INSIDE MAN & OTHER STORIES.

By H.L. GOLD.

INTRODUCTION

Between the mid-1930s and 1950, the legendary editor John W. Campbell, Jr. used the pages of the old pulp magazineAstounding to single-handedly turned science fiction into a serious literature based on rigorous, contemporary (rather than out-dated) scientific extrapolation, generally focused on some "hard" science like engineering or physics or ballistics. Some measure of Campbell's achievement can be found in the names of the writers he schooled and the stories they wrote for him.

These include Asimov's Foundation and Robot series; Heinlein's...o...b..e Star, Beyond this Horizon, Methuselah's Children , and Future History stories; the best works of A. E. Van Vogt,The World of Null-A, Slan, The Weapon Makers ; and authors as legendary as Lester del Rey, L. Sprague de Camp, and Theodore Sturgeon, among others.

H. L. Gold effected a revolution of equal significance in the 1950s, when he emphasized social satire and a sense of humor, along with such human-centered sciences as psychology, sociology, and anthropology, into the pages of his newly-launched science fiction magazine,Galaxy. Although a few writers whose natural bent ran more his way than Campbell's notably Theodore Sturgeon moved over fromAstounding (soon to be renameda.n.a.log to better suit the more sophisticated tastes of the modern age), Gold's most notable successes were all home-grown and his record for developing stellar talent and encouraging them to write stellar works is evident in the names and stories that emerged fromGalaxy's pages. Among them were Alfred Bester withThe Demolished Man andThe Stars My Destination; Frederick Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth'sGravy Planet and Gladiator-at-Law ; and Ray Bradbury'sFahrenheit 451 ; along with William Tenn, Robert Sheckley, Margaret St. Clair, Evelyn E. Smith, and others. It should prove no surprise, then, thatGalaxy and Gold were frequent nominees for the Hugo Award for Best Science Fiction Magazine of the Year and captured it 1953.

Gold's own fiction bears all the characteristics he focused on atGalaxy , a puckish sense of humor joined with a wicked flair for satire. Mix, and the result is sometimes as effervescent as champagne ("Inside Man," "Grifter's Asteroid"), as wicked a kick in the head as whiskey ("Someone to Watch Over Me"), and as satisfying as well-brewed lager ("The Transmogrification of Wamba's Revenge"). Horace Gold also liked to stand familiar science fictional notions on their head, and he does that again and again in the stories in this collection. Almost every science fiction author worth their salt has, at one time or another, written about extra-sensory perception, telepathy, and other paranormal abilities. Gold does it too, but unlike his colleagues, he dreams up brand new wrinkles on ESP no one else, including you, every thought of (as in "Inside Man" and "The Riches of Embarra.s.sment"). When he wrote "The Transmogrification of Wamba's Revenge," Gold was given a cover painting depicting the cliched scene of a scientist experimenting on miniature human beings he has shrunk in size the notion can be found in the oldThrilling Wonder Tales of 1930s fame, as well as the filmDoctor Cyclops but when Gold looked at the painting, he saw an entirely different possibility one everyone else in the field overlooked. And when Gold meditates on one of humakind's age old dreams, you can be sure things don't turn out anything like the dream. The special quality ofGold's work was endorsed by his colleagues when "Inside Man" was nominated for the Science Fiction Writer's of America Nebula Award for Best Short Story of 1965.

The Science Fiction Source Bookhails Gold's science fictions as "witty entertainments ... evidence of [a] sharp and perceptive intelligence."The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction noted that "there's nothing machine-made about H. L.

Gold's tales. Mr. Gold is almost the only SF writer capable of creating lower and lower-middle cla.s.s backgrounds (a relief, after all of SF's potentates, plutocrats and technological elite)."Inside Man & Other Science Fictions is a real treat for SF fans, gathering together in an exclusive ebook edition the best of H. L. Gold's uncollected work, including his Nebula nominee t.i.tle story.

Jean Marie Stine 4/21/2003.

INSIDE MAN.

Lester Shay was married three months when he got his first Erector set. Thalia, noting that he felt tired and rundown, ordered him to get a checkup. Too tired and rundown to object, he went to see Dr. Peabody.

"Very surprising" the physician said after an embarra.s.singly thorough examination.

"Married three months, beautiful, affectionate bride but you get plenty of sleep, outdoors a lot, a moderate amount of exercise."

"I do all my own marketing," said Les, who owned a wholesale grocery business. "I walk every chance I get, which is considerable. Marketing is all outdoors, you know.

