Step to the Stars

by Philip E. High

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

Synopsis

Waking Nightmare! He awoke, stretched and scratched the top of his head with his right hand. It hurt, must have a pimple there or something. Only a few seconds later his forehead tingled, and he brushed at it with his left hand. It came away smothered in blood. What the hell! Got to get a towel or handkerchief or something. He reached forward with his right hand to throw back the bedclothes and froze. It was not his hand. It was not even human blood. The hand was brown, thin and scaly. A membrane stretched from the palm upwards to the top knuckles of the fingers, holding them together. Long curved nails grew from the tops of the fingers and one of them was bloody.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 168

Sample

by Philip Harbottle

PHILIP EMPSON HIGH was originally born in Norfolk, but moved to the historic town of Canterbury in Kent as a small child. Except for his war service in the Royal Navy, High has lived and worked there ever since. Now retired and a widower, he is the father two beloved daughters, and lives and writes within sight of the historic cathedral.

Whilst all of his published fiction has been in the field of science fiction and fantasy, his favorite author is Nevil Shute, and his own reading has embraced mainstream fiction, poetry, philosophy, science and psychology.

American readers were introduced to his work in 1964 when Ace Books, edited by the astute foreign talent-spotter Donald A. Wollheim, began to publish High’s colorful sf adventure novels, including The Prodigal Sun (1964), No Truce With Terra (1964), The Mad Metropolis (1966), These Savage Futurians (1967) Reality Forbidden (1968). Other novels followed over the next ten years.

But these novels actually represented the second phase of High’s writing career. Prior to the appearance of The Prodigal Sun, High had become well-known in his native England as the author of numerous short stories, published in such science fiction magazines as Authentic Science Fiction, Nebula Science Fiction, New Worlds, and Science Fantasy. Beginning with his first appearance in Authentic Science Fiction in 1956, High published more than 40 stories over the next decade, all of his writing being done in his spare time whilst working full-time as a bus-driver.

I had the privilege of introducing this body of work to American readers when I was invited by Wildside Press to edit THE BEST OF PHILIP E. HIGH for their Cosmos Books imprint. This volume was the first-ever collection of High’s short stories and contained the pick of High’s early work. Published in 2002, it is still in print and has been very well received by fans and readers on both sides of the Atlantic. Several of his best early novels are also available in new Wildside editions.

The editor who had published most of his short stories was the late John Carnell, and when the British sf magazine market began to severely contract in the early ‘sixties, it was Carnell who encouraged his magazine writers to try writing novels for the burgeoning American paperback book market.

Carnell became High’s friend and mentor. As his literary agent, he was successful in selling High’s novels all over the world in translated editions, and by the early 1970s High’s novels were also appearing in his own country in hardcover editions from Robert Hale and Denis Dobson.

Carnell’s early death in 1972 was a massive blow to British sf expression in general, and to High in particular. High continued to write novels until his retirement in 1979. But then, instead of increasing his output as one might have expected, he actually stopped writing altogether!

As a part-time writer, High had always relied on the advice of friends and agents, and now he was told that the popularity of science fiction was well and truly over. He was advised that there was no longer a viable market for science fiction in either novels or magazines—and so he simply stopped writing.

Whilst this advice had been specious and erroneous, it was compounded by the rise of new and younger editors, especially in the UK, who had what can only be described as contempt for the work of older writers, who were regarded as passé. Although numerous UK sf magazines came and went—and stayed—not one editor had the gumption to approach High and invite him to try writing new material. Like several other former Carnell stalwarts, High gradually passed out of print, and was in danger of becoming forgotten.

But, as someone (I think it was Brian Aldiss) once tellingly remarked, in science fiction, no one is ever truly forgotten, and for me, Philip E. High was a fondly remembered name when (with Sean Wallace) I decided to publish a new sf magazine in 1997. I wrote to High and invited him to submit new stories to Fantasy Annual. High enthusiastically responded, and his steady flow of mss was in no small way responsible for Fantasy Annual extending to five issues, before metamorphosing into its currently ongoing incarnation, Fantasy Adventures.

