David Redd: Collected Stories

By David Redd

Thirty sf/fantasy stories by David Redd, originally published in print sf magazines including NEW WORLDS, F&SF and INTERZONE between 1966 and 2005. Collected here complete for the first time, with a new introduction and individual story notes by the author. The collection includes ON THE DECK OF THE FLYING BOMB, SUNDOWN, and THE WORLD OF ARTHUR ENGLISH, which is a previously unpublished story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244448165

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Bibliography

A Journey Along the Sprout Vector—Scheherazade #10, 1994

A Quiet Kind of Madness—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, May 1968

Brother Ape—Andromeda 3, 1978

Eternity-Magic—Spectrum SF 6, July 2001

Green and Pleasant Land—Interzone 32, Nov/Dec 1989

Green England—Spectrum SF 7, November 2001

Moon-Pearls—Fantasy Annual 5, 2003

Morning—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July 1978

Nancy—Fantastic, February 1971

On the Deck of the Flying Bomb—Interzone 4, 1983

Please Sir, Can We Kill Something?—The Gate 3, 1990

Prisoners of Paradise—New Worlds 167, October 1966

Sunbeam Caress—If, April 1968

Sundown—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, December 1967

The Beast That Howled—Scheherazade 27, October 2004

The Blackness—Interzone 56, February 1992

The Dinosaurs of London—Fantasy Annual 5, April 2003

The Frozen Summer—If, March 1968

The House on Hollow Mountain—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, May 1982

The Lantern in the Nest of Twigs—Scheherazade 15, 1997

The Mammoth Hunters—New Worlds 5, 1973

The Old Man of Munington—Asimov's, mid-December 1993

The Sphere—Substance, 1995

The Way to London Town—New Worlds 164, July 1966

The World of Arthur English—Previously unpublished, new to this collection.

The Wounded Dragon—Scheherazade 7, 1993

Trout Fishing in Leytonstone—Asimov's, March 1995

Warship—Amazing, February 1974

When Jesus Came to the Moon for Christmas—Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Jan 1991

Yuhana Am—On Spec, Spring 2005

One previously published story The Agent (Aries 1, 1979) a collaboration with Christopher Priest, is not included in this collection.

HOW THIS HAPPENED

David Redd

Words About Words

These stories were written in brief moments snatched from more orthodox activities. For forty years I worked in the construction industry, mainly on roads and bridges, usually out on site involved with tarmac and reinforced concrete. Some shifts were 7 days a week or overnight.

Naturally most of my other time was absorbed by family life – married, with children, with mortgage – but somehow I seized a few opportunities for writing. Over the decades these almost illicit efforts produced about thirty published short stories. Of course they were all science fiction, or something close to it, inspired by far too much childhood reading of sf in the 1950s. Strangely, after the millennium when I retired and no longer had to capture free time with such difficulty, the stories ceased to come. Is this what people call writer’s block? Perhaps in today’s improvident and apocalyptic world I am now living my future rather than having to imagine it.

But before this impasse my imagination had produced many other futures and other realities; there are thirty such alternatives in this book. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Yuhana Am, the last story in this book, was not quite my final paid-for publication; a few others appeared on-line later. However this particular story seems an appropriate conclusion to a collection of my fiction. In contrast, an appropriate beginning might be the story of how I came to write stories.

My first sale was not the result of any sudden impulse to sit down and write a short story. It came from a sustained effort to be an author, mainly during the second decade of my life, in time which might have been better spent on schoolwork (as my examination results showed).

Basically, I was drawn to imaginative writing even as a young child. Most youngsters who like stories try scribbling a few themselves. Such attempts may be largely unfinished and unreadable, but a few show promise. Fortunately my own early attempts are lost. I was inspired by occasional fantastic material in comics such as Mickey Mouse Weekly or Rocket, and of course Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future in Eagle. A familiar enough phenomenon. Alongside my picture-reading there were more concentrated thrills to be found in books, and my journey began.

Too Many Ghosts

In my case, an early wish to write was obviously a consequence of too much early reading; the public libraries introduced me to children's science fiction by Patrick Moore and Angus MacVicar, then John Russell Fearn and Jon J. Deegan, leading to the adult shelves with John Wyndham and the inimitable Eric Frank Russell. A somewhat iffy trajectory by the standards of a proper literary education, which may explain much.

My first world-building consisted of inventing additional details for Angus MacVicar’s imaginary inhabited planetoid Hesikos. My first stories, however, arrived via a more normal route: trying to imitate standard children’s fiction. Early childish scribblings and retellings of Just William stories gradually developed into more substantial little efforts.

At some point the cool style and clear exposition of Arthur Ransome started tempting me into his world of Swallows and Amazons. I found myself writing a chapter or two about his characters in his style, identifying most strongly with Dick (the scientist) and Dorothea (the writer). The result seemed better than earlier scribbles, even if still a case of monkey see, monkey do. Then I extended my efforts, still hand-written in notebooks of course, towards writing about non-Ransome people in the definitely non-Ransome pulp science fiction settings of my other reading. Soon my school homework became slanted – wherever possible – towards exciting adventures in alien worlds. My English teachers suffered. Towards the end one essay was 2,000 words long.

I offer these reminiscences as an exercise in social history. Some teachers can inspire, some (even the good and well-intentioned ones) can turn people away from what they teach. I was turned off Shakespeare at school. Later, a substitute would appear when the BBC broadcast excellent radio versions of Ibsen plays such as The Wild Duck and John Gabriel Borkman, but during my teenage years only books were a major influence, much more so than comics or boys’ story papers. Films were seen frequently and enjoyed in our family without inspiring any great creativity. The main inspirations were on library shelves. It was there that I found a novel which took my writing almost instantly to an unexpected new level.

The book was, believe it or not, an occult thriller by Paul Gallico, author of the WW2 fable The Snow Goose and longer novels such as Love, Let Me Not Hunger and The Poseidon Adventure. In his jaunty Too Many Ghosts his hero (called Alexander Hero) investigates paranormal activity quite entertainingly, below Gallico’s best literary ability as a more ambitious sequel showed, but still a very acceptable good read. My teenage self was reading the exploits of A. Hero quite happily when, partway through, a thought occurred to me.

