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  ORBIT 18

  Edited by Damon Knight

  HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS

  New York, Hagerstown, San Francisco, London

  ORBIT 18. Copyright © 1976 by Damon Knight.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews: For information address Harper 8c Row, Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022. Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, Toronto.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-25089

  ISBN: 0-06-012433-4

  Designed by C. Linda Dingler

  Illustrations by Richard Wilhelm and Gary Cohn

  They Say

  Something different happens when large numbers of women begin to read and write science fiction, as has happened in recent years. By its nature an expansive genre, SF could conceivably incorporate anything, and as it has grown it has taken in other genres. To some degree this mitigates against the sexual polarities of extreme genreness. It is hard to say whether SF has gotten better because it is more androgynous, or vice versa; in any case, both have happened at the same time. When a genre moves from “pulp” to “good,” the characters appear more real, more complicated, more subtly drawn. The author’s point of view seems more intelligent, more humane, more philosophical. But actually what we see in the old pulp characters is all too real—we see naked male and female power drives at war. In what we call “literature,” these characters are more civilized. Male and female, and the male and female within any character, are more at peace.

  As a result, we have a double standard for literature. On the one hand, a book is “good” if it allows the reader to feel, in a cathartic way, the exciting and violent emotions associated with our cultural neuroses. On the other hand it is “good” if it allows the reader to place these emotions within a rational framework and not let them get out of hand. We don’t admit it, but when we say books are “good” in this sense, we mean morally good. Works of fiction that mean the most to the most people have elements of both kinds of “good,” but in the proper order—the emotions must be felt, then reordered in some enlarging and therapeutic way. They are civilizing works, works of maturity, and do not convey the sense that they were written especially by or for a woman or a man.

  —“What’s New from Venus?” by Barbara Damrosch, Village Voice, July 7, 1975

  * * *

  At college, for instance, I learned—and believed—that “really important literature” dealt with bullfighting, storms at sea, barroom brawls, rape (from the man’s standpoint), and grunts and groans. .. . Everybody said, “That’s raw and elemental and true and deep.”

  A story I wrote for my class was about a prom; they said it was funny, but trivial. A brawl was important but going into a ladies’ room at a dance and counting up to twenty-five so people would think you were busy doing something was not.

  I was convinced I didn’t know what real life was like—I was no bullfighter or mountain climber, and even Anna Karenina and Helen of Troy and Cleopatra didn’t have too much to do with me personally.

  So I hit on this stupid-clever idea: “I’ll write about Mars. Nobody knows about that. They can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

  Even then, I found myself writing adventure stories about men and love stories about women.

  Gradually I began to ask myself, “Why is this? I want to write about a woman who is a hero in this fantasy land.”

  It took me three weeks even to begin. I sat there at the typewriter and just shook all over and said to myself, “People will throw stones at me in the street. Critics will say I have penis envy.”

  But I finally did it, though I still tried my damndest to make my character beautiful. I kept writing how lovely she was and she kept looking up from the typewriter and saying, “Come on, who are you kidding?”

  —Joanna Russ, quoted in the Los Angeles Times, June 9, 1975

  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS IS YOUR CRISIS

  A loaf of bread, a wall TV, and thou . . .

  Kate Wilhelm

  4 P.M. Friday

  Lottie’s factory closed early on Friday, as most of them did now. It was four when she got home, after stopping for frozen dinners, bread, sandwich meats, beer. She switched on the wall TV screen before she put her bag down. In the kitchen she turned on another set, a portable, and watched it as she put the food away. She had missed four hours.

  They were in the mountains. That was good. Lottie liked it when they chose mountains. A stocky man was sliding down a slope, feet out before him, legs stiff—too conscious of the camera, though. Lottie couldn’t tell if he had meant to slide, but he did not look happy. She turned her attention to the others.

  A young woman was walking slowly, waist high in ferns, so apparently unconscious of the camera that it could only be a pose this early in the game. She looked vaguely familiar. Her blond hair was loose, like a girl in a shampoo commercial, Lottie decided. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember where she had seen the girl. A model, probably, wanting to be a star. She would wander aimlessly, not even trying for the prize, content with the publicity she was getting.

  The other woman was another sort altogether. A bit overweight, her thighs bulged in the heavy trousers the contestants wore; her hair was dyed black and fastened with a rubberband in a no-nonsense manner. She was examining a tree intently. Lottie nodded at her. Everything about her spoke of purpose, of concentration, of planning. She’d do.

  The final contestant was a tall black man, in his forties probably. He wore old-fashioned eyeglasses—a mistake. He’d lose them and be seriously handicapped. He kept glancing about with a lopsided grin.

  Lottie had finished putting the groceries away; she returned to the living room to sit before the large unit that gave her a better view of the map, above the sectioned screen. The Andes, she had decided, and was surprised and pleased to find she was wrong. Alaska! There were bears and wolves in Alaska still, and elk and moose.

