This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by the estate of Keith Laumer
Galactic Odyssey (aka Spaceman!) was first serialized in IF magazine (May–July, 1967) and first published in novel form by Berkley in 1967. “A Trip to the City” (aka “It Could Be Anything”) was first published in Amazing, January 1963. “Hybrid” was first published in The Magazine of F&SF in November 1961. “Combat Unit” (aka “Dinochrome”) was first published in The Magazine of F&SF in November 1960. “The King of the City” was first published in Galaxy in August 1961. “Once There Was a Giant” was first published in The Magazine of F&SF in November 1968. Dinosaur Beach was first published by Scribner's in 1971.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing EnterprisesP.O. Box 1403Riverdale, NY 10471www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-7434-3527-3
Cover art by Richard Martin
First printing, March 2002
Distributed by Simon & Schuster1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
To the untrained eye, a Class-One Karg robot—the only kind ever used in Timesweep work—was undistinguishable from any other citizen. But my eye wasn’t untrained. He was the same Karg I’d left in the hotel room back in 1936 with a soft-nosed slug in his head. Now here he was, with no hole in his head, climbing down onto the deck of the ship as neat and cool as if it had all been in fun. I hugged the deck and tried to look hors de combat.
I was just beginning to form a hopeless plan for creeping out of sight when the door I was lying against opened. Tried to open, that is. I was blocking it. Somebody inside gave it a hearty shove and started through.
The Karg’s head had turned at the first sound. He whipped up a handsome pearl-mounted, wheel-lock pistol. The explosion was like a bomb. I heard the slug hit; a solid, meaty smack, like a well-hit ball hitting the fielder’s glove. The fellow in the door plunged through and went down hard on his face.
The Karg turned back to his men and rapped out an order. The Karg was by the weather rail, calmly stripping the safety foil from a thermex bomb. He dropped it through the open hatch, then scrambled with commendable agility back to his ship. Quite suddenly I was alone, watching the attacking ship recede downwind under full sail.
Smoke billowed from the hatch, with tongues of pale flame in close pursuit. I got a pair of legs under me. A gun lay a yard from the empty hand of the man the Karg had shot. It was a .01 microjet of Nexx manufacture, with a grip that fitted my hand perfectly.
It ought to. It was my gun. I didn’t like doing it, but I turned the body over and looked at the face.
It was my face.
(from Dinosaur Beach)
BAEN BOOKS by KEITH LAUMER
Retief!Odyssey
Preface
Discerning people have always read Keith Laumer for a lot of reasons, and I am delighted that Baen Books is making his works available to be read yet again.
As David Drake pointed out in the preface to the first volume in this series, those with some knowledge of Laumer’s life (and of history) can appreciate the telling accuracy of his trenchant, experience-based observations of the lunacies of real-world diplomacy in the Retief novels. Regarded by many, perhaps even most, of his readers as the crown jewels of his literary legacy, the Retief stories used frequently devastating humor to underscore the not particularly humorous dilemma of a tough-minded, principled pragmatist trapped on the far side of the Looking Glass. And as the best satire always is, they were teaching tools, as well.
Along with the humor, however, Retief communicated something else which was common to all of Laumer’s work. In addition to his highly capable pragmatism, his realism, or even his occasional cynicism, Retief, like Poul Anderson’s Flandry, embodied the other qualities which Laumer obviously believed were the true measure of a human being: self-reliance, unswerving devotion to one’s principles (however unfashionable those principles might be, or however uncomfortable one might be admitting that one held them), and gallantry. Always gallantry.
Something which is overlooked almost as often as the sheer scope of Laumer’s work, is the spare, clean prose style and muscular storytelling technique which he shared with those other high prophets of human capability, H. Beam Piper and Robert Heinlein. There was a seeming simplicity to the way he wove his tales, coupled with a very real, often first-person colloquialism, which both moved events rapidly and deceived the eye into missing the complexity of what he had to tell us. Characterization in a Laumer story flows so simply and so naturally that its depths creep up upon us almost unnoticed. Yet it is the vibrancy of the characters which truly holds us, and when the final word is read, the reader comes away with both a sense of completion and a desire for the tale to go on . . . forever, if possible.
