ORION was something new in science fiction
magazines; it printed stories about aliens and
passed them off as the truth--which they were!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"He must die. It will look like an accident."
"Shouldn't we take him back with us?"
"We are far from through here. Don't tell me you are developing a
sympathy for these miserable creatures?"
"Impossible. I merely assumed he might be of some further value in our
great crusade."
"He must die."
Max Field was listening at the door. He moved back so he could breathe
again. Those dozens of little wounds in his chest and on his arms
and neck stung like fire. His amiable young features were tense but
resigned. This was the end, period....
Outside the little cabin an owl hooted. It was a lonely sound. But it
was a familiar earth sound, and it brought a lump to his throat.
If only there was some way to outwit them. But he had thought of
everything; apparently so had they. That window, for instance, was
shuttered and bolted from outside. A sudden noise would bring them in
here in no time. The back wall was up against a cliff. There was no
outside door in this room.
He was supposed to be drunk, befuddled. But he hadn't drank any of the
champagne. In that, at least, he had outwitted them. He was to die. No
question about that. The only question remaining was--how.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the little notebook
he'd been, at odd moments, scribbling the whole story in. Force of
habit, perhaps. Max was a science fiction writer. He flipped through
the pencilled pages. Worth money, this story. He smiled ironically. Yet
who would read it, much less believe it.
Somebody might, he decided. He would hide it somewhere in this room.
Maybe slip it through a crack in the flooring, a few pages at a time.
He pulled out a stub of pencil and added that final shuddery scene.
_Alice. Alice...._
Outside, the owl hooted.
* * * * *
It started, as so many stories do, with my phone ringing. I was eating
cigarettes and pounding out a cover novel for _Gizmo_. If there is
anything that gripes me where I live it is some joker calling me up
when I'm busy producing and--
"Hello. Yeah. This is Max Field, the science fiction writer. And while
we're on that subject, I happen to be--"
"I am Wallace Starr." It was a funny voice. Funny-strange. It sounded a
little like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.
"Really?"
I pushed out my current Camel and sneaked in a few pecks at the old
Underwood. So sandpaper-voice was Wallace Starr. Maybe I was supposed
to turn handsprings.
"You don't know me," the heckler went on, "but I am very familiar with
you and your work. I have an important project in mind. A new monthly
science fiction magazine to be called _Orion_. I need a good assistant
editor. You were suggested."
"_Orion_," I said.
"Yes. My book will feature a completely new approach. We will buy
only the best material, and each story will concern itself with the
constellation Orion and its various systems. All material will be
correlated to this end. How does this strike you?"
"You won't find it so easy pinning the best writers down to Orion," I
grinned. "Writers like Swain and St. Reynard and Ric Planter like elbow
room."
"Orion is vast and complex. One hundred and seven solar systems, to be
exact. That should provide ample elbow room."