaurant. So es teemed sir excuse imperfect English which will better.
I hesitate intruding your valuable Scientist time but hope you sometime spare minutes for diligents such as I. My difficulty is with neutron cross-section absorptionof boron steel in Reactor which theory I am working out Breeder reactors demand
for boron steel, compared with neutron cross-section absorption of
for any Concrete with which I familiarize myself. Whence arises relationship
indicating only a fourfold breeder gain. Intuitively I dissatisfy with this gain and beg to intrude your time to ask wherein I neglect. With the most sincere thanks.
J. Gomez
% Porto Bello Lunchroom
124th St. & St. Nicholas Ave.
New-York, New-York
I laughed and told Dr. Sugarman appreciatively: "That's a good one. I wish our cranks kept in touch with us by mail, but they don't. In the newspaper business they come in-and demand to see the editor. Could I use it, by the way? The readers ought to get a boot out of it."
He hesitated and said: "All right—if you don't use my name. Just say 'a prominent physicist.' I didn't think it was too funny myself though, but I see your point, of course. The boy may
And so on and so on.
I went back to the office and wrote the interview in twenty minutes. It took me longer than that to talk the Sunday editor into running the Gomez letter in a box on the atom-anniversary page, but he finally saw it my way. I had to retype it. If I'd just sent the letter down to the composing room as was, we would have had a strike on our hands.
On Sunday morning, at a quarter past six, I woke up to the tune of fists thundering on my hotel-room door. I found my slippers and bathrobe-and lurched Wearily across the room. They didn't wait for me to unlatch. The door opened. I saw one of the hotel clerks, the Sunday editor, a frosty-faced old man, and three hard-faced, hard-eyed young men. The hotel clerk mumbled and retreated and the others moved in. "Chief," I asked the Sunday editor hazily, "what's going—?"
A hard-faced young man was standing with his back to the door; another was standing with his back to the window and the third was blocking the bathroom door. The icy old man interrupted me with a crisp authoritative question snapped at the editor. "You identify this man as Vilchek?"
The editor nodded.
"Search him," snapped the old man. The fellow standing guard at the window slipped up and frisked me for weapons while I sputtered incoherently and the Sunday editor avoided my eye.
When the search was over the frosty-faced old boy said to me: "I am Rear Admiral MacDonald, Mr. Vilchek. I'm here in my capacity as deputy director of the Office of Security and Intelligence, U. S. Atomic Energy Commission. Did you write this?" He thrust a newspaper clipping at my face.
I read, blearily:
WHAT'S SO TOUGH ABOUT A-SCIENCE?
TEENAGE POT-WASHER DOESN'T KNOW
A letter received recently by a prominent local atomic scientist points up Dr. Sugarman's complaint (see adjoining column) that the public does not appreciate how hard a physicist works. The text, complete with "mathematics" follows:
Esteemed Sir:
Beg to introduce self to you the Atomic Scientist as youth 17 working—
"Yes," I told the admiral. "I wrote it, except for the headline. What about it?"
He snapped: "The letter is purportedly from a New York youth seeking information, yet there is no address for him given. Why is that?"
I said patiently: "I left it off when I copied it for the composing room. That's Trib style on readers' letters. What is all this about?"
He ignored the question and asked: "Where is the purported original of the letter?"
I thought hard and told him: "I think I stuck it in my pants pocket. I'll get it—" I started for the chair with my suit draped over it.
"Hold it, mister!" said the young man at the bathroom door. I held it and he proceeded to go through the pockets of the suit. He found the Gomez letter in the inside breast pocket of the coat and passed it to the admiral. The old man compared it, word for word, with the clipping and then put them both in his pocket.
"I want to thank you for your cooperation," he said coldly to me and the Sunday editor. "I caution you not to discuss, and above all not to publish, any account of this incident. The national security is involved in the highest degree. Good day."
