The Best Science Fiction of E. - E. C. Tubb, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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The Best Science Fiction Of E. C. Tubb
by E. C. Tubb
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Copyright (c)2003 by E. C. Tubb. All rights reserved
Wildside Press
www.wildsidepress.com
Science Fiction
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original
purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk,
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*THE BEST SCIENCE FICTION OF E. C. TUBB*
Published by:
Wildside Press
P.O. Box 301
Holicong, PA 18928
www.wildsidepress.com
Copyright (C) 2003 by E. C. Tubb. All rights reserved.
Cover painting by Sydney Jordan
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*Acknowledgements:*
"Fallen Angel" first published in _Fantasy Annual #3_ in 1999.
"Death-wish" first published in _Authentic Science Fiction_ in 1955. "The Ming
Vase" first published in _Analog Science Fiction -- Science Fact_ in 1963.
"The Beatific Smile" first published in _Nebula Science Fiction_ in 1958.
"When he Died" first published in _Authentic Science Fiction_ in 1956. "Read
Me This Riddle" first published in _New Writings in SF #30_ in 1978. "Logic"
first published in _Authentic Science Fiction_ in 1954. "Vigil" first
published in _Galaxy Science Fiction_ in 1956. "J is for Jeanne" first
published in _New Worlds SF_ in 1965. "Legal Eagle" first published in
_Authentic Science Fiction_ in 1956. "There's No Tomorrow" first published in
_Worlds of Fantasy #7_ in 1952. "Time to Kill" first published in _Galaxy
Science Fiction_ in 1956. "The Seekers" first published in _New Writings in SF
#6_ in 1965. "The Last Day of Summer" first published in _Science Fantasy_ in
1955. "Evane" first published in _New Writings in SF #22_ in 1973. "Time and
Again" first published in _Fantasy Annual #1_ in 1997.
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No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical,
electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the
copyright holder. For more information, contact Wildside Press.
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*CONTENTS*
NOTE: Each section is preceded by a line of the pattern CH000, CH001,
etc. You may use your reader's search function to locate section.
CH000 *FALLEN ANGEL*
CH001 *DEATH-WISH*
CH002 *THE MING VASE*
CH003 *THE BEATIFIC SMILE*
CH004 *WHEN HE DIED*
Page 1
 CH005 *READ ME THIS RIDDLE*
CH006 *LOGIC*
CH007 *VIGIL*
CH008 *J IS FOR JEANNE*
CH009 *LEGAL EAGLE*
CH010 *THERE'S NO TOMORROW*
CH011 *TIME TO KILL*
CH012 *THE SEEKERS*
CH013 *THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER*
CH014 *EVANE*
CH015 *TIME AND AGAIN*
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CH000
*FALLEN ANGEL*
A FLASH of rose, a scent, a voice which echoed in the hollows of his
mind and, suddenly, he was alive again. Fully alive, really alive, not lying
on a slab while instruments probed and delved, measured and indexed, twisted
and tested. Not writhing in torment as muscle and nerve and sinew were
strained to the limits of endurance and then pushed further beyond. Alive and
well and soon to be free. Free!
The concept was intoxicating as the drink and drugs he had once known
which had rotted his brain and body in return for a brief euphoria. He sat and
thought about it in the place where he was kept. A mist swirled about the area
molding itself into the illusion that he sat on a bench of stone, in a chamber
of stone scented with the perfume of hidden blooms. Soon now, he would see
real flowers, walk again in sunlight, feel the wind, the rain, the touch of
snow. To eat genuine food, talk to real people, forget what had happened if
forgetting was possible.
"It is," said the alien. "Most things are." He had appeared as he
always did, abruptly, seated, a tall, lean, white-haired man looking, in his
simple robe, like an ancient Greek philosopher. It was a facade. An illusion
to mask the true shape of the creature. "But no interference on our part will
be necessary," he continued. "Your race has a peculiar ability to ignore the
unpleasant. The defensive application of a highly selective memory."
