The 55th Golden Age of Science Fictioni MEGAPACK®: Charles E. Fritch E-Book

Charles E. Fritch

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 202

Beschreibung

The 55th Golden Age of Science Fictioni MEGAPACK®: Charles E. Fritch

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

ABOUT THE MEGAPACK® SERIES

ONCE UPON A MONBEAST…

COME INTO MY PARLOR

BREATHES THERE A MAN

THE ODYSSEY OF SAM MEECHAM

SKIN GAME

DANGER IN THE VOID

THE BIG LEAP

THE PACIFISTS

ESCAPE MECHANISM

I LIKE MARTIAN MUSIC

Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

The 55th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK®: Charles E. Fritchis copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press, LLC.

The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is aregistered trademark of Wildside Press, LLC.

All rights reserved.

* * * *

INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

Charles E. Fritch (1927–2012) was an American author and editor. He was born in Utica, New York and decided at age 10 that he wanted to become a science fiction writer. He began keeping story notes in a notebook. In an interview published in 2000, he said, “Writing is built-in, somehow. You are either going to be a writer or you’re not, you just have to do it.”

He served during World War II as a paratrooper and attended Syracuse University, where he earned a degree in English with a minor in Psychology. During the 1950s, he relocated to Los Angeles, where he met William F. Nolan with whom he been corresponding. Nolan introduced him to fellow authors in the area, including Charles Beaumont, and Fritch soon became a member of “The Group” (also referred to as The Southern California School of Writers), whose members included Beaumont, Nolan, John Tomerlin, George Clayton Johnson, Richard Matheson, OCee Ritch, Chad Oliver, and by extension, Ray Bradbury, Robert Bloch, and Harlan Ellison.

Fritch began selling stories to science fiction and mystery magazines and also published the magazine Gamma (with Nolan as managing editor). He also wrote mildly naughty mystery novels, including Negative of a Nude, 7 Deadly Sinners, and Strip for Murder.

He was an active science fiction fan and was good friends with Forrest J Ackerman, frequenting the “Ackermansion” and attending parties in his area.

Later in life, he became editor of Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, serving from 1979 until 1985, although he was involved in numerous other magazines and book series. His most famous short story, “Misfortune Cookie,” was adapted as an episode of the television series The Twilight Zone.

He is buried in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

ABOUT THE MEGAPACK® SERIES

Over the last decade, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

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TYPOS

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ONCE UPON A MONBEAST…

Originally published in Imagination, March 1952.

That’s not my real name up there, and in a little while you’ll discover the reason why. If you read my real name attached to this, you’d think it was just another fantastic yarn I batted out and then you’d forget it. And you’d laugh. You’ll probably laugh anyway—for awhile—but I’ve got to get this thing off my chest once and for all.

I was a struggling science-fiction author at the time it began—or rather, just before it began. Nope, that’s not right—struggling isn’t the word; it doesn’t express the blood, sweat and postage stamps that went into a creation, the hope and the futility that ran hot and cold with each morning’s mail, the psychological and financial insecurity that comes to a beginner crazy enough to tackle such a field. And then, to top it off, I got a letter from Donald MacDonald.

That’s not his real name either, and in a little while you’ll find out the reason why. He’s one of the all-time greats in science-fiction and still is, and a fan not knowing his work would be suspected of having lost his marbles. So a “name” author writes me a letter. Great, huh?

No.

I’d sent MacDonald a batch of my manuscripts, humbly asking the great man to favor them with a glance if a moment ever came while he was resting a bit between dashing off novelettes. And would he kindly let me know—frankly, honestly, without fear of injuring my delicate feelings—what he thought of the work?

He would. And did. The letter read:

Dear Mr. ….:

I appreciate your efforts at trying to crack the stf field, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disillusion you. I have read your manuscripts with considerable care and am sorry to report that you seem to have no talent for writing and especially none for science-fiction.

I would suggest you turn your energies to something else—saxophone playing, stamp collecting—anything else. If you insist upon writing, however, have you considered fillers?