In my own opinion, that result stems not simply, or even primarily, from his undoubted skill as a literary craftsman so much as from his ability to touch the innermost chords of what makes all of us human. Whether it’s Retief’s biting wit, or Billy Danger’s unwavering determination, or the unbreakable gallantry of his Bolos, Laumer’s characters not only live and breathe but challenge. He was capable of bleakness and the recognition that triumph was not inevitable, however great one’s determination might be, or that power could seduce even the most selfless, as in the case of Steve Dravek in “The Day Before Forever” or the protagonist of the chilling little gem “Test to Destruction” (which is one of my favorite Laumer pieces, despite its darkness). Yet in an era of cynicism and “enlightened” distrust of and even contempt for heroic virtues, Laumer’s characters went about the day-to-day business of living up to those virtues with absolutely no sense that doing so made them special in any way. It was simply what responsible human beings did, and the profound simplicity of that concept made Laumer, like Piper, an author who was in many ways an uncomfortable fit in the America of the 1960s and 1970s. Perhaps that’s one reason Retief tended to overshadow other works of his, like Galactic Odyssey, A Plague of Demons, “The Night of the Trolls,” Planet Run, and other stories and novels too numerous to mention. Humor and satire were more acceptable techniques for sliding the author’s sometimes discomforting precepts into the reader’s consciousness, especially when they were wielded so deftly. Yet the very qualities which made Laumer’s other characters misfits at the time he wrote are the same qualities which give them their classic timelessness.
At the end of the day, fate hit Keith Laumer with failing health that was a particularly savage blow to a man who had always celebrated human capability and the ability to triumph over seemingly unbeatable odds. It was a final battle which he did not win, yet in its own way, and for all the bitter irony it must have held for the teller of such tales, it could diminish neither the message nor the messenger, because the true essence of the tales Laumer told were actually less about triumph, in the end, than they were about an individual’s ironclad responsibility to try. Like his Bolos, or the protagonist of A Plague of Demons, who chose to fight his hopeless battle to the death rather than permit his friend to die alone, Keith Laumer believed that the ability to confront challenges and adversities, however extreme and however remote the chance of final victory, were the ultimate measure of a human being. I suppose that’s the reason I consider him to have been one of the three or four authors who had the greatest influence upon me throughout my life, as both a reader and a writer.
And it’s also the reason that the title of one of the stories in this volume strikes me as a most fitting epitaph for him, because it’s true.
“Once There Was a Giant.”
David Weber
September, 2001
GALACTIC ODYSSEY
CHAPTER ONE
I remember hearing somewhere that freezing to death is an easy way to go; but the guy that said that never tried it. I’d found myself a little hollow where a falling-down stone wall met a dirt-bank, and hunkered down in it; but the wall wasn’t high enough to keep the wind off or stop the sleet from hitting my neck like buckshot and running down cold under my collar. There were some moldy leaves drifted there, and I used the last of my lighter fluid trying to get a little blaze going, but that turned out like everything else I’d tried lately: a fizzle. One thing about it: My feet were so numb from the cold I couldn’t feel the blisters from the eighteen miles I’d hiked since my last ride dumped me at a crossroads, just before dawn.
I had my collar turned up, for what good that might do, which wasn’t much; the coat felt like wet newspaper. Both elbows were out of it, and two of the buttons were gone. Funny; three weeks ago it had been decent-looking enough to walk into a second-class restaurant in without attracting more than the usual quota of hostile stares. Three weeks: That’s all it took to slide from a shaky toehold in the economic cycle all the way to the bottom. I’d heard of hitting the skids, but I never knew before just what it meant. Once you go over that invisible edge, it’s downhill all the way.
It had been almost a year since I’d quit school, when Uncle Jason died. What money I had went for the cheapest funeral the little man with the sweet, sad smile could bear to talk about. After that, I’d held a couple of jobs that had wafted away like the morning mist as soon as the three months “tryout” was over and the question of regular wages came up. There’d been a few months of scrounging, then; mowing lawns, running errands, one-day stands as a carpenter’s helper or assistant busboy while the regular man was off. I’d tried to keep up appearances, enough not to scare off any prospective employers, but the money barely stretched to cover food and what the sign said was a clean bed. Then one day I’d showed up looking just a little too thin, a little too hungry, the collar just a little too frayed.
And now I was here, with my stomach making whimpering sounds to remind me of all the meals it hadn’t had lately, as far as ever from where I was headed—wherever that was. I didn’t really have a destination. I just wanted to be where I wasn’t.
