Jupiter Laughs

by Edmund Cooper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

What happened on Judgement Day? Do we have Martian ancestors? Will we blow up the world? In this collection of his best SF stories, Edmund Cooper gives his own inimitably entertaining answers to these and other such intriguing questions. From The Death Watch to The Brain Child, Cooper 'considers possible scenarios'. Sometimes he is serious, sometimes satirical. Sometimes he is uncomfortably close to the truth.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 224

Sample

SCIENCE FICTION IS a most peculiar literary genre. Many people seem to think that it is a product of our technological era; but it has a long and honourable tradition. Sir Thomas More’s Utopia was a piece of science fiction which stimulated political and social development throughout Europe; Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels was a strong piece of social criticism; Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein posed the moral question of how far science should be allowed to go; Jules Verne optimistically dreamed of great scientific progress and wrote many entertaining novels on this theme; Samuel Butler’s Erewhon questioned the social values of the Victorian age. The great giant, H. G. Wells, considered in his novels emotional, scientific and social problems. He also wrote most entertainingly of now conventional themes—space exploration and the invasion of Earth by aliens. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World was an indictment of the Pavlovian responses that could be generated to control people and social institutions. George Orwell’s 1984 was a nightmarish vision of totalitarianism. And so on.

Nowadays most science fiction writers still seem to be concerned with space odysseys and scientific innovation. But there are some, notably Kurt Vonnegut and J. G. Ballard, who are more concerned with people than with gadgets.

In my early short stories I was fascinated by scientific and technological innovation. In my later short stories I became more concerned with moral issues—as, indeed, I have been in many of my science fiction novels. I was amazed to discover recently that two bibliographers—one in the north of England and the other in Australia—are trying to compile a complete list of my work. One of them recently sent me a working list, and I was also surprised to discover that I had written forty-two science fiction stories.

The first short science fiction story I ever wrote was Falcon Chase. It dealt with the visit to Earth of people from another world—a theme which has been dealt with by many other science fiction writers including the great H.G. In most of the stories I have read the visitors pose a threat to mankind. I chose to reverse the situation: mankind was a threat to them.

My next story was The Brain Child in which I chose to satirise our optimistic attitude to the development of computers. Both stories were written in the mid 1950s, which, in view of scientific, political and social change, now seems a very long time ago.

In 1954 the Astronomer Royal claimed that a man would never get out into space. At the time I was writing a story called The Intruders, which described the conditions on the surface of the moon. The story is overlong for the present collection, and I have excluded it, but it foretold with uncanny accuracy the conditions met with by Neil Armstrong when finally man set foot on the moon in July 1969.

My unhappy ability to prophesy was further developed in Death Watch—published in this collection—which told of the way American generals were trained to control a nuclear strike force. The story was written in 1960. Two years later I read an article in Time magazine which indicated that such training was in progress under the conditions I had described.

I have never regarded myself as a prophet, seeing it only as my duty to consider possible scenarios. Fortunately, most of the scenarios I consider have little chance of coming true.

But The Life and Death of Plunky Goo, written in the early 1960s, is uncomfortably close to the truth. The ruthless exploitation by advertising men of the child market is becoming more and more vicious.

Another theme about which I felt very strongly was the development of microbiological weapons. It was this intensity of feeling that caused me to write the story Judgment Day. Unhappily, the major powers are still concerned with the prospects of microbiological warfare. One cannot help but feel that nuclear weapons are preferable.

I have been writing science fiction for over twenty years and have discovered that I am only at my best when I have a theme in which I deeply believe. The basic duty of a professional fiction writer is to entertain his readers and perhaps give them food for thought. I believe that I have a duty to myself and that is to put up for public examination ideas, themes and attitudes which have affected me deeply and personally. If I have succeeded in entertaining my readers while doing this, then I have succeeded in all I ever wish to achieve.