And I have to get to sleep early, because if I don't get up early, my compet.i.tors"

"Exactly. And I know it's not overwork. I'm overworked myself, but I'm in tiptop condition."

"How do you manage it?" asked Les, interested in a tired, rundown way.

"A hobby," said Dr. Peabody.

"Gardening? Raising tropical fish? Golf?"

"The last thing you'd expect," Dr. Peabody said, leaning forward excitedly. "I know a lot of dentists. They give me old fillings and I've got this little smelter, see, and I break down the amalgam into silver and mercury, then sell the stuff back to the dentists. Darn near pays for itself! And fun? You ought to come visit my bas.e.m.e.nt sometime!"

Shambling home, Les wondered what he could take up as a hobby. Nightclubs and theaters wouldn't do. They let out too late. Besides, they weren't a hobby. Raising things was too close to his actual work; it would make him think about produce and canned goods. He did enough outdoor walking to eliminate sports.That was when he saw the Erector set in the store window.

He stopped and studied it, looking more wistful now than tired or rundown. He had always wanted an Erector set, but his parents, believers in as the twig is bent so grows the tree, had refused to buy him one. They didn't, they explained, want their son to become a mechanic. Not, mind you, they'd added, that there was anything wrong with mechanics. But he was worthy of great things. They had also been disappointed when he went into the wholesale grocery line, were more pleased now because he was doing well in it, but that wasn't important. He still wanted an Erector set.

When he got home, Thalia looked expectantly at the large, heavy box. He had bought the biggest and most expensive set, of course.

"Oh, something for the house?" she asked, obviously hoping it wasn't.

"Doctor said I needed a hobby or something," he explained uncomfortably.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "We can do it together!"

"You mean you like working on Erector sets, too?" he cried.

"Oh," she said. "Well, that's really a well, a man's hobby."

She gave him the room that would some day be a nursery and he built a parachute jump, a stake truck, a windmill and a ski tow. The spring came back to his walk and the roses to his cheeks.

But less than a week later, lying in bed with his bride in his arms, he could sense the old tired, rundown feeling creep up on him.

"What's the matter, darling?" Thalia asked, disconcerted. "Is it the onions I had for dinner?"

"Oh, no, sweetheart!" he tried to answer hastily, only it came out a slow sigh. "It's the Erector set."

"The Erector set? Oh! The Erector set. Well, if it's broken, darling, you can always buy another."

"It's not broken. That isn't the trouble," he sighed again, and turned over and moodily went to sleep.

The problem was still on his mind in the pre-dawn at the market. Kale was coming in nicely and he had bought all the primes offered by the farmers. He morosely helped Arnie, his driver, load up.

"What happened to the old zip?" Arnie asked concernedly. "'You were feeling greatfor a while. Down in the dumps again?"

"I guess so," said Les. "Temporarily, at least. I hope."

"You ought to try tooling one of these monmouths through city traffic. Gotta judge every inch of the way. Boy, you drive one and I bet you won't have a minute to"

Les found himself listening intently, but not to Arnie's good-natured chatter.

Something was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But what?

No, not like walking barefooted on spilled sugar, he mused. Though it was a little like that sort of gritty. But painful, too. As if he were trying to run with a sore socket in his leg.

"You've got a bearing burning out," Les interrupted.

Arnie took a fast glance at him. "Since when you know about motors, Boss?"

"A bearing," said Les. "That's what it feels like."

Les nodded at a service station up ahead. "Pull in there. I want to have it checked."

The garage man examined the motor and found a bearing rubbed so raw that Les had to turn away in compa.s.sion and disgust. He left Arnie, puzzled enough to be silent for once, at the service station and walked alone the rest of the way to the office.

Les discovered he was surrounded by sensations ranging from purrs of pleasure all the way to groans of pain. One purr came from a trim little Porsche new tune-up job, a little heavy on the grease, but that would thin out on the straightaway, he thought, and the unexpected thought alarmed him.

Thought? He considered. It was a feeling, a very strong and explicit emotion. So was the sympathy for a pa.s.sing cab that really wanted to lie down on some nice, restful junk pile. A painful click, click bothered him. He looked up. It was a tower clock, desperately clawing its way around the hours on eroded cams. d.a.m.n the s.a.d.i.s.ts who would put a conscientious servant through such torture, he thought angrily.

But he felt equally guilty when he came into the office and heard Miss Zither typing.

The dogs in the escape mechanism were practically howling and the keys were moving only because her slim but powerful fingers were beating them into moving.