"Yes," said Frank. He could believe it. Once he had seen the creature
as it really was. Now it was almost impossible to accept that such a thing
could actually exist. "I was told that I was to be released. Am I?"
"Of course, Mr. Engel. We do not lie." The classical features creased
into a smile. "You probably feared that we would eliminate you but we have no
reason for that. You may not realize it but we have much to thank you for. You
have been most co-operative. With your assistance we have gained much
knowledge of your world and we shall learn more. We are grateful."
Grateful! Would a fisherman talk that way to a creature he had hauled
from the water, cut open, looked at, sewn up and was ready to throw back into
the sea? Maybe if the fish could talk but would he give it a reward?
"It is our custom," said the alien. The words echoed without vibration,
a soft tingling impinging directly on the cortex. "Our ethics forbid us to
take without giving something in return. The device is one much used among us
for social convenience. It is an eraser. With it you can undo a mistake. Gain
the advantage of a second chance. Avoid unpleasant situations. You should find
it most useful."
"Sure," said Frank. "But -- " He broke off for the alien had gone, the
room, the swirling mist and walls of apparent stone. He still sat but the
bench was of wood. The air carried the scent of visible flowers. There was
sound; the sigh of wind, the rustle of leaves, the shouts of children at play.
And, all around, the bright warmth of a summer sun.
Summer? It had been winter when he'd been taken, cold, hungry, dying,
without a job, a home, a friend, a shred of hope. The way a man gets when the
money runs out and the drink and the drugs and nothing is left but hunger, the
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 pain of diseased lungs and the ravages of dissipation. He'd been a good
specimen for the aliens. Who would miss him? Who would believe him? Who would
he want to convince?
No one. He was cured and he knew it. No more addiction. No more
disease. A good chance to make a fresh start. He knew what needed to be done
and he had the alien's gift to help him do it.
He sat and looked at it, eyes narrowed against reflected sunshine.
Beside him a man stirred in his sleep smelling of staleness but human because
of it. Just one of the drifters who thronged the park. Across the graveled
path another bench held three others, two old, one a kid with a waxen face and
twitching hands. One of the men rose, stretched, headed down the path. Frank
ignored him, concentrating on the gift.
It was a ring, the band thick, wide, raised in one part, a prominence
that could be pressured by the impact of the adjoining finger. The jewel was a
large, domed, ruby-like stone striated with what could have been a diffraction
grating. Frank was a social failure but not an idiot and some things were
obvious. The ring was more than an ornament but just what he didn't know. The
alien hadn't explained. He examined it again, studying the protuberance. He
pressed it.
Nothing happened.
Nothing, that is. Aside from the fact that the man who had risen from
the facing bench and who had walked down the path was abruptly sitting on the
bench again. As Frank watched he rose, stretched and walked away. The stud on
the ring sank beneath the squeeze of his finger. Nothing happened. He waited,
tried again -- and the man was back on the bench. He rose, stretched, walked
down the path exactly as he had done twice before. This time Frank let him go.
He knew now what the alien had given him.
He leaned back filled with the wonder of it. An eraser, the alien had
said. A device for social convenience. A thing with which to undo a mistake
and to gain another chance. It was something you could need to use quickly,
easily, have close all the time. What could be more convenient than a ring? A
very special kind of ring. A neat device, he thought, looking at it. Compact,
ornamental, unobtrusive, probably everlasting.
A one-way time machine.
The main-line station housed a throng of travelers. Frank ignored them
all as he concentrated on the large digital clock. The figures read 18.02. He
activated the ring. The figures changed to 17.05. Fifty-seven seconds, the
same as twice before. He made more experiments. Activated the ring threw you
back in time, but you had to wait fifty-seven seconds before it could be
activated again. No accumulation. The stud could be kept depressed and there
would be an automatic activation. Nothing you carried less than fifty-seven
seconds in the past went back with you. It was all he needed to know.