I could have written that bit.

This was a common feeling among 50s-60s SF readers, before the average standard of genre prose improved. John Brunner and many others had the same experience and were spurred to do better than the existing writers – in Brunner's case, spectacularly better.

The downside of this breakthough, for us new writers, was that the crudities and infelicities of much early science fiction had been absorbed into our thinking and now had to be expunged from our learning. I never managed it completely. But now, somehow, reading Paul Gallico had opened a door. I could now turn out a series of words which formed a recognisable (though still unpublishable) story.

My main problem, then as now, was that I could not recognise any method or formula for writing. Each time I began a story, I had to re-invent the wheel and learn afresh how to tell that story. I so envy people who simply sit down and write.

The Infinite Monkey

Having an idea, developing it with people and events and backgrounds and then writing it, has rarely been simple for me. As with certain other writers—not all—each story can require innumerable false starts. I often recall the old proposition about an infinite number of monkeys typing away at random for an infinite time eventually happening to type out the works of Shakespeare. Sometimes I am an infinite monkey all by myself, amazing myself when the words come together as a story.

I can offer no real clues into my creative processes, nor into the proper conduct of a professional career in writing. My literary progress has been more like that of a circus clown forever stepping on rakes or opening doors underneath buckets of water. I would rather have been a Pierrot, perhaps, but an inability to sing closed that career option.

Despite these inelegant analogies, my approach to my cottage craft was wholly serious if undisciplined. I had a role model to hand, a jovial and approachable English teacher who wrote in his spare time as F F Nicholls. A veteran of magazine articles, he was moving into books and as Fred Nicholls would eventually write the epic maritime novel Master Under God. During the time I was one of his pupils he was seeing a children’s novel through the press, and shared the experience with us, even showing us proofs from his publishers as he chose which illustrations to use. Our Mr Nicholls was a living example of a real person writing stories, writing them in his own spare time, taking real trouble over the process. I could not have had a better teacher. He was quick to recognise good work and had ways of encouraging it.

But my education in English ceased abruptly. School shunted me into straightforward maths-physics-chemistry A-level years, which left me unqualified for writing and certainly not qualified for maths, physics or chemistry. Any literary influences were therefore extra-curricular, random and unselected.

(However, perhaps I should give credit to another teacher, a Mr Ray, inevitably nicknamed Cosmic, who would sometimes lay aside the syllabus to read out humorous episodes from the Molesworth books. This surely enriched all our lives.)

Where did my ability to write come from? As far as I can remember, I ignored the actual styles of what I was reading and simply wrote down words to reflect my imagination as clearly as I could. No doubt those moments of insight from Arthur Ransome and Paul Gallico helped. The power of Ibsen, the imagination of Tove Jansson, the sense of potential progress in much early science fiction…all these must have fed in somehow, but as general influences only. Did the Trinidadian patois of that neglected writer Samuel Selvon (whom I read in the Boy’s Own Paper of 1957) inspire the narrative voice of one story of mine decades later? Did the autobiography of marine scientist Eugenie Clark (Lady with a Spear, 1953) show me that strong female characters could be portrayed in words even if the science fiction of the time was almost wholly male? Neither writer influenced me consciously, but Dr Clark must have guided me to thinking that females should be more represented in sf. Possibly I went too far in this direction, as I never developed any strong male hero to rival Biggles or James Bond.

I did not analyse these details at the time, of course. They only occur to me now as possible ingredients in the mix which made me a writer.

By my late teens, then, I had almost by accident acquired the ability to write stories. I doubt that there is any merit in discussing the genesis of individual stories (generally forgotten anyway) or my purpose in writing them, or even why I chose – probably unconsciously – to move from straightforward sf adventure yarns to glimpses of imaginary worlds. In many cases a vision came from somewhere – a person, a setting, an incident – and I chose to write about it. When the words formed themselves into a coherent shape, I had a story.

The Occasionals

Early efforts were rejected by various publishers. I was still learning. The process of learning, rejection, re-learning and occasional success would continue throughout my writing. Each story in this book is an occasional success. I can describe the fate of each story, and will, but cannot say too much about the creative processes behind each one because – I must emphasise – either I do not recall its origin or never knew it even then.

With Sunbeam Caress, for example, does it matter to anyone that my original notes showed standard scientists investigating a standard scientific problem? It might interest someone that having tried a new-to-me approach in Prisoners of Paradise I applied that approach to Sunbeam Caress? It is probably less interesting that for reasons forgotten I shaped Sunbeam Caress as a tryptych. (In other stories I neglected shape altogether.) The basic fact is that I was simply exploring the territory.

In most cases, like Heinlein's narrator at the end of Double Star, I am not the same person as the young man who wrote those words. How can I be the same, forty or fifty years later? The back-cover photographs may prove my point.

One clear age-related change in me is the evolution of my tastes in reading-matter. Much of that early teenage reading now seems dated or unappealing, and crudely written compared to the work of later writers such as Michael Moorcock or Lucius Shepard. Most of it pre-dated the internet and recent social change of course. Conversely, I recall my young self regarding, say, Clark Ashton Smith's The Metamorphosis of Earth as a very poor story, but nowadays I appreciate it for certain virtues rare among its 1951 peers.

And you are different too, different from the people of fifty years ago. Whatever I intended in these stories may not be what a modern reader finds in them. I began writing these stories back in the 1960s. There was no self-publishing, no internet, no blogs, only other people’s books and magazines, and only a few TV channels; no instant information around us, only encyclopaedias and libraries; no mobile phones; no moon landings to be recalled as history or hoax. The world was different back then. So was the future.

In short, here are thirty versions of yesterday’s future. Will they be as strange for you as they were for me? I hope some are.

