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Complete Fiction
Robert Abernathy
(custom book cover)
Jerry eBooks
Title Page
About Robert Abernathy
“Presenting the Author”
Bibliography
Short Fiction Bibliography: chronological
Short Fiction Bibliography: alphabetical
1942
HERITAGE
PERIL OF THE BLUE WORLD
1943
MISSION FROM ARCTURUS
1944
SABOTEUR OF SPACE
1945
THE CANAL BUILDERS
WHEN THE ROCKETS CAME
1947
FAILURE ON TITAN
1949
HOSTAGE OF TOMORROW
THE GIANTS RETURN
THE DEAD-STAR ROVER
1950
THE ULTIMATE PERIL
THE TOWER OF BABBLE
STRANGE EXODUS
1951
RIGHTEOUS PLAGUE
1953
THE CAPTAIN’S GETAWAY
THE FOUR COMMANDMENTS
THE ROTIFERS
LIFEWORK
PROFESSOR SCHLUCKER’S FALLACY
WAIT FOR GEORGE
1954
AXOLOTL
THE RECORD OF CURRUPIRA
TAG
THE FIREFIGHTER
WHEN THE MOUNTAIN SHOOK
THE THOUSANDTH YEAR
HEIRS APPARENT
PYRAMID
THE MARVELOUS MOVIE
THE FISHERS
1955
SINGLE COMBAT
WORLD OF THE DRONE
THE GUZZLER
1956
JUNIOR
THE YEAR 2000
GRANDMA’S LIE SOAP
ONE OF THEM?
THE LAUGH
HOUR WITHOUT GLORY
Robert Harwood Abernathy, born on June 6, 1924 in Tucson, Arizona, was a teacher and short story author. He began publishing in June 1942, with “Heritage” for Astounding.
Abernathy was known primarily for his short stories which were published in many of the pulp magazines that flourished during the Golden Age of Science Fiction. He was a reliable, respectable short-story writer who did not manage the transition from magazine to book publication during his active years; although having published four book-length novels in the pulps. Probably due to his scholarly career, he was more than likely indifferent to publication subsequently.
A linguistic scholar specializing in Slavic languages, Robert Abernathy remained a professor at the University of Colorado until his retirement. He died on April 4, 1990 in Tucson, Arizona.
PRESENTING THE AUTHOR
★ ROBERT ABERNATHY ★
MY PERSONAL history seems somehow far less interesting than that of the people about whom my stories are written; they live stimulating, if often somewhat nervewracking lives, whereas, I have spent all of 25 years on one planet (though it’s much too early to give up hope of seeing a few others someday), have never had any dealings with alien monsters (unless you include Gila monsters), nor even seen a flying disk, strange as that may seem in this day and age.
I was born in Los Angeles, have lived since then in various places between that city and Boston, but have managed to stay long enough in southern Arizona to qualify, if not as an Old Settler,- at least as a native. (In Arizona, where everybody comes from somewhere else, a few years make you a native, and when you’ve been here ten years or more they come asking you for your personal reminiscences of the Earp-Clanton feud.) The weather here is, as everybody knows, the chief attraction; it’s wonderful, except when the wind blows and it becomes impossible to tell where the ground leaves off and the air begins.
As for formal education, I have attended the University of Arizona and the Harvard Graduate School, from which I have an M.A. and hope soon to receive a Ph.D.
So far as memory serves, I wrote my first science-fiction story at the age of ten, in school hours when the teacher wasn’t looking; it involved a hero and a villain, swooping about in rocket ships and trying to do one another dirt with all manner of obscure radiations, one variety of which was labeled “radio X-rays” (the electromagnetic spectrum was at that time not so much as a cloud on my horizon). That was as far as it went; the plot was as weak as the science. Later efforts, I trust, show improvement in both directions.
IT IS sometimes discouraging to find how many people refuse to take the science in science-fiction seriously. But one is likely to discover that these are the same people who have no real idea of the nature of science, confusing it, perhaps, with the use of long, queer-sounding words (which may simply be a form of intellectual bullying), or with the building and operation of complicated machinery, or with abstruse mathematics. Actually, the essence of the scientific method is prediction: prediction of the unknown on the basis of what is known, i.e. has been reliably observed—and, of course, checking of prediction by further observation or better still by controlled experiment. Thus the method answers to one of man’s oldest practical desires, the wish to know what is going to happen next in order to prepare for the event, or to do something about it, or merely to tell one’s friends and neighbors about it in advance and watch their faces when one’s “prophecy” comes true—this last being one of the science-fiction writer’s principal rewards. For the science- fictionist, insofar as he honestly tries to make predictions from known fact, is behaving as a scientist should. The main difference is that a physicist who says that two masses will attract one another bases his statement on very few and simple facts, so that his prediction has a very high probability of proving correct (though it can never reach 100% certainty; there is no such thing as an “exact” science); but the writer who tries to foresee how people will live, love and pay the grocer in 2500 A.D. is dealing with a mass of hard-to- predict variables—particularly of human behavior—at which the practical scientist throws up his hands in despair. We needn’t feel disgraced, then, if our prophetic batting average is low; and even so, once in a while we have the satisfaction of seeing our predictions pan out. Personally, I am mildly proud of having been the nteenth writer to predict atomic bombs before Hiroshima.
