Anthology [Anthology]

302 Pages·2016·0.88 MB·English

by  Wyndham John

‘JOHN WYNDHAM
probably ranks with
Ray Bradbury as one of the
best, and certainly one
of the best-known, post-war
science fiction writers.
Like Bradbury, Mr Wyndham
cares nothing for details
of technology. His stories are
exercises in wonder; they
twist old formulae (love, humour,
adventure, grand guignol,
evocation of mood) into new
and wholly unexpected
shapes. The machinery of the
plot may have to do with
space travel or time travel
robots or the logic of chance,
but the stories themselves
are real stories, stories with a
point to them …’
point to them …’
ANTHONY LEJEUNE (Time and Tide)
RJCHARD BARTON” £2.00 «*/

Wyndham, John
The seeds of time

THE SEEDS OF TIME

also by
John Wyndham
THE DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS
THE KRAKEN WAKES
THE CHRYSALIDS
THE MIDWiCH CUCKOOS
TROUBLE WITH LICHEN
CONSIDER HER WAYS
CHOCKY

JOHN WYNDHAM
The Seeds of Time
London
London
MICHAEL JOSEPH

First published by
MICHAEL JOSEPH LTD.
52 Bedford Square
London, W.C.\
1956
SECOND IMPRESSION OCTOBER 1 958
THIRD IMPRESSION NOVEMBER 1960
FOURTH IMPRESSION MARCH 1963
FIFTH IMPRESSION FEBRUARY 1966
SIXTH IMPRESSION APRIL 1968
SEVENTH IMPRESSION JULY 1969
EIGHTH IMPRESSION MAY 1972
NINTH IMPRESSION NOVEMBER 1974
Copyright 1956 by the Estate of John Wyndham All Rights Reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.
7181 0362 9
Printed lithographically in Great Britain by Hollen Street Press Ltd, and bound
by James Burn at Esher, Surrey

Contents
Foreword 7
CHRONOCLASM 11
TIME TO REST 38
METEOR 57
SURVIVAL 79
PAWLEY’S PEEPHOLES 112
OPPOSITE NUMBER 140
PILLAR TO POST 161
DUMB MARTIAN 195
COMPASSION CIRCUIT 229
WILD FLOWER 242

Foreword
THE best definition of the science-fiction story that I know is Mr Edmund
Crispin’s: that it ‘is one which presupposes a technology, or an effect of
technology, or a disturbance in the natural order, such as humanity, up to the
time of writing, has not in actual fact experienced.’
The disposition of something like ninety per cent of science-fiction to use this
definition only in conjunction with the adventurenarrative form of story is
primarily an accident of commercial exploitation, and an unfortunate one that
makes it difficult to see the trees for the wood.
When, a good many years ago now, I first happened upon magazines that
specialized in stories of the kind, their proprietors had already concocted the
formula which they knew, with that conviction that sustains minor showmen
everywhere, to be the only one that the public would stand for and pay for; and
almost the only reason for not dismissing their productions forthwith was the
occasional discovery of the different story that had somehow got under their
guard.
In general, the formula has been preserved so that even now, after twenty-five
years, the bulk of science-fiction, and its adaptations to film and broadcast serial
form, has been determinedly kept in the cliff-hanger class.
7