He and his boys started for the door, and the Sunday editor came to life. "Admiral," he said, "this is going to be on the front page of tomorrow's Trib."
The admiral went white. After a long pause he said: "You are aware that this country may be plunged, into global war at any moment. That American boys are dying every day in border skirmishes. Is it to protect civilians like you who won't obey a reasonable request affecting security?"
The Sunday editor took a seat on the edge of my rumpled bed and lit a cigarette. "I know all that, admiral," he said. "I also know that this is a free country and how to keep it that way. Pitiless light on incidents like this of illegal search and seizure."
The admiral said: "I personally assure you, on my honor as an officer, that you would be doing the country a grave disservice by publishing an account of this."
The Sunday editor said mildly: "Your honor as an officer. You broke into this room without a search warrant. Don't you realize that's against the law? And I saw your boy ready to shoot when Vilchek started for that chair." I began to sweat a little at that, but the admiral was sweating harder.
With an effort he said: "I should apologize for the abruptness and discourtesy with which I've treated you. I do apologize. My only excuse is that, as I've said, this is a crash-priority matter. May I have your assurance that you gentlemen will keep silent?"
"On one condition," said the Sunday editor. "I want the Trib to have an exclusive on the Gomez story. I want Mr. Vilchek to cover it, with your full cooperation. In return, we'll hold it for your release and submit it to your security censorship."
"It's a deal," said the admiral, sourly. He seemed to realize suddenly that the Sunday editor had been figuring on such a deal all along.
On the plane for New York, the admiral filled me in. He was precise and unhappy, determined to make the best of a bad job. "I was awakened at three this morning by a phone call from the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission. He had been awakened by a call from Dr. Monroe of the Scientific Advisory Committee. Dr. Monroe had been up late working and sent out for the Sunday Tribune to read before going to sleep. He saw the Gomez letter and went off like a sixteen-inch rifle. The neutron cross-section absorption relationship expressed in it happens to be, Mr. Vilchek, his own work. It also happens to be one of the nation's most closely guarded—er—atomic secrets. Presumably this Gomez stumbled on it somehow, as a janitor or something of the sort, and is feeding his ego by pretending to be an atomic scientist."
I scratched my unshaved jaw. "Admiral," I said, "you wouldn't kid me? How can three equations be a top atomic secret?"
The admiral hesitated. "All I can tell you," he said slowly, "is that breeder reactors are involved."
"But the letter said that. You mean this Gomez not only swiped the equations but knew what they were about?"
The admiral said grimly: "Somebody has been incredibly lax. It would be worth many divisions to the Soviet for their man Kapitza to see those equations—and realize that they are valid."
He left me to chew that one over for a while as the plane droned over New Jersey. Finally the pilot called back: "E.T.A. five minutes, sir. We have landing priority at Newark."
"Good," said the admiral. "Signal for a civilian-type car to pick us up without loss of time."
"Civilian," I said.
"Of course civilian!" he snapped. "That's the hell of it. Above all we must not arouse suspicion that there is anything special or unusual about this Gomez or his letter. Copies of the Tribune are on their way to the Soviet now as a matter of routine—they take all American papers and magazines they can get. If we tried to stop shipment of Tribunes that would be an immediate giveaway that there was something of importance going on."
We landed and the five of us got into a late-model car, neither drab nor flashy. One of the admiral's young men relieved the driver, a corporal with Signal Corps insignia. There wasn't much talk during the drive from Newark to Spanish Harlem, New York. Just once the admiral lit a cigarette, but he flicked it through the window after a couple of nervous puffs.
The Porto Bello Lunchroom was a store-front restaurant in the middle of a shabby tenement block. Wide-eyed, graceful, skinny little kids stared as our car parked in front of it and then converged on us purposefully. "Watch your car, mister?" they begged. The admiral surprised them—and me—with a flood of Spanish that sent the little extortionists scattering back to their stickball game in the street and their potsy layouts chalked on the sidewalks.