This doctrine of science-fiction may be hard to apply—but I find the same difficulties in my own special field of linguistic science. A linguist is not, as many people still seem to believe, a man who learns foreign languages; no doubt his earliest ancestor was the prehistoric tribesman who knew enough words of a neighboring tribe’s idiom to shout insults at them before battle was joined, but the modem emphasis is on finding out just how a language—any language—accomplishes its purpose of furthering social cooperation. To know all about that, the linguist should ideally know everything about all human activities and interests—which is exactly what the science-fictionist needs to know. Such an ideal is unattainable, of course; but that doesn’t stop us from trying.
Originally appeared in Amazing Stories, March 1950
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Magazine-published Novels
Hostage of Tomorrow, Planet Stories, Spring, February 1949
The Dead-Star Rover, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1949
The Ultimate Peril, Amazing Stories, March 1950
World of the Drone, Imagination, January 1955
Chapbooks
The Record of Currupira (2010)
World of the Drone (2010)
When the Mountain Shook (2010)
The Ro
tifers (2011)
Omnibus
The Ultimate Peril/The Planet of Shame (2012) with Bruce Elliott
SHORT FICTION BIBLIOGRAPHY
CHRONOLOGICAL
1942
Heritage, Astounding Science-Fiction, June 1942
Peril of the Blue World, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1942
1943
Mission from Arcturus, Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring, March 1943
1944
Saboteur of Space, Planet Stories, Spring, February 1944
1945
When the Rockets Come, Astounding Science-Fiction, March 1945
1947
Failure on Titan, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1947
1949
Hostage of Tomorrow, Planet Stories, Spring, February 1949
The Giants Return, Planet Stories, Fall, August 1949
The Dead-Star Rover, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1949
1950
The Ultimate Peril, Amazing Stories, March 1950
The Tower of Babble, Amazing Stories, June 1950
Strange Exodus, Planet Stories, Fall, August 1950
1951
Righteous Plague, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1951
1953
The Captain’s Getaway, Orbit #1, September 1953
The Four Commandments, Science Fiction Quarterly, February 1953
The Rotifers, If, March 1953
Lifework, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1953
Professor Schlucker’s Fallacy, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, November 1953
Wait for George, Cosmopolitan, November 1953
1954
Axolotl, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1954
The Record of Currupira, Fantastic Universe, January 1954
Tag, Beyond Fantasy Fiction, January 1954
The Firefighter, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1954
When the Mountain Shook, If, March 1954
The Thousandth Year, Astounding Science Fiction, April 1954
Heirs Apparent, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, June 1954
Pyramid, Astounding Science Fiction, July 1954
The Marvelous Movie, Future Science Fiction, August 1954
The Fishers, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, December 1954
1955
Single Combat, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1955
World of the Drone, Imagination, January 1955
The Guzzler, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1955
1956
Junior, Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1956
The Year 2000, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1956
Grandma’s Lie Soap, Fantastic Universe, February 1956
One of Them?, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1956
The Laugh, Fantastic Universe, June 1956
Hour Without Glory, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July 1956
SHORT FICTION BIBLIOGRAPHY
ALPHABETICAL
Axolotl, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1954
The Canal Builders, Astounding, January 1945
The Captain’s Getaway, Orbit #1, September 1953
The Dead-Star Rover, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1949
Failure on Titan, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1947
The Fishers, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, December 1954
The Four Commandments, Science Fiction Quarterly, February 1953
The Giants Return, Planet Stories, Fall, August 1949
The Guzzler, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1955
Grandma’s Lie Soap, Fantastic Universe, February 1956
Heirs Apparent, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, June 1954
Heritage, Astounding, June 1942
Hostage of Tomorrow, Planet Stories, Spring, February 1949
Hour Without Glory, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July 1956
Junior, Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1956
The Laugh, Fantastic Universe, June 1956
Lifework, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1953
The Marvelous Movie, Future Science Fiction, August 1954
Mission from Arcturus, Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring, March 1943
One of Them?, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1956
Peril of the Blue World, Planet Stories, Winter, November 1942
Professor Schlucker’s Fallacy, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, November 1953
Pyramid, Astounding, July 1954
The Record of Currupira, Fantastic Universe, January 1954
Righteous Plague, Science Fiction Quarterly, May 1951
The Rotifers, If, March 1953
Saboteur of Space, Planet Stories, Spring, February 1944
Single Combat, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1955
Strange Exodus, Planet Stories, Fall, August 1950
Tag, Beyond Fantasy Fiction, January 1954
The Thousandth Year, Astounding, April 1954
The Tower of Babble, Amazing Stories, June 1950
The Ultimate Peril, Amazing Stories, March 1950
Wait for George, Cosmopolitan, November 1953
When the Mountain Shook, If, March 1954
When the Rockets Come, Astounding, March 1945
World of the Drone, Imagination, January 1955
The Year 2000, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1956
1942
HERITAGE
There are two ways of considering heritage—the heritage of physical kinship, of blood and racial descent, and the heritage of an intellectual, spiritual sort. And which is the more important?