David Redd is a Welsh writer, born 14 January 1946 in Cardigan but living in Haverfordwest for most of his life, who spent his professional career as a civil engineer, generally on roads and bridges, until 2004; he had thirty short science fiction stories published in print between the years 1966–2005. Apart from some small corrections to editorial ‘improvements’ or typesetting errors these stories are reprinted here as published originally, with new notes by their author appended to each story. David was married to Meriel in 1973; she died in 2009. He has two children, Bethan, working in school administration, and Matt, working in 2018 as a scriptwriter for independent film THE TOLL.

Prisoners of Paradise

(New Worlds 167, October 1966)

Shaamon was an artist, and she herself was a work of art. Her towering body had the same indefinable appealing quality as a sparkling jewel. She resembled a misty veil wound around itself to form a vertical cylinder of milky light, over thirty feet tall. The luminous gauze curtains within her body were in constant rippling motion, matching the aurorae that shimmered in the dark evening sky. Under a strong light she would have looked no more a work of art than a dusty cobweb, but in the eternal twilight she was truly beautiful.

Other veils were all around her, standing on the slopes of the mountain range, forming a forest of light. They seemed motionless, but they were working hard, slowly grinding away the rock where they stood. A veil's sharp cutting edges could eat through anything, given time. So the glowing veils spent their lives, making their pilgrimages to the mountains and patiently engraving their patterns on the stone.

Withdrawing her mind from the golden thoughtweb of ceaseless telepathic conversation, Shaamon glided to the edge of her circular engraving and stood at its perimeter. Solemnly she examined her work for any imperfections. Inside the circle, a strange series of dots and twisting lines had been carved into the limestone. Each mark had a definite relationship to the others, and even the depth of the grooves had a special significance.

It was complete. The balance of the curves around the centre had taken far longer than the rest of the pattern, but the labour had been worthwhile. Everything was perfect.

A huge glowing column of milky light, staring at a weird design etched on to the rock – was that any different from a human artist studying his latest creation? Perhaps. Shaamon did not call her friends to admire her work, for art was a personal affair, and engravings were made for individual satisfaction, not for the pleasure of others. The carvings were simply an outlet for the creative impulses present in all worker females.

Shaamon let her thoughts spill into the open once more, altering the flavour of the telepathic mindpool. Every contributing veil was aware of her return.

Savouring the golden oneness for a moment, Shaamon informed the other veils that she had finished her engraving and was returning, to her Nest. A great gust of farewell emotion from her friends flowed over her; she bowed before it in grateful acceptance. Rather reluctantly, she cut herself off from the golden mindpool and was alone in her own pale self. Then she tensed herself and leaped into the air, uncurling as she rose. Before she could fall she had spread out to her natural shape, a circular veil so thin as to be almost two-dimensional. She rippled her body and floated away from the hill, rising slowly. It was nice to fly again. She did not mind having to fold herself into a cylinder to work, but it had meant she could not fly while she was carving her pattern on the shadowy hillside.

Gaining speed, Shaamon soared through the air. Navigation was no problem, for the Nests were in direct line between the limestone hills and Elethe. She had just left the hills, and beyond the distant granite mountains was the dim blue radiance of Elethe, forever peering at her from behind the horizon.

Elethe was the sun, and if the veils had been astronomers they would have known it was dying.

Shaamon flew on towards her Nest at her customary speed. Above her the aurorae painted the dark sky with vivid fire, concealing all but the brightest stars. No clouds formed to hide the aurorae, for clouds needed warmth to exist, and warmth was something the failing sun could no longer send. The last snows lay where they had fallen a million years ago. And somewhere in the sky was the pale ghost of an aged moon.

Below Shaamon the landscape was tinted blue by the feeble rays of Elethe. The fiery aurorae sent strangely coloured shadows racing over the snows. Shaamon saw hints of green and purple, haunting shades rarely seen except when some other light combined with that of Elethe. For the thousandth time she wished she could capture them and delight in them always, instead of having to see them flicker and vanish. But there was no way of engraving colours onto stone. Only her memory could preserve them.

Several luminous blue spires towered up from the ground below. Colonies of tiny communal animals lived in the spires, controlled by a race mind. By themselves the individual animals were completely unintelligent. Nearly all the world's surviving species had once been communal, and the veils themselves still lived in the routine of their forbears, although they were no longer a single multi-creature – they had separated eventually, and now the voluntary mindpools were the last vestiges of the veil race minds. Shaamon wondered whether the creatures beneath her would evolve in the same way. She sent a thought of greeting lancing down to the shining spires, and the race mind replied with a brief mental wave of friendly emotion.

The distant mountains were appreciably closer. Shaamon had no sense of time, living in a timeless world, so she felt no desire to speed up and reach the Nest sooner. She had no fear of predators to spur her on: they had become extinct so long ago that even the memory of them had disappeared.

Other memories had disappeared too. As she passed over a sparkling crystal forest she saw huge shapes slowly circling round a clearing. The clumsy amoeboids were taking part in one of their meaningless rituals.

The amoeboids had once been the world's greatest people. Their ancestors had visited the moon, in the days when Elethe shone brightly, but now they could only shamble through the gleaming crystals and ponderously dance beneath the blazing aurorae. They did not remember. They wore no longer intelligent.

This was merely a part of the greater tragedy. Elethe was imperceptibly fading, century by century, and the planets were dying with their sun.

Shaamon and the other veils knew nothing of this. Only scientists could have read the signs and told them, and science was something their world no longer possessed.

She soared on over the snow, rippling gracefully, gliding silently through the thin air. The faint glow from her body was visible from the ground, but now there were none to see her. Shaamon was passing over a great empty desert of blue-white dunes, where the only forms of life were grotesque, stunted half-plants that could hardly be called alive. She did not like this part of the homeward journey, but it was the last stage before coming within range of the Nest mindpool. Joining that magnificent golden thought-web was a moment to look forward to…

Something was happening.

Strange little vibrations came tingling through the atmosphere, impinging on her upper surface. This was sound, of a degree she had never experienced before, and the intensity was increasing rapidly. In the sky above her, a glowing red dot had appeared in the aurorae. It too was growing, rushing down towards her. Shaamon had heard of meteorites, had even seen one fall, but this was something different.