Best wishes,

Donald MacDonald.

What I should have done was go out into the country, and let the gathering steam blow its lid. But I didn’t. If I’d gotten an automobile in motion, I would have run down the nearest boy scout just to see his blood spatter. Instead, I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Donald MacDonald.

It was a fine letter, full of colorful phrases and split infinitives. To hell with grammar at a time like that, I rationalized. I told him in no uncertain terms just what I thought of him and his criticisms. I’d be a science-fiction writer just to show him up for the incompetent he was, I said. I guess I said a lot of things. It was a letter full of more than fire and brimstone. It was radioactive.

I mailed it. Then I had a beer.

* * * *

Two days later, while I was bravely punching typewriter keys in a desperate effort to make good my boast, a small, haggard-looking fellow came to the door and rang the bell.

“We don’t want any,” I said.

He peered through the screen door and said, “I’m MacDonald,” in a nervous, uncertain voice.

“MacDonald who?”

“Donald MacDonald. May I come in?”

“You’re kidding. No, by God, you’re not. You are Donald MacDonald.”

He smiled wanly. “May I come in? I flew all the way—”

“Just to see me?”

“I—er—it was no trouble. I took a skyorie.”

“A what?”

“May I come in?”

“Sure, sure, c’mon in. Have a chair. Drink?”

“No, thanks,” he said, seating himself. “I’m afraid I’ve been—that is—er—No, I don’t believe so.”

“I got your letter,” I said, suddenly remembering. My awe at the presence of the great man was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of “Now, what the hell does he want?”

“And I got yours,” MacDonald said. “That’s why I’m here.” He gazed at my typewriter as though it were ready to bite him. “You didn’t take my advice?”

“Hardly,” I said, rather flippantly. “Once the bug has bitten you—”

“Have you had anything accepted?”

I stared at the rug, hating the man for asking. “No, not yet,” I admitted grudgingly, “but—”

“Then the bug hasn’t really bitten you yet,” he said. “You’ll know it when he does.”

“I—uh—guess my letter was a bit—er—abrupt,” I said, not knowing how else to fill the silence.

“You were pretty mad,” he admitted, “and I don’t blame you; I should have known better than to tell you that way. But in this game, you’ve—well, you’ve got to learn to take criticism. If your work’s bad, admit it and throw in the towel.”

“And mine’s bad?”

He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “I’m afraid so.”

But the steam had been released and the period of mourning had ended, so “I’ll improve,” I told him.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Possibly. What I can’t understand, though, is why a big name in science-fiction comes way the devil out here just to advise me to stop knocking my head against a wall.”

“Perhaps more than your head is at stake,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily. For a moment his pale face held a haunted look, and he rose, looking like a man unsure of himself. “I can’t talk you out of it, so I’d better go.”

“Wait a minute. Just what did you mean by that other remark?”

Donald MacDonald glanced around him as though he were afraid invisible beings might be eavesdropping. “You really want to know the reason why?”

I nodded.

“Your work is good,” he said seriously. “Too good. Not up to par on some points, but in a few years you’ll be going places. That’s why I sneaked away from them and came here—to beg you to reconsider, to stop this writing now, before it’s too late.”

“You mean—you can’t mean—you’re not—afraid of competition?”

He waved an annoyed hand. “Competition, hell! There’s always room for more. You don’t understand,” he went on, screwing his face into a look of determination. “I’m trying to save your peace of mind, your sanity perhaps. The mind is a great and powerful thing, sometimes dangerous. All these things—these alien creatures that a science-fiction author creates—”

“Yes?”

But he had straightened suddenly, a look of terror on a face gone ashen. He went to the door like a man being pushed, fumbled for the knob. “I beg of you, for your sake, forget it,” he called back. Then he was gone.

I went out on the porch but MacDonald was not in sight. I heard a strange noise as of the flapping of great leathery wings. A shadow passed across the lawn. I looked up.

Nothing.