As this is being written, I have just accepted High’s very latest story, “Seeds of Invasion,” for forthcoming publication in Fantasy Adventures #7. It is, as a matter of record, the seventeenth new story by High that I have published in my various Fantasy collections, but it is as fresh and inventive as anything he has yet written. Make a note of it!

Which brings me to this present volume, Step to the Stars, consisting of ten entirely new High stories. Its genesis was quite simple—when I asked High to write new stories for my magazines, he began to deliver acceptable stories faster than I could publish them! On being apprised of this, Wildside publisher John Betancourt promptly commissioned a new book by High, consisting of all-new stories!

Step to the Stars is the result. It has been two years in the making, and is the first new book by High to appear for nearly a quarter of a century. But, I fancy, it will not be the last!

Given a free editorial rein, High has been producing stories that reflect many of his own personal beliefs, hopes and fears—the product of a long and varied life, and a ceaselessly inventive and enquiring mind. And whilst these stories contain all the usual fanciful science fiction tropes that one might expect of a writer who cut his teeth on Astounding Stories in the 1930s—contact with aliens, time travel, parallel worlds, and so on—they are also concerned with the real world, of human nature, of Good and Evil, and the place of humanity in the universe.

Reading for this collection over the last two years, I have noticed a consistent pattern emerging, and something of a change from High’s early dystopian novels. He is an author who believes in the future of man, and that his destiny lies in the stars. In many stories, mankind often needs a helping hand from alien intelligences, with many a cosmic shock or two to jolt him to his senses, but still he endures.

Some of the stories overlapped with each other, and might even have been revised to form a novel, or a thematic anthology. Where this has occurred I have taken some of the stories out of my inventory for this book, and used them as stand-alone stories in Fantasy Annual, Fantasy Quarterly, or Fantasy Adventures, to present greater variety. These ten stories have been winnowed from more than twice that number, and will, I trust, make interesting and varied reading for fans of the author, both old and new.

—Philip Harbottle,

Wallsend,

July, 2003.

William T. Harrington had worn well; although in his early fifties, his dark hair was untouched with gray and his face almost unlined.

He was a slim man, active in mind and body and a specialist. He had to be, only a particularly talented man can work his way up through the ranks to become Supreme Commander.

Harrington liked soldiering; he had a gift for organization and was an astute judge of men. He admitted to himself, however, he was a peacetime warrior and had never been tested in war.

The information coming to hand on this particular morning suggested that this happy condition might now be over.

He had been inclined, at first, to dismiss the entire business as fantasy but there were too many witnesses for the subject to be dismissed.

Harrington studied the map. The focal point was a moderately sized city with a population of one hundred and twenty three thousand inhabitants. The city was served on the landward side by two rail tracks and six major highways. It had two domestic airports and one international.

Between the city and the sea, the jagged end of a mountain range, black and threatening, barred the way to the coast like the spines of a dinosaur.

One single road, almost a track, led from the city to the coast. There was little need for more, the road served one small fishing village called Maygrell, which had been there almost since the beginning of time and numbered, at most, less than eight hundred inhabitants.

The area had never been exploited; there were no golden beaches. On either side of Maygrell the black cliffs plunged sheer into the sea.

Harrington picked his commanders carefully.

“Major Rhone, I want a brigade behind the village at Rington’s Pass, here. You will place your brigade astride the road according to procedure F. You will mine the surface of the road and the cliffs on either side. If you see it necessary to completely block the road, you will do so. Oh, and Major …”

“Sir?”

“Make sure your defense is flexible, you have no front or rear, you could be under attack from either side.”