Frightened, Shaamon curled up into cylindrical form, letting herself fall to the blue-shadowed dunes below. The vibrations were disrupting her external nervous system, making it difficult to think. And what was that red dot flaming in the sky?

Approaching the ground, she opened out to break her fall, curled up again and dropped lightly on to the pearly-hued mixture of dust and snow. The vibrations were very powerful now, pounding into her helpless body. She instinctively retreated into a mindless state, waiting for the sound to cease. If it continued, she might even have to destroy her personality and encyst.

The noise suddenly boomed twice as loud and stopped altogether. She was grasped and hurled across the dunes, battered by the most terrible shock she had ever received. Somehow she survived, and found herself falling in a shower of sand and snow. Half the desert was in the air with her.

Unthinkingly she opened out to slow her fall, and was pelted by flying debris. Pain seared through her. Rippling frantically, she fought her way up into clear air and hovered there, grateful to be alive. She had received several painful gashes and bruises, but no serious injuries –

And the alien thoughts poured into her mind. In that instant Shaamon learned that the red falling star had been a ship, a tough shell which protected the soft thick body of its misshapen occupant. But the shell was broken, and the helpless creature inside was dying.

Where had this deformed monster come from? There was nothing like it in her experience. Quickly Shaamon inserted herself into the rushing thought-stream of the dying monster. Her aching wounds were forgotten as she struggled to absorb the kaleidoscope of thought and emotion flowing over her. But the ideas were incomprehensible, and the bright colour-filled pictures were too strange for her to understand. Watching the mental chaos was no good. She would have to enter mindpool with the monster, and pray that she could break the contact before it died.

Shaamon hesitantly began merging personalities, forcing herself to open out to the alien mind. However, the creature did not respond; it made no effort to complete the linkage. This was terrible! She could not let it die without finding out anything more – she did not even know its name! Hurriedly, for the monster's thoughts were appreciably weaker, she projected an image of herself into its mind.

Christ, a bloody beer mat! The response was in a stylised sound-based framework, although the previous thoughts had been mainly visual and emotional.

Shaamon sensed that she had been compared with some object or animal known to the creature; a faint mental image was visible for a moment among the rapidly fading thoughts. She concentrated on that picture, setting off fiery little association-chains in the alien memory. Instinctively she sampled each chain.

There were peculiar designs on the beer-mat objects, and they had not been engraved. Permanent colours had been fixed to their surfaces!

The monster's thoughts had the dull red flavour of a creature very near death. Shaamon desperately searched through the flickering alien memories, sending up flurries of association-chains and pouncing on each one as it appeared. She followed the idea of reproduced pictures into the dead-end of microfilm, then discovered the art-form of painting. She almost lost it again before she realised what she had found. Coloured substances could be used to form pictures!

Suddenly Total Awareness of Death cascaded out from the alien brain, blotting out the monster's remaining thoughts and almost engulfing her. Clutching her new knowledge, Shaamon tore away, fleeing lest her own mind be destroyed as well.

And then Shaamon was alone once more, a shimmering veil hovering silently above the pearly dunes in the familiar dim blue light of Elethe, with the swirling aurorae blazing above her. She gazed out over the desert. Far away, half buried in an immense crater, was the dark bulk of the shell that had become a tomb.

Rippling gently, without the energy to fly faster, Shaamon slowly resumed the journey to her Nest. She was limp after her mental exertions, but very satisfied. Although she had not learned the creature's origin, she had gained something far more important. Painting…

She happily wondered what new forms art would take, with colour as an added medium. It would seem very difficult at first, but artists of the future would use colour and think nothing of it. Why, it would add a whole new dimension to engraving! Shaamon could imagine patterns where grooves of the same depth would contain different colours. She was dazzled by the enormous possibilities opening before her.

And even the problem of finding colours was no problem at all. The mining veils had often found coloured minerals in their quest for salt. She had seen some yellow metal herself, and surely there must be other colours in the ground somewhere, judging by the thoughts of the dead monster. Yes, it would be easy enough to find the materials for painting. She wondered why nobody had ever thought of it before.

While she was still gliding over the desert, happy and excited with her new discovery, a brilliant golden mind touched hers. It was the Nest mindpool.

Her sisters began the usual recognition pattern – then stopped. Abruptly they withdrew, without giving her a chance to join. It was impossible – but it had happened!

Puzzled, dismayed, horribly frightened by the unthinkable rebuff, Shaamon sent a pleading thought into her sisters. Why? What have I done?

You have changed, the mindpool answered. You are not normal. The veils had sensed her mental turmoil in that momentary contact, and retreated for fear of contamination. A single insane mind could infect hundreds of others – had done, in the past.

I have not changed! Let me in! Shaamon replied angrily.

We dare not. There is something peculiar about you. You are not the Shaamon who departed for the mountains. There was a violent shock wave before you arrived, and you were nearer to its source than we. If you have been injured you must not join us. The safety of the Nest comes first.

I am not injured! They had been referring to mental wounds, not physical damage. This is what happened. Listen! And Shaamon told her sisters how she had discovered the dying monster and searched its mind.

. . . It contained so much knowledge I could never have learned it all, Shaamon concluded. I was lucky to find something we could understand, let alone something we need. And now that we know about painting, we can easily insert coloured materials into our engravings, and then our art will include relationships of colour as well as form…

There was no detectable emotion from the mindpool, only the mere fact of its presence. It was apparently examining the possibilities of the situation, thinking on a level far above that of the individuals comprising it. Knowing this, Shaamon felt a ripple of fear. Through sheer instinct, the mindpool sometimes acted like the race mind it had once been, especially in times of stress, and she had an uncomfortable feeling she was responsible for a sudden tension in the thoughtweb. If her sisters were sufficiently worried about the effects of her discovery, they might revert to the habits of their ancestors –

Suddenly a burst of blinding energy flashed out from the mindpool. Caught by the terrible power from ten thousand veils, Shaamon was sucked into what had been the mindpool. Conscientiously, the race mind made her body continue gliding towards the Nest, just as She controlled all the other workers. The latent guardian of the veils had come into being once more.