And I couldn’t stay here. The wall was worse than no protection at all, and the wind was blowing colder and wetter all the time. I crawled out and made it back up the slope to the road. There were no headlights in sight; it wouldn’t have helped if there were. Nobody was going to stop in a sleetstorm in the middle of nowhere to give a lift to a hobo like me. I didn’t have any little sign to hold up, stating that I was a hardship case, that comfortable middle-class conformity was my true vocation, that I was an honest young fellow with a year of college who’d had a little hard luck lately; all I had were the clothes I stood in, a bad cough, and a deep conviction that if I didn’t get out of the weather, fast, by morning I’d be one of those dead-of-exposure cases they’re always finding in alleys back of cut-rate liquor stores.
I put my back to the wind and started off, hobbling on a couple of legs that ended somewhere below the knee. I didn’t notice feeling tired anymore, or hungry; I was just a machine somebody had left running. All I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other until I ran down.
2
I saw the light when I came up over a rise, just a weak little spark, glowing a long way off in the big dark beyond the trees. I turned and started off across the open field toward it.
Ten minutes later, I came up behind a big swaybacked barn with a new-looking silo beside it and a rambling two story house beyond. The light was shining from a ground-floor window. There was a pickup parked in the side yard near the barn, and a late-model Cadillac convertible, with the top down. Just looking at it made me ten degrees colder. I didn’t have any idea of knocking on the door, introducing myself: “Billy Danger, sir. May I step inside and curl up in front of the fire?”—and being invited to belly up to a chicken dinner. But there was the barn; and where there were barns, there was hay; and where there was hay, a man could snuggle down and sleep, if not warm, at least not out in the freezing rain. It was worth a try.
The barn door looked easy enough: just warped boards hanging on big rusted-out hinges; but when I tried it, nothing budged. I looked closer, and saw that the hinges weren’t rotted after all; they were just made to look that way. I picked at a flake of paint on the door; there was bright metal underneath. That was kind of strange, but all it meant to me then was that I wouldn’t be crawling into that haystack after all.
The sleet was coming down thicker than ever now. I put my nose up and sniffed, caught a whiff of frying bacon and coffee that made my jaws ache. All of a sudden, my stomach remembered its complaint and tried to tie itself into a hard knot. I went back through tall weeds past some rusty iron that used to be farm machinery, and across a rutted drive toward the silo. I didn’t know much about silos except that they were where you stored the corn, but at least it had walls and a roof. If I could get in there, I might find a dry spot to hide in. I reached a door set in the curved wall; it opened and I slid inside, into dim light and a flow of warm air.
Across the room, there was an inner door standing open, and I could see steps going up: glass steps on chrome-plated rails. The soft light and the warm air were coming from there. I went up, moving on instinct, like the first fish crawling out on land, reached the top and was in a room full of pipes and tubes and machinery and a smell like the inside of a TX set. Weary as I was, this didn’t look like a place to curl up in.
I made it up another turn of the spiral stair, came out in a space where big shapes like cotton bales were stacked, with dark spaces between them. There was a smell like a fresh-tarred road here. I groped toward the deepest shadow I could find, and my hand touched something soft. In the faint light from the stairwell it looked like mink or sable, except that it was an electric-blue color. I didn’t let that worry me. I crawled up on top of the stack and put my face down in the velvety fluff and let all the strings break at once.
3
In the dream, I was a burglar, holed up in somebody else’s house, hiding in the closet, and in a minute they’d find me and haul me out and ride me into town in a police car to sit under the lights and answer questions about every unsolved chicken-stealing in the county in the past five years. The feet were coming up the stairs, coming closer. Somebody said something and a woman’s voice answered in a foreign language. They went away and the dream faded. . . .
. . . And then the noise started.
It was a thin, high-pitched shrilling, like one of those whistles you call the dog with. It went right between my bones and pried at the joints. It got louder, and angrier, like bees boiling out of a hive, and I was awake now, and trying to get up; but a big hand came down and mashed me flat. I tried to get enough breath in to yell, but the air had turned to syrup. I just had time to remember the day back in Pineville when the Chevy rolled off the rack at Uncle Jason’s gas station and pinned a man under the back bumper. Then it all went red and I was someplace else, going over Niagara Falls in a big rubber balloon, wearing a cement life jacket, while thousands cheered.
4
When I woke up, I heard voices.
“ . . . talking rot now. It’...
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