* * * *

The next morning I got a small envelope in the mail. The letter inside read, “Enclosed is a check for your story THE MONBEAST….” I sank into the softest chair in the world and read those wonderful, wonderful words, and held the check in my hand and read those wonderful, wonderful figures. I was so in a trance I hardly noticed the tiny decimal point that scampered on tiny legs across the check. I hardly felt the small, sharp bite—but….

My first acceptance! It was incredible the exhilaration that flowed through me in that instant. It was like a much-needed shot of adrenaline, like cool springwater to a thirsty man. I had a check for a story someone thought enough of to publish. I was an author. A real, live, honest-to-goodness author with a check in my hand to prove to a critical world that I wasn’t a bum after all. Suddenly the world was a big, wide, wonderful place to live in, and I loved everyone in it—even the poor, disillusioned Donald MacDonald.

But why stop here? I thought. There were more checks where that came from. If I could sell one story, I could sell two, and then three, and four. So I did. In a way, it was something like digging my own grave. You don’t understand that now, but in a little while you’ll see the reason why.

* * * *

After I had haunted the newsstand for about three months, the great day came. THE MONBEAST was the last story in the magazine (at the time I thought they really should have featured it) and my name was misspelled on the contents page, but it was a great day just the same. A day of triumph. A day for rejoicing. I’d had several stories accepted during the several months’ interval, but this was the day that the fruits of my labor became evident to the world.

I walked home with a proud, firm step, casually displaying the magazine to the vast public eye, to friend and foe alike. I tried to act nonchalant, as though this were old stuff to an established writer like me. It was a day of glory, of triumph, rivaling Caesar’s victorious march into Rome.

That evening I read the story over and over again, marveling at the perfection of its form, savoring the exquisite flavor of each delicate, richly-hued, word, the uniqueness of each choice, well-turned phrase. I fell asleep with the magazine in my hand.

The next morning the monbeast was sitting at the foot of my bed.

“Okay, okay,” it said, blinking its bug-eyes at me, “don’t act so surprised. MacDonald warned you, didn’t he?”

“But—but—”

“Sure, I’m real,” the monbeast volunteered, scratching its scaly head with a long-nailed finger. “That’s the trouble with you guys. You’re full of imagination, but you can’t face reality.”

“Where—where’d you come from?”

The monbeast shrugged massive green shoulders. “The whole thing’s much too technical for me to worry about. All I know is us BEMs exist, and we get to your dimension via science-fiction.”

“That ‘power of mind’ MacDonald was talking about?” I said, shuddering a bit.

“Something like that. Other forms of fiction deal with things native to your world. Science-fiction regards us BEMs as real, so while we don’t ordinarily exist here, there’s a stress created in the barrier between us, and we come through.”

“Then you’re really real?”

“Practically. Right now, though, you’re the only one who can see and hear me. You haven’t characterized me sufficiently so that the readers will be convinced that I’m real. But that’s okay. You’ll improve.”

“Thanks. But now what about you?” I said, trying to not appear overanxious. “Are you returning to your own dimension or are you staying here for awhile?”

* * * *

The monbeast grinned, showing the eighty sharp-pointed teeth I knew it possessed. “Sorry, I’m here to stay. I’m your brainchild, you know, so I’ll have to stick to you.”

I gulped. “Stick to me?”

“Only figuratively,” the monbeast said. “But I’ll be around.” He cocked a bug-eye at me and said gravely, “We’d better get a few things straight right from the start. One of them is that as far as you’re concerned, I’m as real as that bedpost.”

“Real?” I tried to laugh that off, but the sound came out a little weakly. “That’s silly. You’re just a product of my imagination.”

“Am I?” the monbeast said.

He thrust the scaly face close to mine and yawned. Suddenly the room became a turkish bath.

“Okay, okay,” I said hastily, “turn it off.”

Coolness came, and I breathed easier as the steam dissipated.