MADEHURST, SUSSEXJanuary 1979

THE TROOP OF horsemen moved slowly along the stony track through the desert. They were tired—all five of them—dead tired. They had done a lot of riding and a lot of killing. The killing had made them more tired than the riding. What kind of soldier could take any pleasure in killing kids that couldn’t even walk, couldn’t even sit up?

The sergeant sighed and glanced up at the night sky. Black, star-studded, peaceful. There was a big moon, too. It turned the desert into silver rocks and silver sand. The light was good enough to ride by, if you took it easy.

The sergeant looked back over his shoulder. That goddam star was still there. The bastard star that had caused all the trouble. But maybe there wouldn’t have been any trouble if those three wise guys—bent fortune-tellers by the look of them—hadn’t come to the city and stirred it up enough to get themselves admitted to the palace. Stupid bastards. Said they had been following the goddam star, said it was going to lead ’em to where a great king would be born. Stupid, stupid bastards!

Everyone knew the old king was nutty as a fruit cake. And mean. Real mean. Everyone knew it except those clever idiots with their fancy clothes and fancy ways. Maybe they thought they were on to a big con. Maybe they had been hoping to take the old devil for a hatful of gold. He was still cunning and vicious, but a bit simple-minded. Senile. It showed.

The star still looked as if it sat high over that god-forsaken town. Mercifully, the town was nearly a day’s ride back there, hidden by the hills. The sergeant didn’t want to see it, anyway. But he could still see it, in his mind’s eye. And he could still hear it—the screaming; the shouting; the women offering themselves, anything, for the sake of their kids; their crazy menfolk trying to fight disciplined soldiers with hammers, knives, sickles, pieces of wood, bare hands.

But the king’s soldiers did their thing, did what they were told to do. They slaughtered the kids—just like they were young suckling-pigs, which most of ’em were—chopped down enough of the men to discourage the rest, and had some of the women. They didn’t have too many of the women. How the hell do you work up a woman when her old man has been knocked on the head and her kid’s lying in its blood? But blood lust does funny things to men and women. The sergeant had heard that one poor bitch got herself screwed to death by a score of brawny heroes. They said that she was laughing herself silly and coming all the time.

Again, the sergeant sighed. It was going to take a lot of booze to wipe the memory of that night’s doing. He shivered. Goddamit to hell, there wasn’t that much booze in the world.

He noticed that someone had just come up by his side. The sergeant knew who it was without looking. The boy who used to be a shepherd. The bumpkin. But now he has whiskers and muscles hardened by a desert childhood. So now he was a man. And now he was a soldier. How old was he—sixteen, seventeen?

“Hey, Sarge. You think Herod’s crazy? Some of the men are saying that he’s flipped.”

“Yes, he’s crazy. We’re all crazy. We live in a crazy world. You take his salt-money like I do. We do what he tells us. Now, who is more crazy, boy, him or us?”

The bumpkin scratched his head nervously. “I hadn’t thought of it like that … But chopping all those babies, that was like, like a nightmare.”

“You didn’t have to be a soldier, son.”

“What else was there for me?”

“You could have stayed with the sheep.”

“What kind of a life is that, Sarge?” The bumpkin sounded hurt.

“What kind of a life is this, stupid? Did you have any of the women back there?”

“No, Sarge. It—it didn’t seem right … I mean all that killing and all.”

“There is hope for you yet,” said the sergeant with a thin smile. “Now shut up and piss off,”

Just as the bumpkin was dropping back, the sergeant said, “Mind you, Herod is really twisted. I know. I served him a long time. When he came to power, he butchered half the Sanhedrin, and then he started on the priests. After that, he chopped his wife, Mirianne, and then her mother, Alexandra … I used to fancy her. She was a very fine lady … Now, so they tell me, he is about to thin out his sons … But he pays your salt-money, boy. Until you stop taking it, you are his man. Remember that.”

“Yes, Sarge. Thank you.”

The outrider reported back. “Three riders ahead, Sergeant. Not horses, camels. They wear strange clothes. Not like our people at all. I didn’t get too close. Thought you wouldn’t want them to know about us.”