The crossing lights were at red. Frank, distracted, stepped from the
kerb directly into the path of a heavy truck. Brakes screamed, a woman, a man.
A moment of panic then his finger closed and he was instantly back on the
sidewalk heading towards the crossing. He checked with his watch. Fifty-seven
seconds. Call it a minute. He paused, waited for the truck to pass, the lights
to change to green.
A minute.
Not long? Try holding your breath that long. Try resting your rear on a
hot stove for half that time. In a minute you can walk a hundred yards, run
almost a quarter of a mile, fall three. You can conceive, die, get married. A
minute is time enough for a lot of things.
Frank closed his hand and looked at the ring. Thinking. Take the
classical situation: A couple, the man old, the woman young. You greet them,
assume the woman is the old man's daughter, discover she is his wife. Loss of
equanimity, and the generation of embarrassment. So activate and go back in
time. Meet the couple again but now armed with knowledge. Politeness reigns.
In any society such a device would be in demand.
But not for soothing an old man's ego. Not just for that.
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 Not when he had no job, nowhere to live, an ache for luxury his belly
and a yen for the good life in his soul. He had drawn on the experience of
three decades of tough living to get a wristwatch and decent shoes and
clothing. But he still needed money.
A liquor store shone down the street, a bright cavern filled with
bottled dreams. Frank leaned close to the window, squinting against the
lights, staring inside and checking what he saw. The place seemed deserted,
the owner probably busy out back. A cash register stood on the counter flanked
by stacked cans. He waited, counting seconds. A minute and a half and no sign
of life. He activated, walked into the store, operated the cash register and
took out a thin sheaf of bills. He was almost at the door when the owner
appeared. A big, beefy man with a balding head and savage eyes. He came
charging from a room at the rear shouting and waving a baseball bat.
"Hold it you! Move and I'll smash your head in!"
He meant it. Frank squeezed the ring -- nothing happened. Nothing would
happen until the time was up. He had to stall.
"Now listen," he said. "It's not like it seems. It's a publicity stunt
see? Just for advertising. You'll -- "
"By God, the nerve of it!" The owner came closer, lifting the club,
snarling his hate. "A stinking thief walks in and robs the till, then gives
you a load of mouth. I'll give you mouth! I'll give you a damned sight more
than that!"
Frank squeezed his fingers keeping the stud depressed as he dived to
one side. The owner was fast. The club slammed against the edge of the door
then followed him down. He felt and heard the crack of bone as it slammed
against his knee. He rolled as it lifted for another blow -- and he was
leaning against the window the glass cool against his brow. He fought to
control his breath. He was safe his knee uninjured, the store seemingly
deserted.
Mopping sweat he felt the bloom of anger. The bastard had tried to kill
him. To smash in his skull for the sake of a little cash. He would be lounging
in his room, watching television, enjoying something to eat. He'd have a
gimmick rigged to the door to signal when anyone came in. That, and maybe a
mirror to watch the till. Nursing his club and aching to use it. The
blood-crazed slob! He had it coming!
Again he entered the empty store and opened the register but this time,
instead of heading for the door, snatched up a bottle and moved to the rear.
As the owner appeared he swung at the balding skull. The bottle shattered into
a mass of sparkling fragments mixed with a flood of wine, blood and spattered
brain. He dropped the neck and scooped up the club. The shape of a wallet
bulged the rear pocket of the dead man's jeans. He bent, dragged it free,
flipped it open and saw a wad of bills. Straightening he thrust it into a
pocket and strode towards the door. A looming shadow blocked the opening.
Quickly he rammed his foot against the panel.
"Sorry. We're closed."
"I want a drink. I gotta have a drink." The voice was a begging whine.
"I got money, see?" A hand lifted, waving a crumpled note. "Just a bottle of
something cheap."
A lush and close to desperation. Frank recognized the danger. To lock
him out was to invite curses, broken windows, unwanted attention. To let him
in was to give him a view of murder.