No difficulty about this affair, She mused. There had been similar cases in the past, when individual veils had stumbled on odd discoveries or thought up crazy ideas. It's the old story all over again. This painting is innocent in itself, but it will lead to implements. And if the workers had tools they’d go soft and useless.

Quickly She went through Her memories of Shaamon's encounter, removing all ideas of painting and substituting a suitably edited version of events. At the same time She renewed the mental block against bringing metals out of the ground – the conditioning had grown weak with age.

A brief mental effort, and the task was done. All thoughts of painting had vanished forever. The race mind instantly separated into Her component entities. The veils returned to normal.

Shaamon and her sisters were in golden mindpool, discussing her adventures.

You had a lucky escape, Shaamon, thought one. The shock wave could have killed you as well as the monster.

I felt sorry for that creature, Shaamon thought sadly. I never learned what it was called, nor where it came from.

We'll have to find out, her sisters told her. We'll send out an expedition.

That's a good idea, Shaamon replied, gliding down towards the friendly towers of the Nest. A very good idea. I wonder what we'll find.

This was my first story accepted for paid publication. (The school magazine paid its contributors nothing, quite rightly.) I am forever grateful to Michael Moorcock for his encouragement of this and my other early writing.

Mike had contributed to my early reading, both as a writer and editor, since I was 11. As John Carnell put it in a New Worlds Author Profile, Mike had edited Tarzan Adventures and then the Sexton Blake Library, introducing numerous fantasy and historical themes into both before leaving to write political material for the Liberal Party.I had read both magazines regularly. When MJM started editing New Worlds itself for new publishers (instead of Science Fantasy which many would have thought a more natural fit) I was already reading it, and found the relaunched magazine fascinating from his first issue (number 142, May 1964, which began with John Brunner's The Last Lonely Man, a J.G. Ballard serial which became his novel The Crystal World, and other delights.) There also appeared familiar names from the Tarzan Adventures days; Jim Cawthorn, Alistair Graham, Sydney J Bounds and others) Soon I was writing him letters, discussing his serial The Shores of Death among other topics, and then how could I resist sending in him my attempts at short fiction? I was still a teenager.

Rather than submit material already rejected by Carnell, and now fortunately lost, I submitted Prisoners of Paradise. All new. Somehow it clicked. More important than the five pounds and five shillings was the encouragement. This point is worth emphasising because it inspired me to keep trying. Thank you across the years to the Mike of 1965.

This story had an unexpected afterlife, being reprinted in the New Worlds Quarterly launch issue (September 1971). Then it reappeared in two educational anthologies. The first was titled simply Science Fiction, published in the USA in 1973, whose other contributors included Bradbury, Clarke, Asimov, Van Vogt, Vonnegut, Heinlein, Stephen Vincent Benet, Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Edward Lucie-Smith and Rog Phillips. I would have loved to have seen the accompanying teacher’s manual, if it dealt with the contents in any detail. The second anthology was Canadian: Starting Points in Reading, Level F (1983) where apparently my effort shared the covers with an extract from Paula Danziger’s There’s a Bat in Bunk Five amongst others.

The Way to London Town

(New Worlds 164, July 1966)

Under a bright summer sun, Nancy stood on the hillside above Sacaradown. She looked out over the city and smiled. Down there, people were busy with their everyday tasks, unaware that Nancy was about to descend on them. She smiled again and started walking down towards the buildings…

Trotting through the streets of Sacaradown, she listened to the myriad conversations going on around her. The language had changed slightly, but it was still the same tongue that had been spoken over a hundred years ago. She would have no difficulty in understanding it.

Men and women bustled in and out of the shops. They saw the girl walking down the pavement, noticed vaguely that there was something odd about her clothes, and forgot her. Grown-ups were always the same.

I like this place, she thought. The people are happy.

The streets were clean and free from traffic. And the goods in the shops did not have the makeshift look of the products of her own time.

She had been wandering through the city for perhaps half an hour when she realised someone was watching her.

The man was middle-aged, stout but obviously still active, with light grey eyes the same colour as his thinning hair. He was gazing down at her with a faintly amused expression. Nancy stared back at him.

You are a very self-assured young lady, he said in the musical tones of Sacaradown. Who are you?

Nancy, she said. Who're you?

My name is Walther, he replied. I collect people.

What sort of people? Nancy asked, showing interest where an adult would have shown surprise or disbelief.

Strange people. Especially children like you. Walther chuckled and pointed to a cafe across the road. Will you allow me to buy you a drink in Wernher's?

She would not have been Nancy if she had not accepted. So they found a table in the cafe and Wernher Hagen served them personally, for he and Walther had worked together during the reconstruction of Hamburg years before.

Walther put down his glass of Stellenbosch wine and studied the girl sipping her cloudberry squash. She could not be more than eleven years old. Her round face was pleasant rather than pretty, but her blue eyes were lively and her mop of corn-coloured hair would have been attractive if it had ever known a comb. I should like to see you in five years' time, Walther mused. You are alive, and enjoying it.

Nancy finished her drink. That was nice. Thank you, kind sir.

Now a Sacaradown child would never say anything in that impish manner. Walther wished he could identify her accent. Have you tasted cloudberries before?

Do you think I have?

Walther had expected a straight no. Few ship-jumpers ever thought of evading a question; most of them were only too eager to talk. He looked at her faded brown shirt and scruffy jeans, and the battered watch on her left wrist. Where had those clothes been made?

He asked, Where do you come from?

Where do you think I come from?

You are not being helpful! His fingers toyed with the empty wineglass. Worse still, you are not being typical!

Why should I be? Her expression was now definitely mocking.

Walther shook his head. You are a strange mixture. Why did you leave home?

Her face lit up, giving him a sudden glimpse of the woman she would become. Where was my home?

Don't you know?

"I do. Do you?"

I shall regard your answer as a challenge, said Walther. He stood up. Come with me, Nancy. I intend to learn where you lived before coming here.

How? Are you going to hypnotise me?

Nothing so crude. Cyril will read your past for me.

