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"Light!" he screamed.
Aton, somewhere, was crying, whimpering horribly like a terribly frightened child. "Stars - all the Stars - we didn't know at all. We didn't know anything. We thought six stars in a universe is something the Stars didn't notice is Darkness forever and ever and ever and the walls are breaking in and we didn't know we couldn't know and anything - "
Someone clawed at the torch, and it fell and snuffed out. In the instant, the awful splendor of the indifferent Stars leaped nearer to them.
On the horizon outside the window, in the direction of Saro City, a crimson glow began growing, strengthening in brightness, that was not the glow of a sun.
The long night had come again.
In 1948, I woke up one morning to read in the New York Times that Street amp; Smith Publications had discontinued all its pulp magazines.
Since Astounding Science Fiction was one of the Street amp; Smith pulps, everything went black before my eyes. You see, during the six-year period from 1943 to 1948 inclusive, I had sold and published thirteen science fiction stories, every single one of them to Astounding. During that period I had labored constantly with the feeling that I was not a writer at all, but merely a person who happened to click it off with one particular market, and that if anything happened to Astounding or to Mr. Campbell, its editor, I was through.
With great difficulty I finished the article and found, near the end, the utterly casual statement (almost as an afterthought) that Astounding was the one exception. It was the only pulp magazine Street amp; Smith was going to retain.
I was retrieved, but I still felt in a most fragile situation. Something might still happen to either Astounding or to Mr. Campbell. (Nothing did! At least so far! At this moment of writing, more than twenty years after that article, Astounding still flourishes, although it has a different publisher and has changed its name to Analog. And the durable Mr. Campbell is still its editor.)
I sold four more stories to Astounding in 1949 and 1950 before breaking the string. Then, in 1950, a new science fiction magazine came into sudden, vigorous life under the energetic leadership of its editor, Horace L. Gold.
Mr. Gold searched strenuously for stories while the new magazine was being formed and he asked me if I would submit some. I hesitated, for I was not at all sure that Mr. Gold would like them and I was wondering whether I could bear rejections that would serve as "proof" that I was not a real writer but only a one-editor author.
Mr. Gold was, however, persuasive. I wrote two stories and he took them both. The first story, I felt, might have been a forced sale; he needed it for the maiden issue in a big hurry. The second story, which appeared in the second issue, did not have to be bought, it seemed to me. I accepted the sale as deserved and a more-than-seven-year agony of self-doubt was relieved. It is this second story which follows.
But one thing-editors have the frequent urge to change the titles of stories. Heaven knows why! Some editors have it worse than others and Mr. Gold had a rather acute case.
My own title for this story was "Green Patches" for reasons that will seem perfectly clear when you read the story. For some obscure reason, Mr. Gold didn't like it and when the story appeared, it bore the name "Misbegotten Missionary." Except for the alliteration, I could see no reason why this new title should appeal to any rational person.
So I am seizing the opportunity now to change the title back to what it had been. I don't think I'm being unduly hasty in doing so. I have been waiting eighteen years for a chance.
First appearance-Galaxy Science Fiction, November 1950, under the title "Misbegotten Missionary." Copyright, 1950, by World Editions, Inc.
Green Patches
He had slipped aboard the ship! There had been dozens waiting outside the energy barrier when it had seemed that waiting would do no good. Then the barrier had faltered for a matter of two minutes (which showed the superiority of unified organisms over life fragments) and he was across.
None of the others had been able to move quickly enough to take advantage of the break, but that didn't matter. All alone, he was enough. No others were necessary.
And the thought faded out of satisfaction and into loneliness. It was a terribly unhappy and u
It increased his sympathy for the aliens. Now that he experienced fragmentation himself, he could feel, as though from a distance, the terrible isolation that made them so afraid. It was fear born of that isolation that dictated their actions. What but the insane fear of their condition could have caused them to blast an area, one mile in diameter, into dull-red heat before landing their ship? Even the organized life ten feet deep in the soil had been destroyed in the blast.
He engaged reception, listening eagerly, letting the alien thought saturate him. He enjoyed the touch of life upon his consciousness. He would have to ration that enjoyment. He must not forget himself.
But it could do no harm to listen to thoughts. Some of the fragments of life on the ship thought quite clearly, considering that they were such primitive, incomplete creatures. Their thoughts were like tiny bells.
Roger Olde
Jerry Thorn hated dramatics and didn't look up. They were still maneuvering in the stratosphere of Saybrook's Planet and he preferred to watch the panel dials. He said, "No reason to feel contaminated. Nothing happened."
"I hope not," said Olde
"Why be nervous, then?"
"I don't know. I wish the barrier hadn't broken down."
"Who doesn't? It was an accident."
"I wonder." Olde
"All right. People are stupid."
"Not that stupid. I hung around when the Old Man was checking into the matter. None of them had reasonable excuses. The armor-baking circuits, which were draining off two thousand watts, had been put into the barrier line. They'd been using the second subsidiaries for a week. Why not this time? They couldn't give any reason."
"Can you?"
Olde
Thorn's eyes lifted and met those of the other levelly. "I wouldn't repeat that to anyone else. The barrier was down only two minutes. If anything had happened, if even a spear of grass had drifted across it would have shown up in our bacteria cultures within half an hour, in the fruit-fly colonies in a matter of days. Before we got back it would show up in the hamsters, the rabbits, maybe the goats. Just get it through your head, Olde
Olde
He disengaged his reception centers and let the thoughts flow past him unperceived. These life fragments were not important, in any case, since they were not fitted for the continuation of life. Even as fragments, they were incomplete.