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  THE SECOND IF READER OF SCIENCE FICTION

  Copyright ©, 1957,1963, 1965, 1967,1968,

  by Galaxy Publishing Corporation.

  An Ace Book, by arrangement with

  Doubleday & Co., Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Jack Gaughan.

  “In the Arena” by Brian W. Aldiss. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “The Billiard Ball” by Isaac Asimov. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Time-Tombs” by J. G. Ballard. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “Die, Shadow!” by Algis Budrys. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Candida Donado.

  “The Foundling Stars” by Hal Clement. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Toys for Debbie” by David A. Kyle. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Forest in the Sky” by Keith Laumer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “At the Core” by Larry Niven. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Under Two Moons” by Frederik Pohl. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Masque of the Red Shift” by Fred Saberhagen. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  by Frederik Pohl

  IN THE ARENA

  by Brian W. Aldiss

  THE BILLIARD BALL

  by Isaac Asimov

  THE TIME-TOMBS

  by J.G. Ballard

  DIE, SHADOW!

  by Algis Burdys

  THE FOUNDLING STARS

  by Hal Clement

  TOYS FOR DEBBIE

  by David A. Kyle

  FOREST IN THE SKY

  by Leith Laumer

  AT THE CORE

  by Larry Niven

  UNDER TWO MOONS

  by Frederik Pohl

  MASQUE OF THE RED SHIFT

  by Fred Saberhagen

  Introduction

  by Frederik Pohl

  The mistake you must never make about science fiction is in thinking that, because it is about the future, it is necessarily about the future.

  This is a distinction science-fiction writers are sometimes reluctant to make. After all, we have a vested interest in prediction—we’ve all said so many times that science fiction has successfully anticipated the real world in describing rockets, television, radar, atomic energy, and just about everything else that’s come out of technology’s magic cornucopia in the past half century that, we like to keep our reputation as successful prophets.

  But in fact, for every prophecy that’s come true we must have made a dozen or more that fell flat on their faces. Especially in social matters. Especially in that aspect of technology that really matters to us—the interface where science meets, and reacts with, the world we all live in.

  The thing to remember is that science fiction should not be judged by how accurately it portrays the future, but by how lucidly, and entertainingly, it describes for you the possible varieties of future that lie within our grasp.

  The prediction of gadgets is a part of this, to be sure. But it is only the smallest part. What is more important In a real sense, and what is a lot more fun, is the detailed imagination of the skilled science-fiction writer at work, building a future universe for you—and setting it up next to a whole spectrum of other possible universes in the same issue, or anthology, or group of stories, so that you can choose among them the kind of future you like best.

  The authors represented here work at that trade and, as you can see, they’re good at it. No two of their universes are compatible, to be sure. Fred Saberhagen’s blindly malevolent Berserkers would make mincemeat out of Hal Clement’s thoughtful and resourceful interstellar survey party; the Mars of Under Two Moons doesn’t belong in the same solar system as the Mars of The Time-Tombs—or, for that matter, as the Venus of Die, Shadow! Nivens’ galaxy is a huge fused bomb, going off from the center out; Laumer’s is fixed as to stars and planets, highly explosive as to people—both human and nonhuman varieties of same.

  But we think there’s one thing you’ll find in common in all these stories. We think they’re all fun to read, and maybe even capable of expanding your mental horizons if you give them half a chance.

  After all . . . IF has won the Hugo as the world’s leading science-fiction magazine for two years running. It isn’t the personality of the editor that did it. It’s the stories—and here are ten of the best!

  IN THE ARENA

  by Brian W. Aldiss

  The reek and noise at the back of the circus were familiar to Javlin Bartramm. He felt the hard network of nerves in his solar plexus tighten.

  There were crowds of the reduls here, jostling and staring to see the day’s entry arrive. You didn’t have to pay to stand and rubberneck in the street; this lot probably couldn’t afford seats for the arena. Javlin looked away from them in scorn. All the same, he felt some gratification when they sent up a cheeping cheer at the sight of him. They loved a human victim.

  His keeper undid the cart door and led him out, still chained. They went through the entrance, from blinding sunshine to dark, into the damp unsavory warren below the main stadium. Several reduls were moving about here, officials mainly. One or two called good luck to him; one chirped, “The crowd’s in a good mood today, vertebrate.” Javlin showed no response.

  His trainer, Ik So Baar, came up, a flamboyant redul towering above Javlin. He wore an array of spare gloves strapped across his orange belly. The white tiara that fitted round his antennae appeared only on sports days.

  “Greetings, Javlin. You look in the rudest of health. I’m glad you are not fighting me.”

  “Greetings, Ik So.” He slipped the lip-whistle into his mouth so that he could answer in a fair approximation of the redul language. “Is my opponent ready to be slain? Remember I go free if I win this bout—it will be my twelfth victory in succession.”

  “There’s been a change in the program, Javlin. Your Sirian opponent escaped in the night and had to be killed. You are entered in a double double.”