That's gonna be interesting. She nodded. I'll come.

Do you know what is involved in reading the past?

No, but I'll soon find out.

For all she knew he could be planning to torture the information out of her, thought Walther. Had not her mother ever warned her about talking to strangers? She showed no trace of fear, and yet she did not behave as though she trusted him – for otherwise she would have answered his questions. She was unclassifiable.

Walking through the sunny streets, he saw that she was looking at the shop windows, as she had been doing when he first saw her. The sight of some fat juicy caterpillars on a butcher's slab appeared to upset her. Clearly she came from a country where insects were not raised for food. The southern hemisphere… Australia? New Zealand?

They came to a small shop which specialised in scientific apparatus. On the door was a duplicated poster advertising a forthcoming play, Dawn of Magick, staged by a group of local amateurs.

Nancy glanced at the poster and followed Walther into the shop. It was pleasantly gloomy after the bright sunlight outside. The shelves and display cases were littered with various scientific instruments: pH meters, Geiger counters, divining rods, planchettes, barometers, crystal balls, electronic spare parts and the like. Behind the counter a lanky black-haired youth laid down his book and greeted them. Morning, Mr. Walther. What can I do for you?

This young lady has just arrived in Sacaradown. I would like to know where she came from.

Certainly, Mr. Walther. Five royals, please.

Walther handed over the money. The youth went to a display case and took out a medium-sized crystal ball. Bringing it back to the counter, he set it down on something which looked like an ash-tray but wasn't. Nancy watched the preparations with interest.

Mr. Walther, is this a check or a search? asked the youth, polishing the crystal ball with a yellow cloth.

It is a search, Cyril. I know nothing about her except her name – Nancy.

Cyril grinned. You sure pick them! Arms folded, he leaned on the counter and stared into the crystal ball. His hair fell into his eyes but he brushed it back. His gaze remained fixed on the centre of the transparent sphere, although the others could see nothing there.

Finally he straightened up. He regarded Nancy with something approaching awe. Are you unique?

She smiled. I hope so.

Cyril! Where does she come from?

Sorry, Mr. Walther. She was born and brought up in Medway Vale.

Medway Vale?

It was only twenty miles from Sacaradown. Walther had often been there on business. He looked at Nancy, trying to fit her into the society of Medway Vale, the prosperous little town nestling in the centre of the Downs. Outside the shop, a fire siren began wailing. It was the third time this week, but Walther did not notice the distant siren. He turned to Cyril. It is impossible; she cannot be from Medway Vale. She does not belong to the social pattern at all.

He stopped. Perhaps they had answered him. He tried to remember what he had heard about the Australian laboratories, where the research scientists were examining the possibilities of reincarnation. But no, the work had been abandoned, he recalled. His idea of Nancy’s body harbouring a fugitive from the past was only an idea, and nothing more. He sighed, and his bafflement showed in the lines on his face.

Nancy relented. I'll tell you.

Should you? asked Cyril, looking doubtful.

Why not? When Nancy decided to do something it turned out right or else. So she swung herself up to the counter, sat there on the polished wood and began to speak.

Maybe I ought to lead up to this gradually, but I don't know how so I won't. Mr. Walther, I'm from the past. I was brought up in Medway Vale, but that was a hundred years ago. A hundred years to you, I mean.

Time travel? And why not? Once the Home had sheltered a drooling imbecile who could teleport himself away from any real or imagined danger. Now here was someone who could teleport through time…

One for the collection, said Cyril.

His people collection? asked Nancy suspiciously, turning round to stare at him.

He runs a small hostel for ship-jumpers, Cyril explained. He takes care of them until they can find work and settle down in the neighbourhood. It helps with his real work.

''I am a student of humanity, said Walther slowly. ''When I see a man I see his world reflected in his person. I have studied the effect of environment on personality for twenty years.

''He's writing a book about it," said Cyril.

''You were looking at me when I first saw you, she said, remembering the calm grey eyes watching her. ''You were trying to fit me into a pattern.

''I was attempting to deduce where you had come from. My failure was annoying, but hardly surprising in the circumstances. Time travel – " He shook his head in childlike wonder.

''I am rather unique," said Nancy complacently.

''Tell me… Cyril hesitated. What are you doing here in Sacaradown?"

''I have to start somewhere, said Nancy, kicking her heels against the wooden panels of the counter front. ''I really want to explore London, but I need money for that.

London! Both Walther and Cyril gasped the name. To them, the vanished capital was as remote as Atlantis.

Yes, London. That way. She pointed vaguely north. All sorts of things were blown up in the Tuesday War, and I could salvage them. Like the Crown Jewels, maybe.

Walther had a vivid mental picture of Nancy, wandering through time and looting the world's great cities an instant before the missiles came down. Dazzling possibilities soared in his imagination.

Well, if you want money, Cyril began, and laughed, I could name some historians and collectors who'd rob a bank or two for you if you brought back a couple of items from the past. You could grab the Magna Carta and name your own price. Or if you went to Paris, there's the legendary Mona Lisa…

I am surprised you are not already a millionairess, said Walther, his thoughts still whirling.

I said, I have to start somewhere. This is the best place – time, I mean – this is the best time for it. I can just go back a hundred and twenty years, pick out a few souvenirs and start counting the cash. Archaeologists here can give me the sort of money I want.

And that was true, for many art treasures had been lost in the Tuesday War. Walther realised that Nancy had the power to completely change Sacaradown – and after Sacaradown, the world. It was incredible to think that so much could be done by this little girl sitting on the wooden counter, looking at him with angelic blue eyes. Angelic?

''I'll have a go at reading your future," said Cyril. He retrieved his yellow cloth and dusted the crystal ball. Brushing back his hair, he stared into the sphere. Nancy waited expectantly; Walther noted that she was fully alert.

Suddenly the door opened, the bell jingled and into the shop came two tall policemen whom Walther knew slightly. Both had grim expressions. They saw Nancy perched on the counter and nodded to each other. The sergeant said, This is her all right, Mason.

