The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

320 Pages·2016·1.45 MB·English

by  E E E

Annotation
Here are twenty-five stories of fantasy and science fiction selected from the
pages of Wildside Press's Fantasy Adventure anthology series, selected by its
editor, Philip Harbottle. Throughout its run of thirteen issues FA presented both
original stories and classic reprints by veteran British SF and fantasy writers,
including Sydney J. Bounds, John Russell Fearn, John Glasby, Philip E. High,
and E. C. Tubb. They were soon joined by newer writers, most notably Eric
Brown, and the series became a modern showcase for the best of British science
fiction and fantasy writing.
Contents:
INTRODUCTION by Philip Harbottle
THE CALL OF THE GRAVE by Brian Ball
THE WARLORD OF KUL SATU by Brian Ball
THE BROKEN SEQUENCE by Antonio Bellomi
FINAL CONTACT by Sydney J. Bounds
SUNSKIMMER by Sydney J. Bounds
A TIME FOR CONTACT, by Sydney J. Bounds
WRITER FOR HIRE by Sydney J. Bounds writing as David Somers
THE TAPESTRY OF TIME by Eric Brown
UNCERTAIN WORLD by Eric Brown
I'LL KISS YOU GOODNIGHT by Frederick H. Christian
ASSASSIN by Andrew Darlington
PRISONER OF TIME by John Russell Fearn
THE HOUSE ON THE MOORS, by John Glasby
THE MARTIAN ENIGMA by John Glasby
NIGHTFALL ON RONAN by John Glasby writing as A. J. Merak
THE DRAINPIPE by Philip E. High
THE GUNMAN by Philip E. High
THE WISHING STONE by Philip E. High
SOMETHING IN THE AIR by Gordon Landsborough
THE DILETTANTES by E. C. Tubb
EMERGENCY EXIT by E. C. Tubb
THE GREATER IDEAL by E. C. Tubb
YOU GO, by E. C. Tubb
SEA CHANGE by Peter Oldale
BRIDES FOR MARS by Eric C. Williams
The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures
INTRODUCTION, by Philip Harbottle
THE CALL OF THE GRAVE, by Brian Ball
THE WARLORD OF KUL SATU, by Brian Ball
THE BROKEN SEQUENCE, by Antonio Bellomi
FINAL CONTACT, by Sydney J. Bounds
SUNSKIMMER, by Sydney J. Bounds
A TIME FOR CONTACT, by Sydney J. Bounds
WRITER FOR HIRE, by Sydney J. Bounds Writing as David Somers
THE TAPESTRY OF TIME, by Eric Brown
UNCERTAIN WORLD, by Eric Brown
I’LL KISS YOU GOODNIGHT, by Frederick H. Christian
ASSASSIN, by Andrew Darlington
PRISONER OF TIME, by John Russell Fearn
CHAPTER ONE: AVENGING ENTROPY
CHAPTER TWO: TIME BARRIER
CHAPTER THREE: BRIDGE OF DEATH
CHAPTER FOUR: THE PAST IS PRESENT
CHAPTER FIVE: VANISHING CARGO
CHAPTER SIX: THE PAST IS PRESENT
THE HOUSE ON THE MOORS, by John Glasby
THE MARTIAN ENIGMA, by John Glasby
NIGHTFALL ON RONAN, by John Glasby Writing as A. J. Merak
THE DRAINPIPE, by Philip E. High
THE GUNMAN, by Philip E. High
THE WISHING STONE, by Philip E High
SOMETHING IN THE AIR, by Gordon Landsborough
THE DILETTANTES, by E. C. Tubb
EMERGENCY EXIT, by E. C. Tubb
THE GREATER IDEAL, by E. C. Tubb
YOU GO, by E. C. Tubb
SEA CHANGE, by Peter Oldale
BRIDES FOR MARS, by Eric C. Williams
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic
Tales from Fantasy Adventures
Edited by Philip Harbottle
INTRODUCTION, by Philip Harbottle
When I was given a free hand to create a new paperback fantasy magazine
for Wildside Press in 2002, the only restriction I was given was that I had to
purchase all its contents myself!
With a free editorial hand, my initial policy was to commission new stories
from the older British science fiction authors, whose work I had read and
enjoyed over many years. But, unaccountably, all of them had fallen silent in
recent years because successive British magazine editors had chosen to ignore
their talent. Not one editor had thought to commission new work from them in
years!
I was angry that these talented veteran authors — who had helped to
pioneer magazine science fiction in Britain — had been denied the opportunity
to prove that they still had worthwhile stories to tell, and new things to say. And
I also felt that many of their excellent early stories had been too long out of
print, and been unjustly forgotten.
I wrote to all of these writers, offering them a firm commission for new
work, and at a reasonable rate of pay. Selected reprints could also be used, at
half this rate.
Most of the writers I contacted no longer had agents, and I was gratified
when they asked me to represent them. As their new agent, I was then able to
sell many of their backlist novels to my publisher, Wildside — and to other
publishers, too.