“Secondly, you’re going to create bigger and better BEMs and make them more convincing,” the monbeast continued. “With all you writers turning us loose, we can have a swell time in this world.”

“But how can you?” I protested. “You said the readers wouldn’t believe in you, so you don’t exist for them.”

“Science-fiction is growing,” the monbeast said. “Everyday more people are getting to realize that there is more to the world than those things they see around them. They believe what they read in love stories and detective stories. Science-fiction is next.”

“Suppose I don’t want to create more BEMs?” I said. “Suppose I take up saxophone playing or something and leave science-fiction alone.”

“You can’t stop writing it now, any more than a true fan can stop reading it. The bug has bitten you.” He smiled a piano keyboard of teeth and continued, “Besides, I could be obliged to—er—inspire you just a bit. But you just work along with me, and we’ll both do fine.”

So we did.

* * * *

The monbeast isn’t such a bad fellow after all, once you get to know him. Neither are the other BEMs hanging around my house. Oh, yes, there are others, lots of them. Hanging from the rafters. Under chairs. In coffee cups. Everywhere. It’s an occupational hazard, you know.

Chances are, though, you wouldn’t be able to see them—unless you’re a real gone science-fiction fan, and even then maybe not. But someday you will.

Someday you’ll be sitting in your favorite chair reading your favorite science-fiction magazine, and you’ll look up….

Maybe it’ll be sitting on the desk beside you, running one of four hands through a nest of snakes on its scaly head. Maybe it’ll be only an inch tall and perched on the piano watching you. Maybe at first it’ll be just a warm, dank breath on the back of your neck.

No telling when it’ll be either. Maybe next year, next month; tomorrow. Who knows—perhaps even now.

Here’s a little tip. When you lay down this magazine, turn around slowly. Have you ever had the feeling that something was going on behind your back but when you turned around you saw nothing? What’s that? You think maybe you’ve got that feeling right now?

Listen, on second thought, now that you know, maybe you better not turn around. Take this as a gag. A nice big laugh. You’ll be a lot better off that way.

What you don’t know can’t hurt you….

COME INTO MY PARLOR

Originally published in Science Fiction Adventures, February 1953

I found Johnny a few blocks from our hotel in a little bar that was nearly deserted. He was sitting alone at a table in a dark corner, staring morosely at nothing in particular, his hand limp around an almost-empty glass. He seemed perfectly sober, though his eyes stared glassily ahead.

I sat down beside him. “What do you say we go back to the hotel, Johnny? Tomorrow’s another slave day.”

His eyes shifted to me and then back to nothing. I wondered if he had actually seen me.

“We can talk about it over some coffee and a bit to eat.”

I suggested, placing my hand on his arm.

“Go to hell,” he said quietly and shook me loose. He lifted his glass, drained the last few drops. He held the empty glass to the light, then set it down, regretfully. “But first buy me a drink.”

“You’d better go home,” I said. “You’ve had enough.”

He laughed harshly. “Look who’s giving me orders. I know things about this cock-eyed old world you never had nightmares about, and you’re ordering me around! Bossy newspapermen! Go to hell, then; I’ll get my own drink.”

He rose unsteadily and managed his way to the bar. He came back with the glass full.

“You still here. I thought I told you—”

“You’d better lay off that stuff,” I said quietly. “You’re not used to it.”

“Boy, oh boy, you’re just full of orders today, aren’t you? Charlie Bennet, boy crusader! Well, I’ve got something you can crusade about. Anything else you’d like?”

“That’s enough for now.”

“You’re damn right it is. Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m brooding over the fate of the world?”

“What are you so mad about?”

He looked annoyed, and a little startled. “Brother, if you only knew—” He raised his glass, and then stopped and set it on the table. “Wait a minute. Maybe I ought to tell you. Maybe I ought to let the two of us worry about it, instead of just me. Maybe you should print it in that newspaper of yours.”

“I’m willing to listen, anyway.”

“Sure! Why not? I’m just beginning to experience that rosy sensation, that warm feeling of camaraderie they keep stoppered up in bottles. It’s the only place on this planet you can find it.”

