Orion was something new in science fiction
magazines; it printed stories about aliens and
passed them off as the truth—which they were!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"He must die. It will look like an accident."
"Shouldn't we take him back with us?"
"We are far from through here. Don't tell me you are developing asympathy for these miserable creatures?"
"Impossible. I merely assumed he might be of some further value in ourgreat crusade."
"He must die."
Max Field was listening at the door. He moved back so he could breatheagain. Those dozens of little wounds in his chest and on his armsand neck stung like fire. His amiable young features were tense butresigned. This was the end, period....
Outside the little cabin an owl hooted. It was a lonely sound. But itwas a familiar earth sound, and it brought a lump to his throat.
If only there was some way to outwit them. But he had thought ofeverything; apparently so had they. That window, for instance, wasshuttered and bolted from outside. A sudden noise would bring them inhere in no time. The back wall was up against a cliff. There was nooutside door in this room.
He was supposed to be drunk, befuddled. But he hadn't drank any of thechampagne. In that, at least, he had outwitted them. He was to die. Noquestion about that. The only question remaining was—how.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the little notebookhe'd been, at odd moments, scribbling the whole story in. Force ofhabit, perhaps. Max was a science fiction writer. He flipped throughthe pencilled pages. Worth money, this story. He smiled ironically. Yetwho would read it, much less believe it.
Somebody might, he decided. He would hide it somewhere in this room.Maybe slip it through a crack in the flooring, a few pages at a time.
He pulled out a stub of pencil and added that final shuddery scene.Alice. Alice....
Outside, the owl hooted.
It started, as so many stories do, with my phone ringing. I was eatingcigarettes and pounding out a cover novel for Gizmo. If there isanything that gripes me where I live it is some joker calling me upwhen I'm busy producing and—
"Hello. Yeah. This is Max Field, the science fiction writer. And whilewe're on that subject, I happen to be—"
"I am Wallace Starr." It was a funny voice. Funny-strange. It sounded alittle like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together.
"Really?"
I pushed out my current Camel and sneaked in a few pecks at the oldUnderwood. So sandpaper-voice was Wallace Starr. Maybe I was supposedto turn handsprings.
"You don't know me," the heckler went on, "but I am very familiar withyou and your work. I have an important project in mind. A new monthlyscience fiction magazine to be called Orion. I need a good assistanteditor. You were suggested."
"Orion," I said.
"Yes. My book will feature a completely new approach. We will buyonly the best material, and each story will concern itself with theconstellation Orion and its various systems. All material will becorrelated to this end. How does this strike you?"
"You won't find it so easy pinning the best writers down to Orion," Igrinned. "Writers like Swain and St. Reynard and Ric Planter like elbowroom."
"Orion is vast and complex. One hundred and seven solar systems, to beexact. That should provide ample elbow room."
I w