Harrington turned his attention to another part of the map. “This is Vaneswick, the city. We are dealing with the same road leading from the city towards the coast. The trouble appears to have started about two kilometres from the suburbs at a point on the road known locally as Morgan Dip …”

The trouble had started early in the morning just after sunrise, with workmen checking the ancient landline to Maygrell. It was, of course, outdated, but considered too expensive to replace for such a small community.

The two men were not usually such early risers but there was a special sports meeting that evening and they wanted to be there.

“This section checks,” said Bandish, “take it up to the next link, eh? Then we’ll have a break for coffee and a bite to eat.”

They failed to make the make the next link. Bandish, about to climb into the work Jeep, never lifted his foot.

He only said, “Jesus,” in a choked voice then, urgently, “let’s get out of here fast!”

The desk sergeant at the police station looked at the two suspiciously. “You have been drinking, perhaps? This is a hang-over from last night?”

“Ain’t had a drink for four days,” said Bandish, “and Harry, here, don’t drink at all.”

The sergeant scowled at then both. “Run this past me again.”

“We work for World Communications and we were checking out the old Maygrell landline cable. We’d checked out two links and I was just about to get in the Jeep when the light went funny.”

“How do you mean—funny?”

Bandish had a short fuse and was turning red. “I’ve told you once but it’s for the last time now. I looked up and it wasn’t our sun. Before you ask details again, it looked a damn sight higher but was twice as big. It was sort of a mauve round the edges too, come to think of it.”

The sergeant drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and scowled at them. “Look, I’ve got a routine patrol not too far away, a motorcycle officer. You seem sincere so I’m prepared to take a chance on this one. How far does he have to go along the Maygrell road?”

“Morgan Dip, a couple of K’s, no more.”

“Right, I’ll give you a chance but think about it. If you’re having me on, God may have mercy on your souls but you’ll get none from me.”

Thirty minutes later, Britton, the motorcycle officer, came into the building pushing two bewildered-looking elderly men in front of him.

“Is this yarn right about the sun?” The sergeant was beginning to look uneasy.

“Oh, yes, indeed, too bloody right—I don’t wonder they made a run for it.” Britton’s face was showing signs of strain. “I stayed around for a minute or so and the countryside ahead—well, I’ve never seen anything like it. Wasn’t the Maygrell road, take it from me.”

The sergeant looked at the two elderly men. “Who are these two characters?”

“Now that’s another thing, Sarge. As I turned round to come back, these two appeared beside me in this ancient Rudolph.”

“A Rudolph: They haven’t made one of those since around 0 Eight.”

“Exactly, that makes it forty three years old, combustion motor, but everything checks out. It was passed as fit to travel by the Licensing Authority only two months ago.”

“What do these two say about it?”

“They say they’re both from Maygrell, Sarge, coming into the city for a family funeral. According to their story, a couple of K’s from the city, they ran into what looked like a swirling black mist. In it, they felt sort of ripped apart and the car seemed to turn over several times. Before they could really take it in, they were back on the road in normal light with me just in front of them.”

The sergeant looked bemused. “Now hang on just a moment, let me get this straight. When you go up the road towards Maygrell, you pass into a queer sort of place with a funny sun. People coming from Maygrell, however, only pass into a black mist before reverting to the normal road. They’ve seen nothing of this curious sun or this odd terrain—I am right on this?”

“I can’t fault the outline, Sarge, no.”

The sergeant leaned forward and picked up one of the phones on his desk. “I’m disclaiming all responsibility for this set-up, I’m washing my hands of it. I’m handing this straight over to the Chief, let him deal with it …”

Harrington infiltrated the city discreetly in an unmarked vehicle. He was, he knew, working under wraps. At the moment his main aim was to put a damper on public alarm and too much wild speculation.

He had commandeered a small, unoccupied building for his headquarters and moved in with a limited staff.

At the moment he was confining himself to one adjutant for immediate use and liaison purposes. It was not a popular choice as tradition, protocol and a great number of corns had been trodden on in the process.