  Javlin wrenched at his chains so hard that the keeper was swung off balance.

  “Ik Sol You betray me! How much cash have I won for you? I will not fight a double double.”

  There was no change of expression on the insect mask. “Then you will die, my pet vertebrate. The new arrangement is not my idea. You know by now that I get more cash for having you in a solo. Double double it has to be. These are my orders. Keeper, Cell 107 with him!”

  Fighting against his keeper’s pull, Javlin cried, “I’ve got some rights, Ik So. I demand to see the arena promoter.”

  “Pipe down, you stupid vertebrate! You have to do what you’re ordered. I told you it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, who am I fighting with?”

  “You will be shackled to a fellow from the farms. He’s had one or two preliminary bouts; they say he’s good.”

  “From the farms.” Javlin broke into the filthiest redulian oaths he knew. Ik So came back towards him and slipped one of the metal gloves on to his forepincers; it gave him a cruel tearing weapon with a multitude of barbs. He held it up to Javlin’s face.

  “Don’t use that language to me, my mammalian friend. Humans from the farms or from space, what’s the differenc
e? This young fellow will fight well enough if you muck in with him. And you’d better muck in. You’re billed to battle against a couple of yillibeeth.”

  Before Javlin could answer, the tall figure turned and strode down the corridor, moving twice as fast as a man could walk.

  Javlin let himself be led to Cell 107. The warder, a worker-redul with a gray belly, unlocked his chains and pushed him in, barring the door behind him. The cell smelt of alien species and apprehensions.

  Javlin went and sat down on the bench. He needed to think.

  He knew himself for a simple man—and knew that that knowledge meant the simplicity was relative. But his five years of captivity here under the reduls had not been all wasted. Ik So had trained him well in the arts of survival; and when you came down to brass tacks, there was no more proper pleasure in the universe than surviving. It was uncomplicated. It carried no responsibilities to anyone but yourself.

  That was what he hated about the double double events, which till now he had always been lucky enough to avoid. They carried a responsibility to your fellow fighter.

  From the beginning he had been well equipped to survive the gladiatorial routine. When his scoutship, the Plunderhorse, had been captured by redul forces five years ago, Javlin Bartramm was duelling master and judo expert, as well as Top Armament Sergeant. The army ships had a long tradition, going back some six centuries, of sport aboard; it provided the ideal mixture of time-passer and needed exercise. Of all the members of the Plunderhorse s crew who had been taken captive, Javlin was—as far as he knew—the only survivor after five years of the insect race’s rough games.

  Luck had played its part in his survival. He had liked Ik So Baar. Liking was a strange thing to feel for a nine-foot armored grasshopper with forearms like a lobster and a walk like a tyrannosaurus’s run, but a sympathy existed between them—and would continue to exist until he was killed in the ring, Javlin thought. With his bottom on the cold bench, he knew that Ik So would not betray him into a double double. The redul had had to obey the promoter’s orders. Ik So needed his twelfth victory, so that he could free Javlin to help him train the other species down at the gladiatorial farm. Both of them knew that would be an effective partnership.

  So. Now was the time for luck to be with Javlin again.

  He sank on to his knees and looked down at the stone, brought his forehead down on to it, gazed down into the earth, into the cold ground, the warm rocks, the molten core, trying to visualize each, to draw from them attributes that would help him: cold for his brain, warm for his temper, molten for his energies.

  Strengthened by prayer, he stood up. The redul workers had yet to bring him his armor and the partner he was to fight with. He had long since learnt the ability to wait without resenting waiting. With professional care, he exercised himself slowly, checking the proper function of each muscle. As he did so, he heard the crowds cheer in the arena. He turned to peer out of the cell’s further door, an affair of tightly set bars that allowed a narrow view of the combat area and the stands beyond.

  There was a centaur out there in the sunlight, fighting an Aldebaran bat-leopard. The centaur wore no armor but an iron cuirass; he had no weapons but his hooves and his hands. The bat-leopard, though its wings were clipped to prevent it flying out of the stadium, had dangerous claws and a great turn of speed. Only because its tongue had been cut out, ruining its echo-location system, was the contest anything like fair. The concept of fairness was lost upon the reduls, though; they preferred blood to justice.

  Javlin saw the kill. The centaur, a gallant creature with a humanlike head and an immense gold mane that began from his eyebrows, was plainly tiring. He eluded the bat-leopard as it swooped down on him, wheeling quickly round on his hind legs and trampling on its wing. But the bat-leopard turned and raked the other’s legs with a slash of claws. The centaur toppled hamstrung to the ground. As he fell, he lashed out savagely with his forelegs, but the bat-leopard nipped in and tore his throat from side to side above the cuirass. It then dragged itself away under its mottled wings, like a lame prim a donna dressed in a leather cape.

  The centaur struggled and lay still, as if the weight of whistling cheers that, rose from the audience bore him down. Through the narrow bars, Javlin saw the thoat bleed and the lungs heave as the defeated one sprawled in the dust.

