The Best of Bova: Volume III, page 1
part #3 of Best of Bova Series
The Best of Bova, Volume III
Ben Bova
Volume #3 of 3 of the very best of Ben Bova, a grandmaster of science fiction storytelling. These stories span the five decades of Bova’s incandescent career.
Here are tales of star-faring adventure, peril, and drama. Here are journeys into the mind-bending landscapes of virtual worlds and alternate realities. Here you’ll also find stories of humanity’s astounding future on Earth, on Mars and in the Solar System beyond—stories that always get the science right. And Bova’s gathering of deeply realized, totally human characters are the heroic, brave, tricky, sometimes dastardly engineers, astronauts, corporate magnates, politicians, and scientists who will make these futures possible—and those who often find that the problems of tomorrow are always linked to human values, and human failings, that are as timeless as the stars.
Cover Art by Adam Burn
THE BEST OF BOVA: VOLUME III
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2017 by Ben Bova
Introduction © 2017 by Ben Bova; “Sepulcher” first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction © November 1992; “The Man Who . . .” first published in Maxwell’s Demons © September 1978; “Conspiracy Theory” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © April 1993; “The Great Moon Hoax” first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction © September 1996; “Build Me a Mountain” first published in 2020 Vision © February 1974; “Crisis of the Month” first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction © March 1988; “Free Enterprise” first published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact © February 1984; “Vision” first published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact © January 1980; “Moon Race” first published in Jim Baen’s Universe © December 2008; “Scheherazade and the Storytellers” first published in Gateways © July 2010; “Nuclear Autumn” first published in Far Frontiers © April 1985; “Lower the River” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © June 1997; “The Café Coup” first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction © September 1997; “Remember, Caesar” first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction © March 1998; “Life as We Know It” first published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction © September 1995; “Delta Vee” first published in Twice Seven © August 1998; “We’ll Always Have Paris” first published in New Frontiers © July 2014; “The Babe, the Iron Horse, and Mr. McGillicuddy” by Ben Bova and Rick Wilber, first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction © March 1997; “Greenhouse Chill” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © January 2000; “Brothers” first published in In the Field of Fire © February 1987; “Interdepartmental Memorandum” first published in Challenges © July 1993; “World War 4.5” first published in Challenges © July 1993; “Sam Below Par” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © July 2012; “High Jump” first published in Amazing Stories © Summer 2000; “The Question” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © January 1998; “Waterbot” first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact © June 2008; “Duel in the Somme” first published in Apex Science Fiction & Horror Digest © June 2006; “Bloodless Victory” first published in New Frontiers: A Collection of Tales About the Past, the Present, and the Future © July 2014; “Mars Farts” first published in Free Stories © March 2013; “A Pale Blue Dot” first published in New Frontiers: A Collection of Tales About the Past, the Present, and the Future © July 2014; “Stars, Won’t You Hide Me?” first published in Worlds of Tomorrow © January 1966; “Monster Slayer” first published in Absolute Magnitude & Aboriginal Science Fiction © June 2003.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4814-8259-2
eISBN: 978-1-62579-603-5
Cover Art by Adam Burn
First Baen printing August 2017
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Electronic version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
Contents
INTRODUCTION
SEPULCHER
THE MAN WHO. . .
CONSPIRACY THEORY
THE GREAT MOON HOAX OR A PRINCESS OF MARS
BUILD ME A MOUNTAIN
CRISIS OF THE MONTH
FREE ENTERPRISE
VISION
MOON RACE
SCHEHERAZADE AND THE STORYTELLERS
NUCLEAR AUTUMN
LOWER THE RIVER
THE CAFÉ COUP
REMEMBER, CAESAR
LIFE AS WE KNOW IT
DELTA VEE
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS
THE BABE, THE IRON HORSE, AND MR. McGILLICUDDY
GREENHOUSE CHILL
BROTHERS
INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMORANDUM
WORLD WAR 4.5
SAM BELOW PAR
HIGH JUMP
THE QUESTION
WATERBOT
DUEL IN THE SOMME
BLOODLESS VICTORY
MARS FARTS
A PALE BLUE DOT
STARS, WON’T YOU HIDE ME?
MONSTER SLAYER
To Toni and Tony and the radiant,
resplendent, romantic Rashida.
And to Lloyd McDaniel,
without whose unstinting help this book
would never have seen the light of day.
The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.
—George Bernard Shaw
INTRODUCTION
Here it is, a lifetime’s work in three volumes containing eighty stories published over fifty-four years, from 1960 to 2014. They range from the Baghdad of The Thousand Nights and a Night to the eventual end of the entire universe, from the green hills of Earth to the fiery surface of a dying star, from corporate board rooms to a baseball field in heaven. With plenty of stops in between.