And so Fantasy Adventures was launched. Print-on-demand paperbacks
were still relatively new in 2002, and there was considerable dealer resistance to
carrying them. It soon became evident that circulation would never be great, so
budget considerations meant that only one-third of the 60,000 words contents
were new stories, but I still managed to obtain some fine material, most notably
some brilliant new stories by Sydney J. Bounds, Philip E. High, and E. C. Tubb.
Much of each issue was made up with a reprint of one of John Russell Fearn’s
better novels from the 1950s, and featuring specially commissioned illustrative
covers by famed ex-Scion artist Ron Turner.
My editorial policy throughout consisted of three main strands: to bring to
light fine stories that had been accepted for other markets, but for one reason or
another had never appeared at the time; to reprise classic stories too long out-of-
print; and to actively solicit brand new stories that might otherwise never have
been written. This latter strand eventually became the most important.
Gradually, as the series became established, in addition to works by
Bounds, Fearn, High, and Tubb, new stories by other veteran UK writers,
including Brian Ball, John Glasby, and Tony Glynn, were added, all of whom
wrote excellent new stories for Fantasy Adventures. One highlight was the
posthumous first publication of “Something in the Air” by Gordon
Landsborough, a novelette I had actually commissioned from Gordon for my
earlier SF magazine, Vision of Tomorrow, in 1970. It was a beautifully written
and subtle satire, its central character being a science fiction editor working for
an uncaring publisher (based on Gordon himself and his days at Hamilton’s
editing Authentic!) I was also proud to have been favoured with new stories by
rising star Eric Brown, and the noted Italian author and editor Antonio Bellomi.
As with most early POD ventures, sales were disappointing — but I was
able to resell the Fearn novels appearing in it to UK publishers, which more than
recouped my editorial outlay. I had hoped to continue in this vein, soliciting
more new stories from Eric Brown and other emerging younger British writers,
but it was not to be.
In 2006, first Philip E. High, and then Sydney J. Bounds, died. Both men
were born storytellers who loved to write, and although they knew they were
dying from cancer, they continued to write for me as long as they were able.
Their final stories were truly inspirational, remarkably good, and completely free
from any trace of bitterness or self-pity.
After their deaths I decided to discontinue the magazine, and to instead
concentrate all my energies on selling their backlists to other publishers on both
sides of the Atlantic, and throughout Europe. My still living clients continued to
write new stories, but—now that their names were known again—I was now
able to sell them to wider and better markets, including original story
anthologies.
Fantasy Adventures had achieved its objective when I ended it after thirteen
issues. Quite a number of its stories have since been anthologized or included in
single author collections.
Now my current publisher has suggested that I might edit a generous
selection of its best stories for the latest fast-developing new market — that of
the e-book. In this way it is hoped that these fine stories and their writers might
be brought to the attention to a new generation of readers who are unaware of
their existence.
I hope that these new readers might enjoy work by authors who may not be
familiar to them — and to want to seek out their many other works which are
now available both as paperbacks and e-books!
— Philip Harbottle, 27 August 2013
THE CALL OF THE GRAVE, by Brian Ball
The Celts believe that if you call on a man’s soul long enough, strongly
enough, the call will be answered. I am a Celt, a Welshwoman. Part of my
difficulty in deciding just what happened at the time of the Bryn Cynon disaster
is that I knew no English until I was well into my teens. As a child, I knew
nothing of that harsh tongue.
I was eight years old when my father and two older brothers, along with a
hundred and seven other men, were caught by the raging explosions in the deep
galleries. Coal was won with blood then.
My mother wept at the pithead with the other white-faced women. I
suppose I wept too, but I can’t remember too well. I was interested in everything
I saw. I watched it all, even when the sturdy rescue teams carne up with a few of
the bodies. They did weep. There was no hope for any of the miners.
The minister spoke of souls released from this life’s cares, but we children
thought of fire and water, smoke and stunning blast. The shaft was abandoned
and sealed up after a week. Nearly a hundred men still lay in the choking
darkness, quietly swayed by black waters. The disaster numbed the village. Even
though the pithead buildings were no longer in use, the old men and the widows,
the grandmothers and sweethearts, still came there. They spoke to their dead
menfolk, little everyday Welsh phrases that the dead would know well. They
comforted the dead and relieved their own grief. We came too, the children of
the village, but we were driven away. My mother was bitterly angry with me
when I persisted.
“Your father is dead, and your brothers too! Dead! The minister spoke the
words. Don’t disturb them now. Don’t trouble the dead!”
She had never looked so angry.
I learned the reason for that anger from the other children. She did not
believe in the old ways. But, child-like, I was fascinated by the idea that you
could call on the dead. I suppose I thought of it as a form of macabre
telephoning. How I wanted to communicate with my dead father and brothers!
So strong was my morbid wish that I disobeyed my mother. It was of no use
hanging about the pithead. My mother would soon hear of it if I began calling
down the blocked-up shaft. Instead, I went to one of the many ventilation outlets
that dotted the upper reaches of the valley. On the day of the disaster, they had
spumed black smoke and red flame for hours.