If everyone will please keep his seat and refrain from mobbing the platform, I will make a very confidential admission. I am closely acquainted with the great time traveler, Nicholas Doody.
Now, I am not trying to add to the multitudes of pseudo-Doodyesque anecdotes which are perpetually being decanted into unoffending ears in Pullmans, clubs, cafes, and private drawing rooms, and which have undoubtedly driven countless persons into mental declines and padded cells. Neither am I endeavoring to verify either of the two prevailing opinions respecting the inventor of the time machine—one, that he is a half-cracked young genius whose invention’s usefulness is rendered null and void by the immutable laws of time; the other, that he is an insanely selfish, misanthropic, antisocial wretch who is deliberately withholding from the human race a gift of incalculable value.
In sober reality, Nick Doody is a tall, dark-skinned, darkhaired young man of twenty-seven, who looks like a cross between a tennis champion and a naval officer. He is likable, friendly, and not at all standoffish, even regarding his remarkable invention—which he freely admits to be the result of sheer accident rather than of calculated research on his part. Almost anyone in twentieth-century America, he says, might have done it in the same way; the materials are within the grasp of practically everyone. The machine itself has all the simplicity of the first crude beginning of any new science; its very lack of complexity is what makes it such an enigma to your average Einsteinian physicist. But if it were taken apart or put together before you, your wife, or the man across the street, you would wonder why you didn’t think of it yourselves.
As for the popular opinions of Doody—the first is hokum and the second is hogwash. The inventor labors under no mystical ideas about the immutability of the past or the inevitable predestination of the future; his machine affords just as much opportunity for control of the fourth dimension of time as ordinary tools offer for managing the usual three. However, neither is Doody subject to any illusions about his sacred duty to humanity being to reveal the secret of the time machine; he believes that humanity has made a quite adequ
ate mess of its world in three spatial dimensions, and that to add a fourth would only complicate modern life to a point where nervous breakdowns would become as common as shiny seats on blue serge trousers.
Being a normal young fellow with a taste for adventure, he uses the time machine solely for minor exploring junkets into past or future ages, with no purpose save sheer amusement. In the process of these trips, as you might expect, he has seen and done many things which for sheer improbability outdo the wildest imaginings of the science-fiction writers.
It is possible that by making public the substance of a conversation which I had with Doody a few days ago—to be exact, on the evening of November 20, 1976—I may succeed in silencing a few of the macawvoiced critics who have been loudly and raucously insisting that he turn the principle of time travel over to the American government.
“Johnny,” remarked Doody, tête-à-tête with me over an excellent dinner served by the ménage of Elbert’s Exquisite Eatery—or is the adjective Elegant? Perhaps you know the place—it’s on Broadway, one of the most dignifiedly popular cafes of old New York, dating back to 1953. “Johnny, did you ever have any difficulty in proving that you are a man?”
“Not even when I went into the army,” said I, leaning my elbows on the tablecloth and wondering at him frankly. “Why?”
Doody grinned, flashing two thirds of a perfect set of even white teeth. “I did, Johnny; once upon a time that hasn’t happened yet. I stood trial on the question of whether I was or was not human, with my life as well as my reputation dangling in the balance. I conducted my own defense, such as it was—and I lost my case.”
“Well!” I exclaimed, hoisting an eyebrow. “What did they prove you were—a throwback to the chimp?”
“No, not quite,” replied Doody, smiling comfortably, though reflectively—in that curious manner which is his alone, of looking past a companion into far, dim vistas of time. “You know, I’m not sure that I lost that case, after all. Things were getting pretty hot, and I didn’t delay my fade-out long enough to see. Maybe my final argument settled the prosecution’s hash, although the jury had already brought in a verdict of guilty—guilty of impersonating a human being, a crime punishable in that far-off day by death. I’d like to go back to that era and find out; but my little gadget has practically no selectivity at such extreme ranges. I couldn’t even be sure of hitting the right millennium. It would take a much more delicate and complex instrument, with a power source superior to my two dry cells, and a lot of other stuff I haven’t bothered to work out and never will work out. Well, that’s all beside the point, which is that this little experience of mine set me wondering.”