Re-reading these stories—some of them for the first time in decades—I am struck with a bitter-sweet sadness, recalling friends who have died along the way, passions and problems that drove the invention of the various tales. It’s as if I’m a ghost visiting departed scenes, people whom I have loved, all gone now.
Yet they live on, in these stories, and perhaps that is the real reason why human beings create works of fiction: they are monuments to days gone by, memories of men and women who have been dear to us—or visions of what tomorrow may bring.
Every human society has had its storytellers. There is a fundamental need in the human psyche to produce tales that try to show who we truly are, and why we do the things we do.
Most of the stories in this collection are science fiction: that is, the stories involve some aspect of future science or technology that is so basic to the tale that if that element were removed, the story would collapse.
To me, science fiction is the literature of our modern society. Humankind depends on science and technology for its survival, and has been doing so since our earliest ancestors faced saber-toothed cats. We do not grow fangs or wings, we create tools. Tool-making—technology—is the way we deal with the often-hostile world in which we live.
Over the past few centuries, scientific studies of our world have led to vastly improved technologies, better tools with which to make ourselves healthier, richer and more free. Science fiction is the literature that speaks to this.
Every organism on Earth is struggling to stay alive, to have offspring, to enlarge its ecological niche as widely as possible. We humans have succeeded so well at that quest that there are more than seven billion of us on this planet, and we are driving many, many of our fellow creatures into extinction.
The stories in this collection examine various aspects of humankind’s current and future predicaments. Some of the tales are somewhat dated: written half a century ago, they deal with problems that we have already solved, or bypassed. Many of the stories tell of the human race’s drive to expand its habitat—its ecological niche—beyond the limits of planet Earth. Many deal with our interactions with our machines, which are becoming more intelligent with every generation.
The people in these stories include heroes and heels, lovers and loners, visionaries and the smugly blind.
I hope you enjoy their struggles.
—Ben Bova
Naples, Florida
November 2014
SEPULCHER
I believe it was Michelangelo (or maybe Rodin?) who said that the finished sculpture is waiting inside the raw stone; the sculptor’s task is to remove the overlying layers and reveal the sculpture to our waiting eyes.
It works that way for writing fiction, as well. The finished story is there, deep inside the writer’s mind. The physical labor of writing is the task of revealing the story in its finished form.
When I first wrote “Sepulcher” I had no idea it was part of the Grand Tour. The billionaire who brought Elverda Apacheta to the asteroid and its alien artifact was not named Martin Humphries. Only years afterward did I under
“I was a soldier,” he said. “Now I am a priest. You may call me Dorn.”
Elverda Apacheta could not help staring at him. She had seen cyborgs before, but this . . . person seemed more machine than man. She felt a chill ripple of contempt along her veins. How could a human being allow his body to be disfigured so?
He was not tall; Elverda herself stood several centimeters taller than he. His shoulders were quite broad, though; his torso thick and solid. The left side of his face was engraved metal, as was the entire top of his head: Like a skullcap made of finest etched steel.
Dorn’s left hand was prosthetic. He made no attempt to disguise it. Beneath the rough fabric of his shabby tunic and threadbare trousers, how much more of him was metal and electrical machinery? Tattered though his clothing was, his calf-length boots were polished to a high gloss.
“A priest?” asked Martin Humphries. “Of what church? What order?”
The half of Dorn’s lips that could move made a slight curl. A smile or a sneer, Elverda could not tell.
“I will show you to your quarters,” said Dorn. His voice was a low rumble, as if it came from the belly of a beast. It echoed faintly off the walls of rough-hewn rock.
Humphries looked briefly surprised. He was not accustomed to having his questions ignored. Elverda watched his face. Humphries was as handsome as cosmetic surgery could make a person appear: chiselled features, earnest sky-blue eyes, straight of spine, long of limb, athletically flat midsection. Yet there was a faint smell of corruption about him, Elverda thought. As if he were dead inside and already beginning to rot.
The tension between the two men seemed to drain the energy from Elverda’s aged body. “It has been a long journey,” she said. “I am very tired. I would welcome a hot shower and a long nap.”
“Before you see it?” Humphries snapped.
“It has taken us months to get here. We can wait a few hours more.” Inwardly she marveled at her own words. Once she would have been all fiery excitement. Have the years taught you patience? No, she realized. Only weariness.
“Not me!” Humphries said. Turning to Dorn, “Take me to it now. I’ve waited long enough. I want to see it now.”
Dorn’s eyes, one as brown as Elverda’s own, the other a red electronic glow, regarded Humphries for a lengthening moment.
“Well?” Humphries demanded.