“Don’t be cynical.”

“Maybe I should bust out laughing. The whole thing’s really funny; it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“We’d better go.”

“Sure, let’s go. But first—you want to see something really funny? Here.”

* * * *

He took a pair of glasses from his pocket and handed them to me. They seemed like ordinary shell-rimmed glasses, though the lenses were tinted a slight blue.

“Put them on,” he prompted. “Go ahead.”

“Where’d you get these?”

“Made ’em,” he said. “My job is optical research, remember. I was fooling around in the lab with some invisible light experiments. The right combination of lenses and coatings—and whammo! This.” He took a drink. “I should have been a lawyer or a plumber or something.” He grunted. “Or even a newspaperman!”

“What are they supposed to do—see in the dark?”

He laughed humorlessly. “That’d be a boon for a reporter, wouldn’t it? No, my friend, much worse than that. Try them on. Go ahead.”

I did. “Well?”

“Notice anything peculiar?”

“The coating makes everything here seem bluish—maybe even unearthly, if that’s what you want—but—”

“C’mon outside, then,” he said. This time he took my arm and steered me from the bar. I was glad of the opportunity to get him into the night air.

“Look at the sky,” he directed. “See anything unusual?” He stood waiting, expectant.

“I see stars,” I said. “Nothing unusual about that, is there?”

“Stars! Only stars?” His voice had lost its tinge of sarcasm. His fingers were tight on my arm. “Look, across the sky, see those luminous bands? All across the sky. Like a giant spider web.”

I looked again. After awhile, I said, “Sorry, Johnny, but there aren’t any luminous bands, spider webs or otherwise. I think we’d better get to the room. A good night’s rest—”

“Wait a minute,” he cried suddenly, his face pale. “You think I’m drunk—or worse. I tell you there is something up there. Shining streamers crisscrossing the sky, like—like—”

“There’s nothing, Johnny. Only stars.”

I took the glasses off. He made a quick grab for them and somehow they fell to the pavement and shattered.

For a moment, Johnny stared at the glittering fragments, his jaws working. “You’ve broken them,” he accused finally, his eyes filled more with sudden despair than hatred. “It took weeks to build them.”

“It was an accident,” I told him. “But it’s just as well they are broken. I tell you, Johnny, there’s nothing unusual in the sky. Nothing at all. Spider webs! Next you’ll be seeing pink elephants.”

Johnny stood in the cool night and stared at the sky. “They’re up there, I tell you. They’re up there, and I want to know why. And there’s one thing I want to know more than anything else; suppose they’re really spider webs—” His face was deathly white. “Are there spiders?”

He stared at me insanely in the darkness. “Do you realize what that would mean, Charlie? Giant spiders, invisible, roaming across the Earth!” His fingers were digging into my arm again.

“Johnny, come out of it,” I snapped, shaking him. “There is no web in the sky, you hear me? And there aren’t any spiders, either. It’s just some crazy figment of your imagination. That’s all.”

“But just suppose there are,” he persisted, a little wildly. “Maybe—maybe it’s not just the glasses. Maybe it’s partly me, too; maybe I’m the only one who can see them; maybe that’s why you didn’t see the web. Maybe—”

“Johnny, be sensible! If there were such monsters roaming around, don’t you think they’d have been discovered by now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, helplessly. “I don’t know, and it’s driving me crazy. You’ve probably wondered why I haven’t slept very well for the past couple of weeks; well, that’s the reason. I didn’t want to say anything. I hardly dared put the glasses on, I was so afraid. Not of being thought crazy, but—but afraid of what they might do if they knew they were discovered.”

“Look, Johnny. Even supposing you might be right, why wouldn’t they show themselves? Why just stay up in the sky in a large web?”

“Maybe they’re sizing us up,” Johnny said, trembling but not with cold. “After all, we’ve got a few weapons, too. Maybe a machine gun or an atomic bomb can hurt them, as well as humans.”