"No," he said. "No, you can't."
Her glance flicked from the chronometer to the door of the air lock then down to the pad and pencil she still held. She shifted her position slightly to lay them on the bench beside her, moving one foot out a little. For the first time he saw that she was not wearing Vegan gypsy sandals but only cheap imitations; the expensive Vegan leather was some kind of grained plastic, the silver buckle was gilded iron, the jewels were colored glass. Daddy's little shop just brought in a bare living— She must have left college in her second year, to take the course in linguistics that would enable her to make her own way and help her brother provide for her parents, earning what she could by part-time work after classes were over. Her personal possessions on the Stardust would be taken back to her parents—they would neither be of much value nor occupy much storage space on the return voyage.
* * *
"Isn't it—" She stopped, and he looked at her questioningly. "Isn't it cold in here?" she asked, almost apologetically. "Doesn't it seem cold to you?"
"Why, yes," he said. He saw by the main temperature gauge that the room was at precisely normal temperature. "Yes, it's colder than it should be."
"I wish Gerry would get back before it's too late. Do you really think he will, and you didn't just say so to make me feel better?"
"I think he will—they said he would be in pretty soon." On the viewscreen Lotus Lake had gone into the shadow but for the thin blue line of its western edge and it was apparent he had overestimated the time she would have in which to talk to her brother. Reluctantly, he said to her, "His camp will be out of radio range in a few minutes; he's on that part of Woden that's in the shadow"—he indicated the viewscreen—"and the turning of Woden will put him beyond contact. There may not be much time left when he comes in—not much time to talk to him before he fades out. I wish I could do something about it—I would call him right now if I could."
"Not even as much time as I will have to stay?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then—" She straightened and looked toward the air lock with pale resolution. "Then I'll go when Gerry passes beyond range. I won't wait any longer after that—I won't have anything to wait for."
Again there was nothing he could say.
"Maybe I shouldn't wait at all. Maybe I'm selfish—maybe it would be better for Gerry if you just told him about it afterward."
There was an unconscious pleading for denial in the way she spoke and he said, "He wouldn't want you to do that, to not wait for him."
"It's already coming dark where he is, isn't it? There will be all the long night before him, and Mama and Daddy don't know yet that I won't ever be coming back like I promised them I would. I've caused everyone I love to be hurt, haven't I? I didn't want to—I didn't intend to."
"It wasn't your fault," he said. "It wasn't your fault. They'll know that. They'll understand."
"At first I was so afraid to die that I was a coward and thought only of myself. Now, I see how selfish I was. The terrible thing about dying like this is not that I'll be gone but that I'll never see them again; never be able to tell them that I didn't take them for granted; never be able to tell them I knew of the sacrifices they made to make my life happier, and I knew all the things they did for me and that I loved them so much more than I ever told them. I've never told them any of those things. You don't tell them such things when you're young and your life is all before you—you're afraid of sounding sentimental and silly.
"But it's so different when you have to die—you wish you had told them while you could and you wish you could tell them you're sorry for all the little mean things you ever did or said to them. You wish you could tell them that you didn't really mean to ever hurt their feelings and for them to only remember that you always loved them far more than you ever let them know."
"You don't have to tell them that," he said. "They will know—they've always known it."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "How can you be sure? My people are strangers to you."
"Wherever you go, human nature and human hearts are the same."
"And they will know what I want them to know—that I love them?"
"They've always known it, in a way far better than you could ever put in words for them."
"I keep remembering the things they did for me, and it's the little things they did that seem to be the most important to me, now. Like Gerry—he sent me a bracelet of fire-rubies on my sixteenth birthday. It was beautiful—it must have cost him a month's pay. Yet, I remember him more for what he did the night my kitten got run over in the street. I was only six years old and he held me in his arms and wiped away my tears and told me not to cry, that Flossy was gone for just a little while, for just long enough to get herself a new fur coat and she would be on the foot of my bed the very next morning. I believed him and quit crying and went to sleep dreaming about my kitten coming back. When I woke up the next morning, there was Flossy on the foot of my bed in a brand-new white fur coat, just like he had said she would be.
"It wasn't until a long time later that Mama told me Gerry had got the pet-shop owner out of bed at four in the morning and, when the man got mad about it, Gerry told him he was either going to go down and sell him the white kitten right then or he'd break his neck."
"It's always the little things you remember people by; all the little things they did because they wanted to do them for you. You've done the same for Gerry and your father and mother; all kinds of things that you've forgotten about but that they will never forget."
"I hope I have. I would like for them to remember me like that."
"They will."
"I wish—" She swallowed. "The way I'll die—I wish they wouldn't ever think of that. I've read how people look who die in space—their insides all ruptured and exploded and their lungs out between their teeth and then, a few seconds later, they're all dry and shapeless and horribly ugly. I don't want them to ever think of me as something dead and horrible, like that."
"You're their own, their child and their sister. They could never think of you other than the way you would want them to; the way you looked the last time they saw you."