The sergeant was jubilant. “Boyo, you’ve done well. Would they, do you think, be those black-hearted fancy men that came from the East to Jerusalem and set this whole thing going?”

“Can’t swear to it, Sergeant.” The man grinned in the moonlight. “But I’m betting on it.”

“If you’re right, you’ll be drinking at my expense when we get back to Jerusalem.” The sergeant held out his hand. The other riders came close. “Any of you men enjoyed chopping the babies back there?”

No one answered. They, too, were loaded with memories they didn’t want.

“That’s what I thought. Maybe some of you had fun with the women. I don’t know, and don’t tell me. Women are one thing, kids are another … Anyway, there are three riders on camels some way ahead. Something tells me they could be the funny men who triggered the big party. Personally, I didn’t much care for the party. So I say there is a score to be settled. Any objections?”

One man said nervously: “Aren’t they under the king’s protection?”

“Soldier, you don’t keep up with the news. They were supposed to take the brat they were looking for back to Herod. Herod is a great joker. Said he wanted to worship this new king of the Jews. Most likely, the old boy would have done his worshipping with cold steel. Anyway, these wise guys caught on and didn’t take the kid back. So Herod blows his mind, and we have to drop all the kids in the area. Joke one, we didn’t get the one that mattered. Joke two, the wise guys double-crossed Herod, which he doesn’t like too much. So we do Herod a big favour if we take these guys out. It won’t take long. After that, we press on with the mission. O.K.?”

The man scratched his head. “If you say so, Sergeant. Will this thing go in your report?”

“Depends,” said the sergeant. “Depends on whether we fulfil the mission or not. Herod can be a very funny person. Any questions?”

There were no questions.

“Let’s ride, then. Don’t do anything until I signal. But when I do signal, make it clean and quick.”

They caught up with the Magi sooner than the sergeant had expected. He thought the wise guys might have spotted his troop and made a run for it. But they didn’t. They didn’t even look back until they heard the sound of hoof-beats on the hard ground. Then they reined in their camels and waited patiently.

“Good evening, sirs,” said the sergeant courteously. “You are the very gentlemen who brought news of great importance to King Herod, are you not?”

“We are,” said one tranquilly. “Do you have any message for us? We have a long journey to make.”

“Sir,” said the sergeant, “we are seeking the child you sought. Can you help us?”

In the moonlight, the Persian smiled a silver smile. “I am afraid not. Our mission was a failure. It is sad. We are returning home.”

The sergeant also smiled. “Sir, someone must have misled you. You are travelling south. This is the road to Egypt. The road to Persia lies to the north.”

“We thank you for this information. Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort us until we reach the correct route.”

The sergeant grinned. “Marks for effort, but not on, friend. You are the rearguard. They are taking the kid to Egypt.”

The Magi glanced at each other. One of them was reaching for a short curved sword—surreptitiously, he hoped. Another was casually slipping his hand inside his robe. The sergeant noted these movements with some satisfaction.

The one who had already spoken still tried to keep it cool. “Sir, you speak of matters we do not understand. Though I am sure it is not necessary, I beg to remind you that King Herod himself has approved of our journey. He would have given us the protection of his soldiers had we wished it. Now let us go in peace.”

The sergeant savoured this moment. “Not on, friend. We found some shepherds. After a bit of encouragement, they talked. We know about you, about the kid you found. About this guy Joseph bar-David and his woman … No, Herod doesn’t like to be crossed. I’m Herod’s man, and I can tell you.”

The talkative one tried a last throw. “Then may I suggest, sir, that you escort us to the king? We shall be pleased to explain to him what has happened.”

“No, you may not, wise guy. While you make with the funnies, the kid gets to Egypt—and Herod isn’t going to laugh too much about that. Also, I got some bad news. You’re not going back to Persia, or wherever you came from. You’re not going anywhere.”