  “What do you dream of, dying there in the sun?” Javlin asked.

  He turned away from the sight and the question. He sat quietly down on the bench and folded his arms.

  When the din outside told him that the next bout had begun, the passage door opened and a young human was pushed in. Javlin did not need telling that this was to be his partner in the double double against the yillibeeth.

  It was a girl.

  “You’re Javlin?” she said. “I know of you. My name’s Awn.”

  He kept himself under control, his brows drawn together as he stared at her.

  “You know what you’re here for?”

  “This will be my first public fight,” she said.

  Her hair was clipped short as a man’s. Her skin was tanned and harsh, her left arm bore a gruesome scar. She held herself lithely on her feet. Though her body looked lean and hard, even the thick one-piece gown she wore to thigh length did not conceal the feminine curves of her body. She was not pretty, but Javlin had to admire the set of her mouth and her cool gray gaze.

  “I’ve had some stinking news this morning, but Ik So Baar never broke it to me that I was to be saddled with a woman,” he said.

  “Ik probably didn’t know—that I’m a woman, I mean. The reduls are either neuter or hermaphrodite, unless they happen to be a rare queen. Didn’t you know that? They can’t tell the difference between human male and female.”

  He spat. “You can’t tell me anything about reduls.” She spat. “If you knew, why blame me? You don’t think I like being here? You don’t think I asked to join the great Javlin?”

  Without answering he bent and began to massage the muscles of his calf. Since he occupied the middle of the bench, the girl remained standing. She watched him steadily. When he looked up again, she asked, “What or who are we fighting?”

  No surprise was left in him. “They didn’t tell you?”

  “I’ve only just been pushed into this double double, as I imagine you have. I asked you, what are we fighting?”

  “Just a couple of yillibeeths.”

  He injected unconcern into his voice to make the shock of what he said the greater. He massaged the muscles of the other calf. An aphrohale would have come in very welcome now. These crazy insects had no equivalent of the terrestrial prisoner-ate-a-hearty breakfast routine. When he glanced up under his eyebrows, the girl still stood motionless, but her face had gone pale.

  “Know what the yillibeeths are, little girl?”

  She didn’t answer, so he went on, “The reduls resemble some terrestrial insects. They go through several stages of development, you know; reduls are just the final adult stage. Their larval stage is rather like the larval stage of the dragon fly. It’s a greedy, omnivorous beast. It’s aquatic and it’s big. It’s armored. It’s called a yillibeeth. That’s what we are going to be tied together to fight, a couple of big hungry yillibeeth. Are you feeling like dying this morning, Awn?”

  Instead of answering, she turned her head away and brought a hand up to her mouth.

  “Oh, no! No crying in here, for Earth’s sake!” he said. He got up, yelled through the passage door, “Ik So, Ik So, you traitor, get this bloody woman out of here!” recalled himself, jammed the lip-whistle into his mouth and was about to call again when Awn caught him a backhanded blow across the face.

  She faced him like a tiger.

  “You creature, you cowardly apology of a man! Do you think I weep for fear? I don’t weep. I’ve lived nineteen years on this damned planet in their damned farms. Would I still be here if I wept? No—but I mourn that you are already defeated, you, the great Javlin!” He frowned into her blazing face.r />
  “You don’t seriously think you make me a good enough match for us to go out there and kill a couple of yillibeeth?”

  Damn your conceit, I’m prepared to try.”

  “Fagh!” He thrust the lip-whistle into his mouth, and turned back to the door. She laughed at him bitterly, jeeringly.

  “You’re a lackey to these insects, aren’t you, Javlin? If you could see what a fool you look with that phony beak of yours stuck on your mouth.”

  He let the instrument drop to the end of its chain. Grasping the bars, he leaned forward against them and looked at her over his shoulder.

  “I was trying to get this contest called off.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t already tried. I have.”

  To that he had no answer. He went back and sat on the bench. She returned to her comer. They both folded their arms and stared at each other.

  “Why don’t you look out into the arena instead of glaring at me? You might pick up a few tips.” When she did not answer, he said, “I’ll tell you what you’ll see. You can see the rows of spectators and a box where some sort of bigwig sits. I don’t know who the bigwig is. It’s never a queen—as far as I can make out, the queens spend their lives underground, turning out eggs at the rate of fifty a second. Not the sort of life Earth royalty would have enjoyed in the old days. Under the bigwig’s box there is a red banner with their insect hieroglyphs on. I asked Ik So once what the hieroglyphs said. He told me they meant—well, in a rough translation—The Greatest Show on Earth. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “You must admit we do make a show.”

  “No, you miss the point. You see, that used to be the legend of circuses in the old days. But they’ve adopted it for their own use since they invaded Earth. They’re boasting of their conquest.”

  “And that’s funny?”

  “In a sort of way. Don’t you feel rather ashamed that this planet which saw the birth of the human race should be overrun by insects?”

  “No. The reduls were here before me. I was just born here. Weren’t you?”