No one saw me. I would slip away after school before my younger brothers
realized I was gone. I talked, often for an hour, of the day’s trivial happenings:
‘Dad!’ I would whisper. ‘Can you hear? I’ve done well at arithmetic today!
We had dripping toast for breakfast again, and Gareth has a black eye!’
How simple and innocent it was! I kept up my one-sided conversations for
nearly two weeks. I tried to pretend that Dad or David or Rhys answered, but
there was nothing but a thin whistling sound from the deep, black hole. I was
careful not to get ay dress soiled on the smoke-encrusted brick when I peered
down. Nothing! Only the iron ladder and a distant, cold whistling.
One afternoon I arrived later than usual, for I was losing interest in my
macabre game. It was to be given fresh interest, for a most unusual thing
occurred.
Mr. Jackson, the English under-manager of the colliery, was there” I almost
called out to him, but I remembered that he spoke little Welsh. In his bowler hat
and dark suit, he was an imposing figure to a young girl. I said nothing.
He peered into the depths. And then he began to speak in his guttural
English. Of course, I did not understand him, as I have said, but I was fascinated.
Here was another who conversed with the dead! I almost called out, but my
shyness stopped me. I was sure he did not wish for company.
To my delight kind Mr. Jackson came the next day. And the next. He would
call down lengthy, impassioned messages for up to half-an-hour. I listened, but
for several days I could make no sense of his words. I caught one word, then
two, with much difficulty. And I knew them! ‘Morgan’ and ‘Lewis’!
Morgan Lewis! Mr. Jackson was trying to call on the soul of one of the
young colliers who had died three weeks before! I knew Morgan well.
Poor Mr. Jackson, I thought, poor Mr. Jackson to be so sad now that his
friend was dead! I almost called to him that Morgan would hear and come. I had
no need.
Mr. Jackson had just finished his conversation when it happened. He turned
and I hid. He was grinning. I am sure that he did not see the long thin arms that
rested on the brickwork behind him, nor the long emaciated and blackened
fingers. I saw them. To this day I swear that I saw them. A child’s vision is more
than twice as acute as an adult’s. I did see the arms.
They drew him back. Mr. Jackson’s hat fell off. He made an effort to reach
the skeletal arms and hands, but he was already off-balance.
I got up, not afraid since I had been expecting some response. At eight you
can forget to fear, so interested are you in your own thoughts. But I saw that Mr.
Jackson experienced fear.
He went to join his hundred men. I rushed to pick up his bowler hat. There
was no Mr. Jackson to give it to. I looked down. I listened. Nothing.
I almost returned Mr. Jackson’s hat to him, thinking he might need it in the
empty darkness, but I was pleased that I carried it with me as I ran back to the
village. The sight of the hat convinced my Uncle Thomas that I had not invented
the whole episode. My mother said nothing, nor did the neighbors. They all
stared at me as if I were some strange new animal. They sent the younger
children away, and I began to cry. I thought I would be punished.
“He was calling you say?” my Uncle asked.
“Yes, calling!”
“Calling who?”
“Why, calling the dead soul!”
They began to understand. Uncle Thomas frowned.
“This calling, girl! Mr. Jackson had no relatives in the pit — he had no one
to call on!”
I had not mentioned Morgan Lewis. Proudly I said:
“He had! His friend!”
“How do you know, girl? You don’t speak English!”
“I know, Uncle, but I did hear him say the name.”
“What name?”
“Why, Morgan Lewis’s! Very loud! Always Morgan Lewis!”
I was afraid then. I saw the horror in my mother’s eyes. They had not
believed my story of the terrible arms and the blackened, emaciated fingers. Not
until that moment.
“I knew Morgan Lewis would come.” I babbled on. “Mr. Jackson called
him so strongly!”
Uncle Thomas grasped me by the shoulders. Very fiercely he said:
“You saw nothing, girl, nothing!”
Girls obeyed their elders in Wales then.
“Nothing, Uncle,” I repeated.
I learned the rest of the story years later. Mr. Jackson had come to Bryn
Cynon with a pretty young wife, and Morgan Lewis of the black eyes and white
teeth had a way with the women. Cunning and vindictive, that was Mr. Jackson’s
reputation. He had ready access to explosives. How better to conceal a murder
than in a massacre?
My Uncle Thomas threw the hat down the ventilation shaft. That was
something else I did not learn for many years. I have often thought of that deep
hole and the empty whistling sound.
Could Morgan Lewis have survived for three weeks in some safe pocket of
the mine, perhaps blinded and terribly wounded, until he heard someone calling
his name? Could a dying man have climbed the shaft to listen to the under-
manager? Certainly Morgan knew some English. He had learned it from Mrs.
Jackson. Had he heard Jackson’s cruel voice?
I thought about Celtic legend too.
Had some awful specter heard the taunts and come to answer on behalf of
all those dead Celts?
I don’t know.
I have never called on the dead since. I never will.