  The picture shifted, and a thrill of anticipation raised the hairs on Lottie’s arms and scalp. Now the main screen was evenly divided; one half showed the man who had been sliding. He was huddled against the cliff, breathing very hard. On the other half of the screen was an enlarged aerial view. Lottie gasped. Needlelike snow-capped peaks, cliffs, precipices, a raging stream… The yellow dot of light that represented the man was on the edge of a steep hill covered with boulders and loose gravel. If he got on that, Lottie thought, he’d be lost. From where he was, there was no way he could know what lay ahead. She leaned forward, examining him for signs that he understood, that he was afraid, anything. His face was empty; all he needed now was more air than he could get with his labored breathing.

  Andy Stevens stepped in front of the aerial map; it was three feet taller than he. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, there is only this scrub growth to Dr. Burnside’s left. Those roots might be strong enough to hold, but I’d guess they are shallowly rooted, wouldn’t you? And if he chooses this direction, he’ll need something to grasp, won’t he?” Andy had his tape measure and a pointer. He looked worried. He touched the yellow dot of light. “Here he is. As you can see, he is resting, for the moment, on a narrow ledge after his slide down sixty-five feet of loose dirt and gravel. He doesn’t appear to be hurt. Our own Dr. Lederman is watching him along with the rest of us, and he assures me that Dr. Burnside is not injured.”

  Andy pointed out the hazards of Dr. Burnside’s precarious position, and the dangers involved in moving. Lottie nodded, her lips tight and grim. It was off to a good start.

  6 P.M. Friday

 
Butcher got home, as usual, at six. Lottie heard him at the door but didn’t get up to open it for him. Dr. Burnside was still sitting there. He had to move. Move, you bastard! Do something!

  “Whyn’t you unlock the door?” Butcher yelled, yanking off his jacket.

  Lottie paid no attention. Butcher always came home mad, resentful because she had got off early, mad at his boss because the warehouse didn’t close down early, mad at traffic, mad at everything.

  “They say anything about them yet?” Butcher asked, sitting in his recliner.

  Lottie shook her head. Move, you bastard! Move!

  The man began to inch his way to the left and Lottie’s heart thumped, her hands clenched.

  “What’s the deal?” Butcher asked hoarsely, already responding to Lottie’s tension.

  “Dead end that way,” Lottie muttered, her gaze on the screen. “Slide with boulders and junk if he tries to go down. He’s gotta go right.”

  The man moved cautiously, never lifting his feet from the ground but sliding them along, testing each step. He paused again, this time with less room than before. He looked desperate. He was perspiring heavily. Now he could see the way he had chosen offered little hope of getting down. More slowly than before, he began to back up; dirt and gravel shifted constantly.

  The amplifiers picked up the noise of the stuff rushing downward, like a waterfall heard from a distance, and now and then a muttered unintelligible word from the man. The volume came up: he was cursing. Again and again he stopped. He was pale and sweat ran down his face. He didn’t move his hands from the cliff to wipe it away.

  Lottie was sweating too. Her lips moved occasionally with a faint curse or prayer. Her hands gripped the sofa.

  7:30 P.M. Friday

  Lottie fell back onto the sofa with a grunt, weak from sustained tension. They were safe. It had taken over an hour to work his way to this place where the cliff and steep slope gave way to a gentle hill. The man was sprawled out face down, his back heaving.

  Butcher abruptly got up and went to the bathroom. Lottie couldn’t move yet. The screen shifted and the aerial view filled the larger part. Andy pointed out the contestants’ lights and finally began the recap.

  Lottie watched on the portable set as she got out their frozen dinners and heated the oven. Dr. Lederman was talking about Angie Dawes, the young aspiring actress whose problem was that of having been overprotected all her life. He said she was a potential suicide, and the panel of examining physicians had agreed Crisis Therapy would be helpful.

  The next contestant was Mildred Ormsby, a chemist, divorced, no children. She had started on a self-destructive course through drugs, said Dr. Lederman, and would be benefited by Crisis Therapy.

  The tall black man, Clyde Williams, was an economist; he taught at Harvard and had tried to murder his wife and their three children by burning down their house with them in it. Crisis Therapy had been indicated.

  Finally, Dr. Edward Burnside, the man who had started the show with such drama, was shown being interviewed. Forty-one, unmarried, living with a woman, he was a statistician for a major firm. Recently he had started to feed the wrong data into the computer, aware but unable to stop himself.

  Dr. Lederman’s desk was superimposed on the aerial view and he started his taped explanation of what Crisis Therapy was. Lottie made coffee. When she looked again Eddie was still lying on the ground, exhausted, maybe even crying. She wished he would roll over so she could see if he was crying.

  Andy returned to explain how the game was played: The winner received one million dollars, after taxes, and all the contestants were undergoing Crisis Therapy that would enrich their lives beyond measure. Andy explained the automatic, air-cushioned, five-day cameras focused electronically on the contestants, the orbiting satellite that made it possible to keep them under observation at all times, the light amplification, infrared system that would keep them visible all night. This part made Lottie’s head ache.