Harrington was used to the criticism, he worked like that, the best man in the right job regardless of rank. In this case it was First lieutenant Alan Trent.

“An outline, Trent, please.”

“Well, sir, to simplify, the situation goes something like this. One cannot travel from the city to Maygrell because, two kilometres from the suburbs, the road enters what appears to be wholly alien territory. On the other hand, it is possible to travel from Maygrell if one can bear the journey. Witnesses state that they entered a black mist and—I quote, sir—‘all hell breaks loose’. Apparently a vast amount of disorientation takes place. This includes, among many reports, a brief period of unconsciousness, partial paralysis and, most frequently vomiting. Transit through this condition is roughly estimated at ninety seconds sir, after which they find themselves on the normal road to the city.”

“My pressure for scientific back-up has produced results?”

“In numbers and reputations, yes, sir. Two Americans, one British, two Germans, a Japanese and an Australian.”

“They have issued a report?”

“A limited one, sir. They refer to the condition as an area of disturbance. It is eight hundred metres long, narrowing at the ends, and fifty metres in height at its highest point. The area—they drew a picture for me, sir—is roughly the shape of a slightly open human mouth.”

“Is that all they had to say—no further commitment?”

“Only when I put pressure on them, sir, implying they could quickly be replaced with much loss of reputation, even so, two of them were visibly sweating. The best they could come up with is ‘a rent in the fabric of space-time’.”

“Did they explain it?”

“Well, they tried, sir, but, to be honest, it was way above my head. ‘All things in time and space are relative, space being only an appearance relative only to time.’ Frankly I couldn’t make sense of it, sir.”

“I bow to honesty, Trent, neither can I.” He rose. “Our next move is to see the Mayor and from the reports I have received, not an easy subject. I may have to cut him down to size.”

Mayor Howkett was a big paunchy man, bald-headed with a florid face. He had gained his position primarily from underworld string-pulling but he had since convinced himself it was from popular vote.

He had no idea who his visitors were, as far he was concerned, they were just a couple of high-ranking officers.

“I hope this is important, I’m a busy man.”

Before he could receive an answer, the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and turned his back on them without a word of apology.

“Hello—the Mayor speaking … Eh? What? The hell they have! Don’t worry, I’ll soon have this sorted, Martin. Got a couple of the bods here with me now.” He turned to the two men.

“What the hell is going on? I’ve just been told there’s a roadblock. The Maygrell road is closed and no one is permitted to get through. Is this true?”

“Yes, I have three brigades already dug in on either side. They have some light armor and a certain amount of specialist artillery to back them up.”

Howkett’s already florid face turned even redder. “You can’t do that, I should be consulted first. I decide which roads should be open or closed, this is my city, not yours.”

“It was, Mr. Mayor, but not anymore. I have four battalions of troops in this city under wraps. On a single command they wall take over city transport, the banks, all public utilities and shut down all three of your airports.”

Howkett rose from behind his desk, spluttering. “You can’t do that. Just who the bloody hell do you think you are? I’ll tell you this, my friend—you won’t get away with it. I’m an important man with powerful friends in high places. I’ll take this business right up to the Supreme Commander if I have to.”

“There is really no need.” Harrington laid his papers on Howkett’s desk in front of him.

“If you think any bloody bit of paper from some major or other is going—”

The voice choked to abrupt silence and the florid face turned to a blotchy white. “I didn’t know, I honestly didn’t know.” The hectoring voice was now a whimper.

“You made no effort to find out first, did you?”

“Oh God!—No, Supreme Commander, I didn’t. I cannot apologize enough, believe me. I’ll do anything, anything, to put the record straight.”

“In which case, Mr. Mayor, you’ll do what I say—understood?”

“Anything Supreme Commander, anything, I swear on the Bible.”

“Good, then hear this. You know nothing, nothing, you understand, of anything untoward in this area. The absurd rumors going a. . .