I plead not guilty, said Nancy instantly. Besides, it was a pure accident and I'm awfully sorry I did it.

Sorry you did what? asked Mason, the constable.

Whatever you think I did, said Nancy.

This isn't the first time you've been arrested, said the sergeant.

No sir, said Nancy, but it's the first time I've been innocent.

Cyril looked up from the crystal ball and took in the scene. They're here already. Don't worry, Nancy, you'll end up laughing at the lot of them.

The sergeant spoke to Walther. Good morning, sir. Do you know anything about this – this girl here?

Nancy? Walther smiled faintly. I met her less than an hour ago. She –

An hour! gasped the constable.

The sergeant frowned. He glanced at the door to reassure himself it was firmly shut. Now sir, I should warn you that this is a more serious affair than you may imagine. A girl answering, this description was seen in the Foreland Stores twenty minutes ago, shortly before a fire out on the premises,

I heard no siren, said Walther.

I did, said Cyril.

Allow me to continue, sir. The Foreland Stores had recently been approached for insurance by Wolfson, and the staff were watching for suspicious behaviour. One of the clerks saw the girl suddenly run away from the wall, and was going over to her when an explosion occurred in the place where she had been standing. Several other explosions followed immediately, and in the confusion the girl disappeared. The clerk informed us of the happenings at once, and a customer reported seeing the girl accompany you, sir, into the shop.

So you think I started the fire, said Nancy, rather pleased at being notorious so soon after her arrival.

The description is perfectly accurate, said the sergeant in gruff businesslike tones. White, aged about ten or eleven, blue jeans and brown shirt in poor condition, blonde curly hair and, to quote the clerk, an expression of wide-eyed innocence.

It sounds familiar, Nancy admitted, but I've been with Mr. Walther for the last hour and I've never even seen the Foreland Stores.

Is this true, sir? asked Constable Mason.

It is, said Walther. He explained how he had met her.

Hmm, said the sergeant. Walther had worked with the police to help lost ship-jumpers, and was known to most of them by reputation if not personally. This was one defence witness who could not be ignored, and yet… Sir, I'm afraid we'll have to take her along for identification. The clerk's description was too accurate for my liking. And if she wasn't there, who did the clerk see?

I've done a paradox again, said Nancy. Why did that clerk have to go looking for trouble?

The policemen glanced at each other, puzzled.

Cyril, who had not spoken for the past few minutes, said "You see, Nancy, there's a bunch of crooks selling fire insurances to the shopkeepers. If you don't buy their `insurance' your shop goes up in smoke. It's the old protection racket. The police know who the men are, except for the firebug himself, but they can't get any evidence against them. That's why they came galloping after you. They don't know how the gang starts the fires, and they thought you were their first lead. Just by the way, the real fire insurance companies are offering a twenty thousand royal reward for anyone who can get the gang convicted. Interested?"

Yeah! said Nancy, seeing the money for her London explorations almost within her grasp. She jumped down from the counter and went to the door; with her fingers on the handle she stopped and looked back at the startled policemen. Well, let's go. What are you waiting for?

#

The Foreland Stores occupied a large white building just past the monorail station. An orange fire engine was parked outside it. There appeared to be little damage, although there was a strong smell of smoke and a stream of water was slowly dripping through the open door. The fact that the place was still in good condition was a tribute to the efficiency of the fire service, which had had some good practice lately. Walther saw there were fewer spectators than usual. The fires were no longer such a novelty.

Inside the building, the policemen took Nancy and Walther to the main warehouse where the fire had been. The floor was a smeary mess of ashes and dirty water, and the piles of wooden crates at the far end were charred or soaked or both. Little groups of men and women were mournfully surveying the debris.

One of the men was Phillips, the clerk who had raised the alarm, and the sergeant took Nancy over to him for identification. Walther saw the Chief Constable, his old friend Mark Lefevre, watching the experts searching for clues to the source of the fire.

Good morning, Mark. Is it the same as the others?

Lefevre glanced at him and nodded tiredly. Spontaneous combustion, as ever was.

Lovely phrase, that. Spontaneous combustion! said an irreverent fireman who was admiring the sodden chaos he had helped create.

Was so much of the stock destroyed? asked Walther, gesturing towards the crates at the far end. The warehouse is scarcely a quarter full!

Wright – the manager – is expecting a big shipment of cloth this afternoon, said Lefevre. It should have arrived yesterday, but it was delayed by the rail crash at Brighton.

Nancy and the sergeant returned, with the grey-dressed clerk Phillips. The sergeant spoke to Lefevre. This is the girl, sir. Mr. Phillips has identified her beyond all doubt.

She has been with me for the last hour, said Walther quickly.

Before Lefevre could sort out the contradiction, Nancy said, Mr. Chief Constable, I'd like to speak to you alone.

The fireman grinned knowingly. Watch out, chief!

As if I would! said Nancy indignantly. She had no intention of letting any man get his hands on her, not until she was old enough to fetch a good price as a virgin in the slave markets of 2300 A.D.

I think I understand, said Walther. Nancy, it is pointless to indulge in secrecy at this stage.

And he explained that Nancy was a mutant, born after the Tuesday War, with the ability to travel through time at will. He concluded: …And with her powers, she is quite confident she can collect the necessary evidence to convict the criminals.

If it is a pyrotic mutant, I can catch him in the act, said Nancy.

Lefevre was looking doubtful, not without reason. But these are definite explosions, not simple ignitions… And the mutation rate's so low these days…

It must be a pyrotic, said Nancy impatiently. What else could it be?

Why don't you go see for yourself? suggested the fireman; he had been listening with cynical interest. That's where the fire started.

He was pointing to a ragged black hole in the wall, where the wood and plaster had been completely burned away. There were two others like it further along the wall. Some experts were examining the holes in the vain hope of finding bomb fragments.

Are those men looking for explosives? Nancy asked.

Yes, but they won't find any, said Lefevre. Our analysts have checked other buildings after visits from the firebug, and all the tests for incendiary chemicals proved negative.

I told you it was a pyrotic. said Nancy. I'll go and look. What time did the fire start?

