Mammoth Books presents The Region Between

Book 255: Mammoth Books

by Harlan Ellison

Genres: Science Fiction

Synopsis

"The Region Between" first appeared in Galaxy back in 1970. It had originally been commissioned as one of a set of stories by different authors who all used a common starting point as set out in the story's prologue, written by Keith Laumer. Ellison's contribution was a longer work than one usually expects from him, but it nevertheless sustains its bombardment of ideas and feelings throughout. What's more, Ellison created a story that demanded a different format to allow for full expression. The result was a typesetter's nightmare but, as you will see, the experience now only makes this story all the more fascinating, it actually takes you into the story itself. Mike Ashley

Release date: July 26, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 160

Sample

It would be difficult to compile an anthology of extreme sf and not include anything by Harlan Ellison. At times Ellison (b. 1934) epitomizes “Mr Extreme”, though never for the fun of it. I can’t think of any other author working in the field who has produced so many challenging, daring and thought-provoking stories. I would argue that from the mid-to-late 1960s Ellison was the pre-eminent writer of short sf, even amidst a field that at the time also had the astonishing talents of Roger Zelazny, Thomas Disch, Ursula Le Guin, Brian Aldiss, Michael Moorcock, etc. etc. Ellison, who became a Grand Master of the SFWA in 2006, has continued to produce works of considerable power and energy for over fifty years, yet he never sits on his laurels. In the 1960s, when he was winning award after award, he set himself the task of shaking up the field, making it take a long, hard look at itself. The result was the massive anthology Dangerous Visions (1967) which even now, forty years on, is still pretty astonishing. I resisted the urge to reprint anything from it, even though it includes many “extreme” stories.

Curiously, despite Ellison’s immense output, much of it battering down the barriers of sf and fantasy, I didn’t find it hard to decide which story to use. I had read “The Region Between” when it first appeared in Galaxy back in 1970. It had originally been commissioned as one of a set of stories by different authors who all used a common starting point as set out in the story’s prologue, written by Keith Laumer. All five stories can be found in Five Fates (1970).

Ellison’s contribution was a longer work than one usually expects from him, but he nevertheless sustained its bombardment of ideas and feelings throughout. What’s more, Ellison created a story that demanded a different format to allow for full expression. The result was a typesetter’s nightmare but, as you will see, the experience not only makes this story all the more fascinating, it actually takes you into the story itself. This story has been specially revised for this printing.

 

“Left hand,” the thin man said tonelessly. “Wrist up.”

William Bailey peeled back his cuff; the thin man put something cold against it, nodded toward the nearest door.

“Through there, first slab on the right,” he said, and turned away.

“Just a minute,” Bailey started. “I wanted—”

“Let’s get going, buddy,” the thin man said. “That stuff is fast.”

Bailey felt something stab up under his heart. “You mean – you’ve already . . . that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s what you came for, right? Slab one, friend. Let’s go.”

“But – I haven’t been here two minutes—”

“Whatta you expect – organ music? Look, pal,” the thin man shot a glance at the wall clock, “I’m on my break, know what I mean?”

“I thought I’d at least have time for . . . for . . .”

“Have a heart, chum. You make it under your own power, I don’t have to haul you, see?” The thin man was pushing open the door, urging Bailey through into an odor of chemicals and unlive flesh. In a narrow, curtained alcove, he indicated a padded cot.

“On your back, arms and legs straight out.”

Bailey assumed the position, tensed as the thin man began fitting straps over his ankles.

“Relax. It’s just if we get a little behind and I don’t get back to a client for maybe a couple hours and they stiffen up . . . well, them issue boxes is just the one size, you know what I mean?”

A wave of softness, warmness swept over Bailey as he lay back.

“Hey, you didn’t eat nothing the last twelve hours?” The thin man’s face was a hazy pink blur.

“I awrrr mmmm,” Bailey heard himself say.

“OK, sleep tight, paisan . . .” The thin man’s voice boomed and faded. Bailey’s last thought as the endless blackness closed in was of the words cut in the granite over the portal to the Euthanasia Center:

 

“. . . send me your tired, your poor,your hopeless, yearning to be free.To them I raise the lamp beside the brazen door . . .”

 

Death came as merely a hyphen. Life, and the balance of the statement f. . .