Read Online Dangerous Visions by edited by Harlan Ellison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: edited by Harlan Ellison
Tags: Science-Fiction
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conscience, Cassiday."
He protested. It was useless.
Within the glowing sphere of golden light they made their adjustments on him. They entered him and altered him, and turned his perceptions inward, so that he might feed on his own misery like a vulture tearing at its entrails. That would be informative. Cassiday objected until he no longer had the power to object, and when his awareness returned it was too late to object.
"No," he murmured. In the yellow gleam he saw the faces of Beryl and Mirabel and Lureen. "You shouldn't have done this to me. You're torturing me . . .like you would a fly . . . ."
There was no response. They sent him away, back to Earth. They returned him to the travertine towers and the rumbling slidewalks, to the house of pleasure on 485th Street, to the islands of light that blazed in the sky, to the eleven billion people. They turned him loose to go among them, and suffer, and report on his sufferings. And a time would come when they would release him, but not yet.
Here is Cassiday:
nailed to his cross .
Afterword:
One of the first science fiction stories I wrote was a deadly grim portrayal of a New York compelled into cannibalism. It was sufficiently realistic so that no one would buy it for four years, and only an inspired promotion job by the editor of this present anthology got it into print at all.
Now, twelve or thirteen years later, I've turned from the literal depiction of cannibalism to the symbolic presentation of vampirism, which I suppose indicates a healthy progression of morbidity. Every writer returns to his own obsessions when given a free hand, and every situation he invents, no matter how grotesque, says something about the nature of human relationships. If I seem to be saying that we devour each other, literally or figuratively, that we drain substance from one another, that we practice vampirism and cannibalism, so be it. Beneath any grotesquerie lies its opposite; behind the grimness of cannibalism lies the video sentimentality, "People need people." To devour, if nothing else.
No apologies offered. No excuses. Just a story, a made-up fiction, a fantasy about future times and other worlds. Nothing more than that.
Introduction to
THE DAY AFTER THE DAY THE MARTIANS CAME:
There is very little that can be said about Frederik Pohl, except everything. He is the editor of Galaxy Magazine ; he was the man who, in 1953, conceived and edited the justly famous series of original anthologies called Star Science Fiction Stories ; he was the co-author, with Cyril Kornbluth, of The Space Merchants ; he was the anthologist who saved Cordwainer Smith's "Scanners Live in Vain" from obscurity in his 1952 collection, Beyond the End of Time ; he was the bloodhound who tracked down Dr. Linebarger, who was Cordwainer Smith, and brought him back to the field of speculative fiction; he is the talent scout who set the tone for all of Ballantine Books' science fiction; he is the lecturer who roams the United States promulgating the latest in science and incidentally serving as good-will ambassador for the field of speculative fiction; he is the editor who ruthlessly blue-penciled a recent, brilliant story of mine on the grounds the words "douche bag" and "privates" were offensive. Well, no one's perfect.
Fred Pohl is an extremely tall man in his middle forties, who commutes between the Hudson Street offices of Galaxy and the Red Bank, New Jersey, home of his family. In the former he considers the possibilities of the world we are making for ourselves, and in the latter he studies television programs that carry the seeds of that world. He is obviously disturbed by what he sees. As the story that follows will attest.
Just a phrase or two about this story. It handles a terribly complex problem in the most basic, nitty-gritty terms: reducing irrational human reactions to their lowest possible common denominator, in order that they may be seen for the insensibilities they
He protested. It was useless.
Within the glowing sphere of golden light they made their adjustments on him. They entered him and altered him, and turned his perceptions inward, so that he might feed on his own misery like a vulture tearing at its entrails. That would be informative. Cassiday objected until he no longer had the power to object, and when his awareness returned it was too late to object.
"No," he murmured. In the yellow gleam he saw the faces of Beryl and Mirabel and Lureen. "You shouldn't have done this to me. You're torturing me . . .like you would a fly . . . ."
There was no response. They sent him away, back to Earth. They returned him to the travertine towers and the rumbling slidewalks, to the house of pleasure on 485th Street, to the islands of light that blazed in the sky, to the eleven billion people. They turned him loose to go among them, and suffer, and report on his sufferings. And a time would come when they would release him, but not yet.
Here is Cassiday:
nailed to his cross .
Afterword:
One of the first science fiction stories I wrote was a deadly grim portrayal of a New York compelled into cannibalism. It was sufficiently realistic so that no one would buy it for four years, and only an inspired promotion job by the editor of this present anthology got it into print at all.
Now, twelve or thirteen years later, I've turned from the literal depiction of cannibalism to the symbolic presentation of vampirism, which I suppose indicates a healthy progression of morbidity. Every writer returns to his own obsessions when given a free hand, and every situation he invents, no matter how grotesque, says something about the nature of human relationships. If I seem to be saying that we devour each other, literally or figuratively, that we drain substance from one another, that we practice vampirism and cannibalism, so be it. Beneath any grotesquerie lies its opposite; behind the grimness of cannibalism lies the video sentimentality, "People need people." To devour, if nothing else.
No apologies offered. No excuses. Just a story, a made-up fiction, a fantasy about future times and other worlds. Nothing more than that.
Introduction to
THE DAY AFTER THE DAY THE MARTIANS CAME:
There is very little that can be said about Frederik Pohl, except everything. He is the editor of Galaxy Magazine ; he was the man who, in 1953, conceived and edited the justly famous series of original anthologies called Star Science Fiction Stories ; he was the co-author, with Cyril Kornbluth, of The Space Merchants ; he was the anthologist who saved Cordwainer Smith's "Scanners Live in Vain" from obscurity in his 1952 collection, Beyond the End of Time ; he was the bloodhound who tracked down Dr. Linebarger, who was Cordwainer Smith, and brought him back to the field of speculative fiction; he is the talent scout who set the tone for all of Ballantine Books' science fiction; he is the lecturer who roams the United States promulgating the latest in science and incidentally serving as good-will ambassador for the field of speculative fiction; he is the editor who ruthlessly blue-penciled a recent, brilliant story of mine on the grounds the words "douche bag" and "privates" were offensive. Well, no one's perfect.
Fred Pohl is an extremely tall man in his middle forties, who commutes between the Hudson Street offices of Galaxy and the Red Bank, New Jersey, home of his family. In the former he considers the possibilities of the world we are making for ourselves, and in the latter he studies television programs that carry the seeds of that world. He is obviously disturbed by what he sees. As the story that follows will attest.
Just a phrase or two about this story. It handles a terribly complex problem in the most basic, nitty-gritty terms: reducing irrational human reactions to their lowest possible common denominator, in order that they may be seen for the insensibilities they
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