A few seconds after five past ten, said Lefevre. It's ten forty-five and a half now.

Nancy carefully corrected her watch. She walked over the damp ashes, avoiding the larger puddles, and went up to the left of the group of experts. Then she slid herself forty-two minutes into the past.

The hall was clean and intact, and she was alone except for a clerk checking the crates at the far end. She recognised the clerk – he was Phillips. If there was a bomb, she should be able to see it. She bent down by the wall and searched, even running her hands over the wood and plaster, looking for any trace that something had been concealed in the wall. She found nothing. It must be a pyrotic, then.

Phillips had stopped checking the crates and was looking at her. Hey! What are you doing over there?

It was nearly time for the first explosion. She dashed away from the wall into the middle of the warehouse.

There was a sharp crack – like the sound of a whip, only many times louder – and a blinding fireball flashed into being on the wall. A blast of unbearable heat seared against her; she flung herself back into the future and was rewarded with cool air and normal light. Purple after-images danced before her eyes. Her skin was still tingling. She patted her hair, wondering if any had been burned off, but it seemed to be all there.

The others were still watching the place where she had disappeared. She called I'm here! and ran up to them.

Was it a pyrotic? asked the cheerful fireman. Seeing her vanish must have convinced him she really could travel in time.

Nancy shook her head dolefully. I never saw a pyrotic do anything like that.

I knew it, we're back where we started. Lefevre groaned.

She could have been teleporting, said Phillips thoughtfully. When you went back in time just then, where was I standing?

By those crates over there – just past where that man in white is. Hold it, I saw what that explosion was like. How did you get out of the warehouse alive?

There's a door behind the crates. You can't see it from here. Phillips turned to Lefevre. "That proves it, I think. She was in two places at the same time."

We have to accept that now, however incredible it may seem, said Lefevre. You must all agree, Nancy is our best hope of breaking up Wolfson's protection circle, as things stand.

"Our best hope? Our only hope." said the sergeant, who was still standing with them.

But will you help us? asked Lefevre.

She will be delighted to help, said Walther. She wants the reward offered by the insurance companies, for her trip to London.

London? Lefevre blinked.

Never mind, said Nancy. Mr. Walther's right. All I have to do is track down this gang, find out how they set fire to the shops and tell the police. Then I just collect the reward. Twenty thousand royals, Cyril said. Cyril’s good.

It sounds so simple when she says it, sighed the sergeant.

Now you try doing it, my girl, the fireman told her.

I don't know your name, said Nancy, but I'm beginning to like you!

That so? Too bad I've got a wife and three kids at home. I know kids.

A middle-aged, well-dressed man came up to them. He was the manager of the Foreland Stores, and one of Walther's many acquaintances. Ah, Lefevre. Have your men discovered anything?

Not yet, Mr. Wright. They're still taking samples. It fits the pattern of the earlier fires, you can see that yourself, and if there are any further developments we'll inform you at once. I understand the damage was relatively slight?

Yes, we had cleared the warehouse for the monthly shipment. The fire had little chance to spread, and most of the actual damage was done by water. Wright scowled at the fireman, who grinned. I trust we shall soon hear that the men responsible have been dealt with, Chief Constable. This has gone on too long!

We're about to start on a promising new line of approach, said Lefevre. I think we'll get them this time.

I sincerely hope so, said Wright coldly, and walked off across the sea of ashes.

That is telling us, said Nancy. She had not liked Wright. The sooner I start work the better.

Quite right. Lefevre turned to the sergeant. Hendricks, Inspector Jones can handle the press conference. I'm going back to the station.

#

The police car drove past the villa and halted in a little side lane, where a small wood formed a barrier between them and the house. Lefevre, Walther and Nancy got out, leaving the driver in the car. Nancy liked the green-tinted sunlight of the wood; it reminded her of a forest near her old home. They walked down the lane to a spot where they could see the villa through the hedge without being seen.

As Nancy studied the bungalow, with its attractive white concrete and wooden panels, she remembered the instructions Lefevre had given her in the police station.

There were three men running the protection racket: Max Wolfson and William Samuels, who actually sold the insurance policies, and Ed Briggs, a tough ex-convict who acted as a general handyman. There was believed to be a fourth, the man who actually started the fires, but nobody had ever seen him. Nancy's job was to get photographs or voice recordings so that the mysterious firebug could be identified. She was going to go back in time to last night, carrying a small camera and a wire recorder.

Wolfson and Samuels were at home last night, Lefevre had said. They could have had a last-minute conference with the firebug about this morning's attack on the Foreland Stores.

Nancy had studied the police maps, and the photographs of Wolfson, Samuels and Briggs. It all appealed to her sense of humour, although Lefevre and Walther saw nothing funny in the situation.

She finished studying the villa and checked her equipment. Camera, recorder – both on a necklace so that they would resemble lucky charms or lockets – and a bag of dry earth. Okay, I'm ready. I'll go now.

Take care of yourself, said Lefevre earnestly.

Nancy sniffed – she always ignored this sort of advice – and slid into the previous night. The warm sunlit wood was replaced by pale shadows looming out of the darkness. She walked slowly down the lane towards the main road, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the faint light of the quarter moon. There were no clouds, but there was an orange glow in the sky above Sacaradown.

Reaching the road, she made her way to the villa. Her footsteps sounded horribly loud in the lonely night, even though the only noise came from loose gravel scraping beneath her feet.

The gate was open. She padded up the concrete path to the front door. The curtains of the living room were drawn, but they were thin and the light from the room sent a warm glow over the smooth lawn sloping down to the road. Despite this, she would have ample cover. A few ornamental bushes grew on the lawn, clipped into the shapes of giant chessmen, and she could lie in wait behind those. She could smell wallflowers somewhere nearby.

Had the firebug turned up already? She went to the window, hoping to see into the room. But however thin the curtains might be, there were no gaps in them. She could hear piano music and a couple of male voices, but that was all. There was no way of knowing whether the firebug was in the house or not.

Nancy did not intend to wait all night for the firebug to arrive or depart. She sprinkled the