  Next came the full-screen commercial for the wall units. Only those who had them could see the entire show. Down the left side of the screen were the four contestants, each in a separate panel, and over them a topographical map that showed the entire region, where the exit points were, the nearest roads, towns. Center screen could be divided any way the director chose. Above this picture was the show’s slogan: “This Is Your Crisis!” and a constantly running commercial. In the far right corner there was an aerial view of the selected site, with the colored dots of light. Mildred’s was red, Angie’s was green, Eddie’s yellow, Clyde’s blue. Anything else larger than a rabbit or squirrel that moved into the viewing area would be white.

  The contestants were shown being taken to the site, first by airplane, then helicopter. They were left there on noon Friday and had until midnight Sunday to reach one of the dozen trucks that ringed the area. The first one to report in at one of the trucks was the winner.

  10 P.M. Friday

  Lottie made up her bed on the couch while Butcher opened his recliner full length and brought out a blanket and pillow from the bedroom. He had another beer and Lottie drank milk and ate cookies, and presently they turned off the light and there was only the glow from the screen in the room.

  The contestants were settled down for the night, each in a sleeping bag, campfires burning low, the long northern twilight still not faded. Andy began to explain the contents of the backpacks.

  Lottie closed her eyes, opened them several times, just to check, and finally fell asleep.

  1 A.M. Saturday

  Lottie sat up suddenly, wide awake, her heart thumping. The red beeper had come on. On center screen the girl was sitting up, staring into darkness, obviously frightened. She must have heard something. Only her dot showed on her screen, but there was no way for her to know that. Lottie lay down again, watching, and became aware of Butcher’s heavy snoring. She shook his leg and he shifted and for a few moments breathed deeply, without the snore, then began again.

  Francine Dumont was the night M.C.; now she stepped to one side of the screen. “If she panics,” Francine said in a hushed voice, “it could be the end of the game for her.” She pointed out the hazards in the area—boulders, a steep drop-off, the thickening trees on two sides. “Let’s watch,” she whispered and stepped back out of the way.

  The volume was turned up; there were rustlings in the undergrowth. Lottie closed her eyes and tried to hear them through the girl’s ears, and felt only contempt for her. The girl was stiff with fear. She began to build up her campfire. Lottie nodded. She’d stay awake all night, and by late tomorrow she’d be finished. She would be lifted out, the end of Miss Smarty Pants Dawes.

  Lottie sniffed and closed her eyes, but now Butcher’s snores were louder. If only he didn’t sound like a dying man, she thought—sucking in air, holding it, holding it, then suddenly erupting into a loud snort that turned into a gurgle. She pressed her hands over her ears and finally slept again.

  2 P.M. Saturday

  There were beer cans on the table, on the floor around it. There was half a loaf of bread and a knife with dried mustard and the mustard jar without a top. The salami was drying out, hard, and there were onion skins and bits of brown lettuce and an open jar of pickles. The butter had melted in its dish, and the butter knife was on the floor, spreading a dark stain on the rug.

  Nothing was happening on the screen now. Angie Dawes hadn’t left the fem patch. She was brushing her hair.

  Mildred was following the stream, but it became a waterfall ahead and she would have to think of something else.

  The stout man was still making his way downward as directly as possible, obviously convinced it was the fastest way and no more dangerous than any other.

  The black man was being logical, like Mildred, Lottie admitted. He watched the shadows and continued in a southeasterly direction, tackling the hurdles as he came to them, methodically, without haste. Ahead of him, invisible to him, but clearly visible to the floating cameras and the audience, were a mother b
ear and two cubs in a field of blueberries.

  Things would pick up again in an hour or so, Lottie knew. Butcher came back. “You have time for a quick shower,” Lottie said. He was beginning to smell.

  “Shut up.” Butcher sprawled in the recliner, his feet bare.

  Lottie tried not to see his thick toes, grimy with warehouse dust. She got up and went to the kitchen for a bag, and started to throw the garbage into it. The cans clattered.

  “Knock it off, will ya!” Butcher yelled. He stretched to see around her. He was watching the blond braid her hair. Lottie threw another can into the bag.

  9 P.M. Saturday

  Butcher sat on the edge of the chair, biting a fingernail. “See that?” he breathed. “You see it?” He was shiny with perspiration.

  Lottie nodded, watching the white dots move on the aerial map, watching the blue dot moving, stopping for a long time, moving again. Clyde and the bears were approaching each other minute by minute, and Clyde knew now that there was something ahead of him.

  “You see that?” Butcher cried out hoarsely.

  “Just be still, will you?” Lottie said through her teeth. The black man was sniffing the air.

  “You can smell a goddam lousy bear a country mile!” Butcher said. “He knows.”

  “For God’s sake, shut up!”

  “Yeah, he knows all right,” Butcher said softly. “Mother bear, cubs . . . she’ll tear him apart.”

  “Shut up! Shut up!”

  Clyde began to back away. He took half a dozen steps, then turned and ran. The bear stood up; behind her the cubs tumbled in play. She turned her head in a listening attitude. She growled and dropped to four feet and began to amble in the direction Clyde had taken. They were about an eighth of a mile apart. Any second she would be able to see him.

  Clyde ran faster, heading for thick trees. Past the trees was a cliff he had skirted earlier.

  “Saw a cave or something up there,” Butcher muttered. “Betcha. Heading for a cave.”