“I am afraid, sir, that the chamber is sealed for the next twelve hours. It will be imposs—”
“Sealed? By whom? On whose authority?”
“The chamber is self-controlled. Whoever made the artifact installed the controls, as well.”
“No one told me about that,” said Humphries.
Dorn replied, “Your quarters are down this corridor.”
He turned almost like a solid block of metal, shoulders and hips together, head unmoving on those wide shoulders, and started down the central corridor. Elverda fell in step alongside his metal half, still angered at his self-desecration. Yet despite herself, she thought of what a challenge it would be to sculpt him. If I were younger, she told herself. If I were not so close to death. Human and inhuman, all in one strangely fierce figure.
Humphries came up on Dorn’s other side, his face red with barely-suppressed anger.
They walked down the corridor in silence, Humphries’s weighted shoes clicking against the uneven rock floor. Dorn’s boots made hardly any noise at all. Half machine he may be, Elverda thought, but once in motion he moves like a panther.
The asteroid’s inherent gravity was so slight that Humphries needed the weighted footgear to keep himself from stumbling ridiculously. Elverda, who had spent most of her long life in low-gravity environments, felt completely at home. The corridor they were walking through was actually a tunnel, shadowy and mysterious, or perhaps a natural chimney vented through the rocky body by escaping gases eons ago when the asteroid was still molten. Now it was cold, chill enough to make Elverda shudder. The rough ceiling was so low she wanted to stoop, even though the rational side of her mind knew it was not necessary.
Soon, though, the walls smoothed out and the ceiling grew higher. Humans had extended the tunnel, squaring it with laser precision. Doors lined both walls now and the ceiling glowed with glareless, shadowless light. Still she hugged herself against the chill that the others did not seem to notice.
They stopped at a wide double door. Dorn tapped out the entrance code on the panel set into the wall and the doors slid open.
“Your quarters, sir,” he said to Humphries. “You may, of course, change the privacy code to suit yourself.”
Humphries gave a curt nod and strode through the open doorway. Elverda got a glimpse of a spacious suite, carpeting on the floor, and hologram windows on the walls.
Humphries turned in the doorway to face them. “I expect you to call for me in twelve hours,” he said to Dorn, his voice hard.
“Eleven hours and fifty-seven minutes,” Dorn replied.
Humphries’s nostrils flared and he slid the double doors shut.
“This way.” Dorn gestured with his human hand. “I’m afraid your quarters are not as sumptuous as Mr. Humphries’s.”
Elverda said, “I am his guest. He is paying all the bills.”
“You are a great artist. I have heard of you.”
“Thank you.”
“For the truth? That is not necessary.”
I was a great artist, Elverda said to herself. Once. Long ago. Now I am an old woman waiting for death.
Aloud, she asked, “Have you seen my work?”
Dorn’s voice grew heavier. “Only holograms. Once I set out to see The Rememberer for myself, but—other matters intervened.”
“You were a soldier then?”
“Yes. I have only been a priest since coming to this place.”
Elverda wanted to ask him more, but Dorn stopped before a blank door and opened it for her. For an instant she thought he was going to reach for her with his prosthetic hand. She shrank away from him.
“I will call for you in eleven hours and fifty-six minutes,” he said, as if he had not noticed her revulsion.
“Thank you.”
He turned away, like a machine pivoting.
“Wait,” Elverda called. “Please. . . . How many others are here? Everything seems so quiet.”
“There are no others. Only the three of us.”
“But—”
“I am in charge of the security brigade. I ordered the others of my command to go back to our spacecraft and wait there.”
“And the scientists? The prospector family that found this asteroid?”
“They are in Mr. Humphries’s spacecraft, the one you arrived in,” said Dorn. “Under the protection of my brigade.”
Elverda looked into his eyes. Whatever burned in them, she could not fathom.
“Then we are alone here?”
Dorn nodded solemnly. “You and me—and Mr. Humphries, who pays all the bills.” The human half of his face remained as immobile as the metal. Elverda could not tell if he was trying to be humorous or bitter.
“Thank you,” she said. He turned away and she closed the door.
Her quarters consisted of a single room, comfortably warm but hardly larger than the compartment on the ship they had come in. Elverda saw that her meager travel bag was already sitting on the bed, her worn old drawing computer resting in its travel-smudged case on the desk. Elverda stared at the computer case as if it were accusing her. I should have left it at home, she thought. I will never use it again.
A small utility robot, hardly more than a glistening drum of metal and six gleaming arms folded like a praying mantis’s, stood mutely in the farthest corner. Elverda stared at it. At least it was entirely a machine; not a self-mutilated human being. To take the most beautiful form in the universe and turn it into a hybrid mechanism, a travesty of humanity. Why did he do it? So he could be a better soldier? A more efficient killing machine?
