Songs From the Stars
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In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain's oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language's finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
'SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today's leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.'
Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.
The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.
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Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Table of Contents
Clear Blue Lou
Sunshine Sue
La Mirage
Eagle's Nest Syndrome
The Court of Justice
The Giving of Justice
New Lamps for Old
New Worlds for Old
Somewhere over the Rainbow
The Spaceship Enterprise
Songs from the Stars
Deus ex Machina
Word of Mouth
The Chariot of the Gods
We All Live in a Yellow Submarine
The Graveyard Heart
The Big Ear Lies Silent
The Big Ear Remembers
I Have Always Waited for this Moment to Arrive
The Voice from the Whirlwind
One Man's Ceiling Is Another Man's Floor
The Galactic Way
Speak in Secret Alphabets
Nobody Promised You a Rose Garden
Celestial Mechanics
The Clear Blue Way
Website
Also By Norman Spinrad
Dedication
Author Bio
Copyright
Cruising southeast on a golden afternoon for eagles, Clear Blue Lou had left the world behind him. Below, the Sierra foothills were a chiaroscuro tapestry of crumpled green velvet, and the cloudless sky filled his soul with clear blue glory. His spirit was absorbed into a birdlike awareness of the dips and slips of the mountain airstreams. He was Clear Blue Lou, perfect master of the Clear Blue Way. In the towns and communes and farmsteads of Aquaria below, that meant cleansing other people's karma, but up here all alone in the Clear Blue, he himself found his own Way. Every master must dance his own song.
Lou hung suspended in time and space beneath the clear blue helium-filled eagle; from the ground, he appeared to be riding beneath an almost invisible wing of air. From where he sat in his saddle slung beneath the eagle, the glider wing was a sunshade lens attuning the blue of the sky to a deeper and more tranquil vision. Nowhere else was he more totally in the Way.
So blissfully was Clear Blue Lou riding the Clear Blue Way that before he knew it, sunset was creeping up behind him.
Oh shit! he suddenly realized. I've done it again!
Long streaks of purple and carmine were playing over the eagle wing, and the ribwork of the lower surface had become a cathedral archwork of lengthening shadows. Below, inky pseudopods were oozing east through the rugged canyon bottoms of south-central Aquaria, and the tops of the scattered clouds were turning mauve and pale orange.
Clear Blue Lou might be in sync with the law of muscle, sun, wind and water, but of this white tetrad of sanctioned powers, the one that made him grunt and sweat was the one he liked the least. And now, to pay back this golden afternoon of sweet karma, he was going to have to pedal.
The solar eagle is a helium balloon in the form of a subtly flexible glider wing. Hanging bellow it in a saddle, the eagle rider flexes and warps it with the control lines like an aerial puppeteer riding beneath an avian marionette. Given the right wind, an ace like Clear Blue Lou could follow a general vector with no power at all. Unfortunately, such optimum karma occurred maybe a dozen times a year.
And today was not one of those clays. A light headwind was blowing up from the east, there was less than an hour's sun left, and the last eagle's nest between here and La Mirage was at least eight miles away. He was going to have to pedal.
The upper surface of the eagle wing is covered with solar cells that produce enough electricity to power two pusher props halfway out toward the tips. In still air, the sun can move the eagle at about ten miles per hour. When it is up.
When it is not up or when the wind blows the wrong way, there is a central pusher prop run by the pedals. No true eagle freak enjoys pedaling. If he did, he'd be a cycle sailor, who enjoyed that dubious pleasure every time he lost his wind.
Nevertheless, muscle was part of the Way, and there were perfect masters of certain ways who taught that sweat was good for the soul and sprinted about their rounds on bicycles. There were even those who thought that solar eagles were tinted a suspicious tone of gray.
As Clear Blue Lou hit the pedals, as his legs established a rhythmic pump and he let his muscles drive his lungs, flesh warped consciousness closer to immediate reality, and Lou as forced to remember that the Eagle Tribe who had built his sky chariot were deeply involved in this mess in La Mirage. They were under a cloud whose belly was black with the shadow of sorcery.
The sky was deepening to darkness behind him, and the land below had cloaked itself in shadows that made it seem more craggy and forbidding as Clear Blue Lou pedaled laboriously east through the sweet sunset musk given off by the forested foothills. On the eastern horizon, the jagged peaks of the Sierras themselves blazed redly in the setting sun. Beyond them... the Great Waste, from whose depths black science oozed its subtle way into Aquaria, grayed by the time it reached La Mirage, and ostensibly pure as the driven snow by the time it cleared the Exchange.