He activated the ring and was standing by the till cash in his hand.
Quickly he reached for a bottle and moved to the rear. This time he didn't
smash in the owner's skull but swung hard and low at the belly and groin. He
took the wallet from where he knew it would be. The club remained where it had
fallen. He thrust the bottle into the hands of the lush at the door. Outside a
cab halted at his signal.
"Where to?"
"A casino. A good one." Frank relaxed against the cushions as the
driver glided from the kerb. "Waste no time, friend. I feel lucky."
Page 4
 Luck, the fortuitous combination of favorable circumstances, but who
needs luck when they know what will happen fifty-seven seconds in advance?
Long enough for the dice to settle, the card to turn, the ball to drop. The
winner to win. The ability to make quick, impulsive, apparently stupid
last-second wagers against a seemingly sure thing. Frank rode high, a
sure-fire winner.
In more ways than one.
He stretched, enjoying the shower, the impact of water driven at high
pressure against hair and skin massaging and stimulating as it tightened
tissue and stung flesh into an exhilarating awareness. He turned a control and
gasped as the water turned into a frigid goose-pimpling medium. A titillation
as many things were now thanks to the alien gift and his own aptitude. He
jerked the control back to hot, waited, then cut the spray and stepped from
the shower drying himself on a fluffy towel.
"Frank, darling. Are you going to be much longer?"
A female voice with the peculiar intonation of the inbred upper
classes; a member of the aristocracy by birth and a failed marriage. The Lady
Jane Smyth-Connors was rich, decadent, bored and a problem.
"A moment, honey," he called and dropped the towel. A mirror reflected
a pleasing image. Money had improved on what the aliens had accomplished;
cosmetic magic smoothing away accumulated blemishes, the scars of his early
days. He'd worked hard to gain the physique of an athlete. He had been born
with a pleasing face. Money had taken care of other things, his clothes, his
accent, the education of his tastes. He had become a fringe-member of the
jet-set. Rich. Handsome. Riding high. Saddled now with a crippled bird.
"Frank? Come to me!"
"Give me a moment." He resisted the instinctive rush of anger at the
tone, the command. She was arrogant and domineering but that had been obvious
from the start. He had met her in a casino, recognizing the desperation of a
woman who wanted to win but could only lose. Recognizing, too, an echo of what
he had once been The opportunity she presented. He had made a point of meeting
her and she'd been attracted by his looks, figure and calculated attention.
Now, invited to her home, perfectly aware of what was expected, he stood on
the edge of respectable security.
The bathroom had a window. He parted the curtains and looked into the
night. Way down low a scatter of lights carpeted the misty ground. London was
a nice city. England a nice place. Very nice, especially to gamblers -- no tax
was levied on winnings. Here, more than anywhere else, high prizes were to be
won. Not just money, that was for the plebeians, but make the right
connections and every day would be Christmas.
"Frank!"
Fretful impatience and the imperious tone of one accustomed to instant
obedience. The woman waited to be served. Sighing he entered the bedroom.
She was a little older than himself, tall with a peculiar angularity,
giving the impression of an overgrown schoolgirl, who should be wearing tweeds
and wielding a hockey stick. The appearance was deceptive. Generations of
inbreeding had done more than fashion the distribution of flesh and bone. It
had developed a festering degeneracy. She was, he knew, almost clinically
insane but, in her class, people were never insane only 'eccentric', never
stupid only 'amusing', never spiteful, savage, vicious or cruel only
'thoughtless'.
He reached out and took her into his arms and kissed her with educated
skill. He ran his hands over her body, silk rustling as it fell from her naked
flesh. Gently he bit the base of her throat, harder, felt her tense, her
negative reaction.
"No," she snapped. "I hate anyone doing that!"
One bad mark. He counted seconds as he reached for the light switch.
With darkness she squirmed, pushed herself free of his embrace.
"I hate the dark! Must you be like all the others?"
Two bad marks. Twenty seconds to go. Time for one more exploration. His
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