"I'm still afraid," she said. "I can't help it, but I don't want Gerry to know it. If he gets back in time, I'm going to act like I'm not afraid at all and—"
The signal buzzer interrupted her, quick and imperative.
"Gerry!" She came to her feet. "It's Gerry, now!"
* * *
He spun the volume control knob and asked: "Gerry Cross?"
"Yes," her brother answered, an undertone of tenseness to his reply. "The bad news—what is it?"
She answered for him, standing close behind him and leaning down a little toward the communicator, her hand resting small and cold on his shoulder.
"Hello, Gerry." There was only a faint quaver to betray the careful casualness of her voice. "I wanted to see you—"
"Marilyn!" There was sudden and terrible apprehension in the way he spoke her name. "What are you doing on that EDS?"
"I wanted to see you," she said again. "I wanted to see you, so I hid on this ship—"
"You hid on it?"
"I'm a stowaway. . . . I didn't know what it would mean—"
"Marilyn!" It was the cry of a man who calls hopeless and desperate to someone already and forever gone from him. "What have you done?"
"I. . . . it's not—" Then her own composure broke and the cold little hand gripped his shoulder convulsively. "Don't, Gerry—I only wanted to see you; I didn't intend to hurt you. Please, Gerry, don't feel like that—"
Something warm and wet splashed on his wrist and he slid out of the chair, to help her into it and swing the microphone down to her own level.
"Don't feel like that—Don't let me go knowing you feel like that—"
The sob she had tried to hold back choked in her throat and her brother spoke to her. "Don't cry, Marilyn." His voice was suddenly deep and infinitely gentle, with all the pain held out of it. "Don't cry,
sis—you mustn't do that. It's all right, honey—everything is all right."
"I—" Her lower lip quivered and she bit into it. "I didn't want you to feel that way—I just wanted us to say good-by because I have to go in a minute."
"Sure—sure. That's the way it will be, sis. I didn't mean to sound the way I did." Then his voice changed to a tone of quick and urgent demand. "EDS—have you called the Stardust? Did you check with the computers?"
"I called the Stardust almost an hour ago. It can't turn back, there are no other cruisers within forty light-years, and there isn't enough fuel."
"Are you sure that the computers had the correct data—sure of everything?"
"Yes—do you think I could ever let it happen if I wasn't sure? I did everything I could do. If there was anything at all I could do now, I would do it."
"He tried to help me, Gerry." Her lower lip was no longer trembling and the short sleeves of her blouse were wet where she had dried her tears. "No one can help me and I'm not going to cry any more and everything will be all right with you and Daddy and Mama, won't it?"
"Sure—sure it will. We'll make out fine."
Her brother's words were beginning to come in more faintly and he turned the volume control to maximum. "He's going out of range," he said to her. "He'll be gone within another minute."
"You're fading out, Gerry," she said. "You're going out of range. I wanted to tell you—but I can't, now. We must say good-by so soon—but maybe I'll see you again. Maybe I'll come to you in your dreams with my hair in braids and crying because the kitten in my arms is dead; maybe I'll be the touch of a breeze that whispers to you as it goes by; maybe I'll be one of those gold-winged larks you told me about, singing my silly head off to you; maybe, at times, I'll be nothing you can see but you will know I'm there beside you. Think of me like that, Gerry; always like that and not—the other way."
Dimmed to a whisper by the turning of Woden, the answer came back:
"Always like that, Marilyn—always like that and never any other way."
"Our time is up, Gerry—I have to go, now. Good—" Her voice broke in mid-word and her mouth tried to twist into crying. She pressed her hand hard against it and when she spoke again the words came clear and true:
"Good-by, Gerry."
Faint and ineffably poignant and tender, the last words came from the cold metal of the communicator:
"Good-by, little sister—"
* * *
She sat motionless in the hush that followed, as though listening to the shadow-echoes of the words as they died away, then she turned away from the communicator, toward the air lock, and he pulled down the black lever beside him. The inner door of the air lock slid swiftly open, to reveal the bare little cell that was waiting for her, and she walked to it.
She walked with her head up and the brown curls brushing her shoulders, with the white sandals stepping as sure and steady as the fractional gravity would permit and the gilded buckles twinkling with little lights of blue and red and crystal. He let her walk alone and made no move to help her, knowing she would not want it that way. She stepped into the air lock and turned to face him, only the pulse in her throat to betray the wild beating of her heart.
"I'm ready," she said.
He pushed the lever up and the door slid its quick barrier between them, enclosing her in black and utter darkness for her last moments of life. It clicked as it locked in place and he jerked down the red lever. There was a slight waver to the ship as the air gushed from the lock, a vibration to the wall as though something had bumped the outer door in passing, then there was nothing and the ship was dropping true and steady again. He shoved the red lever back to close the door on the empty air lock and turned away, to walk to the pilot's chair with the slow steps of a man old and weary.