THE SEEDS OF TIME 8
Nevertheless, there came a time when certain editors grew mildly mutinous with
the perception that the terms of reference did not truly restrict them to the
adventures of galactic gangsters in space-opera, and they began, some by stealth,
others by declaration, to encourage their authors to do a bit more exploration
within the definition.
With that, the field became open to experiments, and the nine stories I have
chosen here are (or were) virtually experiments, made at intervals during fifteen
years, in adapting the science-fiction motif to various styles of short story.
The earliest, Meteor, is closest to the usual adventurenarrative, and was written
to suit a pre-war editor (though its beginning was later adapted a little for post-
war republication).
Taking a look at science-fiction again after a wartime interval, one seemed to see
indications that it was trying to change its spots. This idea set off the somewhat
pastoral Time to Rest. It was swiftly returned by an American agent with the
hurt reproof that it wouldn’t do at all: this kind of thing, as I ought to know,
hurt reproof that it wouldn’t do at all: this kind of thing, as I ought to know,
hadn’t a chance unless it was packed full of adjectives and action. However, it
did later on appear in four periodicals and two anthologies, so I felt better about
it.
Meanwhile, Pillar to Post, written to suit, I hoped, the policy of a newly arisen
American magazine, came near enough to it to be accepted and afterwards
anthologized.
After that, I rather gave up other people’s policies, and tried various styles. The
intention of Chronoclasm, in the comedy-romantic, was to entertain the general
reader and break away from the science-fiction enthusiast. Pawley’s Peepholes is
satirical farce. Opposite Number attempts, with perhaps qualified success, the
light presentation of a somewhat complicated idea. For Dumb Martian and
Survival I
FOREWORD
9
tried to use the pattern of the English short-story in its heyday. Compassion
Circuit is the short horror-story. A neo-Gothick trifle, could one say? And finally
there is Wild Flower where one has encouraged science-fiction to try the form of
the modern short-story.
In the careers of these stories my debts have become too widely spread to be
acknowledged here with the detail one could wish, and since it would be
invidious to mention only some editors and their periodicals, I must have
recourse to the collective (and the order of the alphabet). Thus, with a great deal
more gratitude than adequacy, I fear, I take this opportunity of thanking those
editors, a number of whom I can never hope to meet, in Australia, France, Great
Britain, Holland, Italy, South Africa, Sweden, and the U.S.A. who have so much
encouraged me by printing one or more of these experiments on the theme: ‘I
wonder what might happen i/…?’
j. w.

Chronoclasm
I FIRST heard of Tavia in a sort of semi-detached way. An elderly gentleman, a
stranger, approached me in Plyton High Street one morning. He raised his hat,
bowed, with perhaps a touch of foreignness, and introduced himself politely:
‘My name is Donald Gobie, Doctor Gobie. I should be most grateful, Sir Gerald,
if you could spare me just a few minutes of your time. I am so sorry to trouble
you, but it is a matter of some urgency, and considerable importance.’
I looked at him carefully.
‘I think there must be some mistake,’ I told him. ‘I have no handle to my name-
not even a knighthood.’
He looked taken aback.
‘Dear me. I am sorry. Such a likeness-I was quite sure you must be Sir Gerald
Lattery.’
It was my turn to be taken aback.
‘My name is Gerald Lattery,’ I admitted, ‘but Mister, not Sir.’
He grew a little confused.
‘Oh, dear. Of course. How very stupid of me. Is there–’
he looked about us, ‘-is there somewhere where we could have a few words in
private?’ he asked.
I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. He was clearly a gentleman of education
and some culture. Might have been a lawyer. Certainly not on the touch, or
anything of that kind.
We were close to The Bull, so I led the way into the lounge there. It was
conveniently empty. He declined the offer of a drink, and we sat down.
11

THE SEEDS OF TIME 12
‘Well, what is this trouble, Doctor Gobie?’ I asked him.
He hesitated, obviously a little embarrassed. Then he spoke, with an air of
plunging:
‘It is concerning Tavia, Sir Gerald-er, Mr Lattery. I think perhaps you don’t
understand the degree to which the whole situation is fraught with unpredictable
consequences. It is not just my own responsibility, you understand, though that
troubles me greatly-it is the results that cannot be foreseen.
She really must come back before very great harm is done.
She must, Mr Lattery.’
I watched him. His earnestness was beyond question, his distress perfectly
genuine.
‘But, Doctor Gobie ‘ I began.
‘I can understand what it may mean to you, sir, nevertheless I do implore you to
persuade her. Not just for my sake and her family’s, but for everyone’s. One has
to be so careful; the results of the least action are incalculable. There has to be
order, harmony; it must be preserved. Let one single seed fall out of place, and
who can say what may come of it?
So I beg you to persuade her ‘
I broke in, speaking gently because whatever it was all about, he obviously had it
very much at heart.
‘Just a minute, Doctor Gobie. I’m afraid there is some mistake. I haven’t the
least idea what you are talking about.’
He checked himself. A dismayed expression came over his face.
‘You ?’ he began, and then paused in thought, frowning.
‘You don’t mean you haven’t met Tavia yet?’ he asked.
‘As far as I know, I do. I’ve never even heard of anyone called Tavia,’ I assured
him.
him.
He looked winded by that, and I was sorry. I renewed my