The Magi drew their weapons. Three curved swords—useful for carving, but not for much else—and toy daggers. The sergeant was pleased to see that none of his men had moved. Why the hell should they? They were trained soldiers, all except the boy.

“We are three against five. You may kill us, but some of you will not pass over us. There is still hope for the child of the star.”

The sergeant ignored him. “You have a right to know why you are going to die. So I’ll tell you and I’ll make it fast. If you stupid bastards had kept your mouths shut we wouldn’t have had to slaughter a townful of brats, you wouldn’t be dying now, and we wouldn’t have to chase the one that got away.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “Why the hell did you have to tell Herod?”

“We thought he would be pleased to learn of the birth of a great King of the Jews.”

The sergeant roared with laughter. “Don’t you know that kings—even if they are sane—don’t want to know about other kings?” He turned to his troop. “These people want to play with their little swords. I wouldn’t give ’em the satisfaction.”

“Arrows?” enquired a soldier.

“Arrows,” said the sergeant, “and fast.”

The Magi tried to manoeuvre their camels, but the clumsy beasts lacked the fast reactions of horses. The sergeant shrugged and motioned to his men. Briskly they took their horses well clear of the camels; and then they reached for their bows.

One of the Magi had begun to charge, but two arrows stopped him, one in the face, one in the chest. He screamed and fell. Before he had stopped threshing about, the other two had joined him on the frosty ground, each transfixed. They rolled about and made horrible noises. The sergeant’s professional eye told him that the wounds were mortal.

“Sarge, shall we finish them off?” asked the bumpkin anxiously. He didn’t like the noise.

“Why waste arrows? You heard worse than that in Bethlehem. Now we ride south and finish the job.”

“Sarge, none of us liked killing the babies back there. Why do we have to go after this one? If you say we chopped it, we’ll all back you up. It can’t do Herod any harm now.”

“Boy,” said the sergeant, “there is a nasty logic in human affairs.” He gestured towards the dying Magi. “This trash isn’t going to stir up more trouble. But what about those shepherds? You want us to go back and take them out? Maybe they already talked to somebody else. Maybe if we let the kid get to Egypt, somebody won’t be able to resist telling Herod he wasn’t so smart after all … No, boy, we ride south and finish the job. We earn our salt-money, and maybe a little extra. I don’t like it, but that is the way it is … O.K., you soldiers, move!”

One of the Magi was already dead, but the other two were still making sad noises and moving feebly. Steam rose in the cold night air from their death throes. The sergeant didn’t look back.

They caught up with the man and the woman and her brat just about dawn. It seemed, somehow, significant.

The sergeant was red-eyed, saddle-sore, dead tired. So were, his men. It was a pitiable sight, but the soldiers were too tired for pity.

The woman was riding a clapped-out donkey and trying to breast-feed at the same time. Judging by the squalling, that wasn’t working too well. The man was leading the donkey. He didn’t try any rough stuff. How the hell could he? He wasn’t armed, his hair was grey, and all he’d got was blisters on his feet.

He just looked at the woman, let out a great sigh and said, “I’m sorry.” Maybe there was nothing else to say.

The sergeant said, “You know why we’ve come.”

The man suddenly looked very old. “Yes, we know … I have a little money. Perhaps—”

“I’m sorry, friend.” The sergeant’s voice was gentle. The soldiers hadn’t heard him speak gently before. They were surprised. “It has to be done. That mad old king is a mean bastard and he has a good intelligence network. Likely somebody is already following us by now to see that we do the job. So let’s get it over with. Herod didn’t say anything about killing people—only babies.” He turned to the woman on the donkey: “Ma’am, if you give me that child and ride on, I swear to you it will be quick. No pain. I swear it. Then you and your good man can make your way to Egypt and start a new life. You’re young. There will be—”

“Monster!” she flared. “Pervert! Murderer! You will kill my child only when I am dead.” She clutched it tighter to her bare bosom, and the squalling got louder.

The serg. . .