Back in the pilot's chair he pressed the signal button of the normal-space transmitter. There was no response; he had expected none. Her brother would have to wait through the night until the turning of Woden permitted contact through Group One.
It was not yet time to resume deceleration and he waited while the ship dropped endlessly downward with him and the drives purred softly. He saw that the white hand of the supplies closet temperature gauge was on zero. A cold equation had been balanced and he was alone on the ship. Something shapeless and ugly was hurrying ahead of him, going to Woden where its brother was waiting through the night, but the empty ship still lived for a little while with the presence of the girl who had not known about the forces that killed with neither hatred nor malice. It seemed, almost, that she still sat small and bewildered and frightened on the metal box beside him, her words echoing hauntingly clear in the void she had left behind her:
I didn't do anything to die for—I didn't do anything—
Afterword by Eric Flint
There are smart writers, and there are dumb writers, and one of the things that distinguishes them is that smart writers pay attention to what their editors tell them. Mind you, I don't always agree with my editors, but I never ignore them either—because, more often than not, they're likely to be right and I'm likely to be wrong.
The reason is simple. One of the occupational hazards of being a writer is that you invariably get a little too close to a story to see it clearly in its broadest dimensions. An editor—a good one, anyway—can provide you with that perspective.
I mention this because it bears on our decision to include this story in the anthology. When Jim first proposed it, I wasn't at all keen on the idea. For all its well-deserved fame, I've never liked "The Cold Equations." Dammit.
My dislike for it has nothing to do with the fact that it has an unhappy ending. It's enough to mention that I'm a lifelong fan of Fyodor Dostoyevsky to make clear that I'm not addicted to happy endings. What aggravates me about "The Cold Equations" is that the blasted plot makes no sense. The powerful impact of the story—and it is powerful, no question about it—is based entirely on a premise which I find completely implausible: to wit, that a spacecraft delivering critical supplies would be designed with no safety margin at all.
Oh, pfui. They don't make tricycles without a hefty safety margin. And I'm quite sure that if you traveled back in time and interviewed Ugh the Neanderthal, he'd explain to you that his wooden club is plenty thick enough to survive any impact he can foresee. He made damn sure of that before he ventured out of his cave. He may have a sloping forehead, but he's not an idiot.
Grumble, grumble. But . . .
Well, Jim's right. The problem is that any profession has certain occupational hazards, and one of those for a writer is that since you work all the time with plots you tend to get hypersensitive about their logic. It's the writer's equivalent of the well-known movie reviewer's syndrome: people who make a living reviewing movies always hate car chases. That's because they see too many of them.
But movies aren't made for critics, and stories aren't written to satisfy other writers. Jim's point was that, in the end, it just doesn't matter if the plot of "The Cold Equations" won't bear up to close scrutiny.
Does . . . not . . . matter.
And, it doesn't. I've now read the story many times, and the illogic of the plot always drives me nuts. Still, every time, that ending grabs me by the throat.
So, when all's said and done, I'm glad we included it. Whatever its flaws, "The Cold Equations" remains one of the most powerful SF stories ever written. But I would urge any reader with the interest to take a look at Godwin's other great story—his short novel The Survivors, which I first read at the age of twelve and which, many years later, I made the lead story in the Godwin volume I edited for Baen Books. (The Cold Equations & Other Stories, now available in paperback. Yes, that's a shameless plug. I get to do that. If being a writer has its occupational hazards, it also has its perks.)
Shambleau
by C. L. Moore
Preface by David Drake
Catherine L. Moore is rightly regarded as one of the most remarkable stylists in the SF field. She once descr
ibed the basic thread of her fiction as, "Love is the most dangerous thing."
"Shambleau" is a perfect illustration of both the above statements. It's about hard-bitten adventurers ranging the spaceways, meeting violence with violence . . . and it's nothing like any of the many other stories using the same elements being written then or written since then.
It was Moore's first story, written in a bank vault during the Depression because she had a typewriter and no work to do.
Her first story.
Shambleau! Ha . . . Shambleau!" The wild hysteria of the mob rocketed from wall to wall of Lakkdarol's narrow streets and the storming of heavy boots over the slag-red pavement made an ominous undernote to that swelling bay, "Shambleau! Shambleau!"
Northwest Smith heard it coming and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun's grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were common enough in the streets of Earth's latest colony on Mars—a raw, red little town where anything might happen, and very often did. But Northwest Smith, whose name is known and respected in every dive and wild outpost on a dozen wild planets, was a cautious man, despite his reputation. He set his back against the wall and gripped his pistol, and heard the rising shout come nearer and nearer.
Then into his range of vision flashed a red running figure, dodging like a hunted hare from shelter to shelter in the narrow street. It was a girl—a berry-brown girl in a single tattered garment whose scarlet burnt the eyes with its brilliance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesitate and lean one hand against the wall for support, and glance wildly around for shelter. She must not have seen him in the depths of the doorway, for as the bay of the mob grew louder and the pounding of feet sounded almost at the corner she gave a despairing little moan and dodged into the recess at his very side.