Somewhere between here and the other side of the Sierras, someone's hand was quicker than the eye. Or, anyway, eyes that chose to look away. No taint could be pointed to on the whiteness of solar eagles, no molecule made by the hand of man, no power other than that of sun and wind and muscle. Well within the letter of the law.
Of course, the solar cells had to come from somewhere, and the fabric of the glider balloon was a rather outré derivative of cellulose, and the Eagle Tribe's train of supply drifted back ambiguously into the hermetic mountain william canyons way up in the eastern slopes of the central range where the righteously white did not care to risk sticking their noses.
Clear Blue Lou did not make a habit of questioning the karma of that which sweetened his own, and he believed in doing likewise for the good karma of others. If it tastes good to the spirit, you can eat it.
But now, with the landscape gone sinister and his own misattention trapping him in the penitive task of pedaling, Lou was reminded that not even a perfect master could count on a perpetual free lunch. Perhaps having to keep in the Way by force of will over protest of flesh was good for the soul, a cautionary cosmic zinger.
Right now it reminded him that this was no joyride after all, that he had been summoned to give his justice in a dispute that touched on the karma of this selfsame eagle that had transformed him from a high-flying rider of the wind to the beast of his own burden with the setting of the sun.
Good for the soul, like peyote, he told himself sourly, leaning into the pedals. But that didn't mean he had to like the way it tasted going down.
Within the hour, the land below had sunk into a black abyss, the moonless sky blazed with pinpoint lights like the landscape of some eldritch pre Smash city, and Clear Blue Lou had had more than enough of the yoga of pedaling.
So it was with a certain sense of relief that he finally spotted the eagle's nest beacon, a powerful 200-watt reflector beam winking at him like a grounded star from the next ridgeline. He shifted gears, and a portion of his footpower was shunted into the pump that recompressed wing helium to kill the eagle's lift for a glide-in. This did not make pedaling any easier, and by the time he established his descent curve, he was groaning and wheezing, and it was pure ecstasy to stop pedaling for good and float down like a moth toward the light.
Down he came into a high mountain meadow shining ghostly pale under the stars. Only one other eagle was tethered to the hitching rail. Millions of insects circled in the beam of the spotlight on the roof of the single-story rambling lodge cabin.
The main room of the cabin had walls of undressed timber, smooth-hewn tables and chairs, and a big wood stove where Matty the cook presided over two big iron kettles and a pot of cider, which blasted out food odors that went straight to Lou's empty stomach.
"Food and flop, Matty," Lou called out. "I've been pedaling for hours."
"In such a hurry to get to La Mirage?" The only other customer was a tall willowy woman in a yellow Sunshine messenger jumpsuit who sat alone over the remains of her meal, beckoning him to her table. She was neat, she looked a little mean in all the right places, and she seemed just a little hostile.
"As a matter of fact, I've got all the time in the world," Lou said, beaming invitingly at her as he sat down across from her.
The Sunshine Girl ran her tongue over her lower lip and smiled back ironically. "Are you soliciting a bribe, oh giver of Clear Blue justice?"
"Are you offering one?" he asked.
The Sunshine Girl shrugged. "It might enliven an otherwise dull night," she said.
Matty set a bowl of rice fried with vegetables under a sauce of soybean chili before him, and Lou considered the karma as he savored the first welcome mouthful.
Sunshine Sue's whole operation could be on the line when he gave his justice, and from what he had heard, it had been the Eagle Tribe who had first suggested him, not the Sunshines. And here he was, flying in on their product. It could be argued by a good enough sophist that he owed the Sunshine Tribe some counterbalancing equivalent, which might be most pleasantly provided at sport with this member who was both willing and a turn-on.
On the other hand, the hoary maxim that a stiff prick knows no conscience was not the bottom line for Clear Blue Lou.
"Is it against your rules to discuss our case?" the Sunshine Girl asked.
"What's your name?"
"Little Mary Sunshine," she answered dryly.
"Well Mary," Lou said, "that depends on whether I'm talking to Little Mary or to Sunshine Sue's Word of Mouth."
"Off the record. Cross my heart."
Lou eyed her narrowly. Sunshine Sue's Word of Mouth earned its way by carrying other people's messages, but it also carried public news up and down the length of Aquaria. News that it collected however it could. If he didn't want to trust Little Mary Sunshine, he wouldn't be Clear Blue Lou, but if he trusted her implicitly, he wouldn't be Clear Blue Lou either.
"And hope to lie?"
Little Mary laughed. "No, really," she said. "I just want to tell you something. The Sunshine Tribe isn't into black science; we're no grayer than anyone else who does business in La Mirage."
"That's not exactly a certificate of karmic purity," Lou said dryly.
"I'm leveling with you, Lou. Sure, you could say that some of our electronic components might not be ultrabright, but our radios are as white as your eagle."