"Leave that alone!" Les said, more sharply than he'd intended. "I mean, no more typing for today," he amended when she jumped and looked frightened.

"But the filing's all done and I have a perfect mess of correspondence to get out,"

she objected. "If I don't do it today"

"Not on that battered hulk," he told her.He called and ordered a new electric typewriter. Miss Zeichner was, as she put it, thrilled. He shrugged. She always was either thrilled or absolutely completely and absolutely shattered. But only over unimportant things.

For instance, was she completely and absolutely shattered by the pained limpings and clenched-teeth determination to do a job, to keep those pistons pumping no matter what the cost; completely and absolutely thrilled by the sleek, contented murmurs, the happy little laughs of conscious strength, easy power, the cared-for feeling; or completely and absolutely dismayed by the breathless puffing under a merciless load, like He listened sharply. He felt more sharply still.

It came from the warehouse behind the office. He sprang out of his seat savagely enough to upset Miss Zeichner again, raced into the warehouse.

A valiant little fork-lift truck, overloaded by half again too many cases of canned salmon was almost red-faced with strain.

Les leaped aboard, switched off the motor, hauled out the man, shoved him against the wall and, started a murderous swing.

"Mr. Shay!" yelped the man. "What did I do wrong?"

It was Walt's voice. Les blinked, dropped his fist, slumped. "Sorry, Walt," he mumbled. "Guess I'm all on edge. You had that forklift overloaded and it it jarred me. Sorry."

Walt picked his shirt b.u.t.ton up off the floor. "h.e.l.l, Mr. Shay, it's all right. I'd probably do the same if somebody was ruining my property."

"Property!" shouted Les, for him again. "Things like machines property!"

Arnie, back while his truck was being repaired, caught Les from behind and held and soothed him into the office.

"You're all tensed up," Arnie said. "I'll get you a cab and you can go home and take a hot bath and relax with your slippers and bathrobe and newspaper. How about it, huh?"

"I suppose so," Les muttered. "I'm not much help today."

The cab was in good shape that new pinion hurt a little, but it would break in soon and Les sat back, easing, and even joined the comfortable, unworried motor hum.

Like all affectionate brides, beautiful or otherwise, when their husbands come home half a day early, Thalia was flattered and coy, then concerned when he abstractedly pecked her only once to her dozens of kisses on the face and mouth and ears and neck, then relieved when he told her he wasn't sick, and finally delighted because now he could help plan the menu for tonight."Menu?" he repeated.

"The Fitches are coming for dinner."

"Fitch? Fitch good G.o.d he has seventeen stores if I get the account what do you mean, menu? Caviar, bluepoints, vichyssoise, filet mignon, breast of guinea hen"

"Darling," she said. "Mr. Fitch has an ulcer."

"Ulcer," said Les. "Milk and crackers. Cottage cheese."

"What about that new line of dietetic food you said you could tie up if you only had the outlets?"

"Hey!" he cried. "Why'd I have to go marry you and lose the best office manager I ever had?"

"Because it was one or the other."

He gave her a dirty grin.

"Well, I was tired of being a working girl," she said defensively. "Every real, honest-to-goodness woman wants"

"I know what every real, honest-to-goodness woman wants. Let's let the menu wait, because every real, honest-to-goodness man wants what every real, honest-to-goodness woman"

She wriggled out of his arms. "And with me going frantic? I was going to phone you to pick up those dietetic foods and bring them home with you tonight. Now we'll have to get a special messenger."

"Yeah," he said. "It's frustrating, but you're right. Why can't Miss Zeichner"

"Oh, she'll learn, darling. Just give her time."

"Hah!" he said. "Why, you wouldn't believe it, but"

"The menu," she told him firmly. "And the messenger."

"Well, look, d.a.m.n it," Les argued the next morning, waiting for an elevator with Thalia in the Medical Building. "Just because I didn't get the Fitch account is no reason to haul me to a psychiatrist!"

"Lower your voice. People are looking," she shushed. "It isn't that and you know it, darling."

"You mean Mrs. Fitch's watch? Well, there were two damaged jewels in it!""But to take it off her wrist right in the middle of dinner and go racing out in search of a jeweler at that time of night"

"I got one, didn't I? And he saw the cracked one on the top and put up a battle when I hold him about the chipped one underneath, but he took the watch apart and sure enough"

"Yes, darling. I know. That's not what's important."

The elevator door opened and they got in.

"Then what is?" challenged Les.

She glanced at the elevator operator and whispered, "What you told me after Mr.

Fitch said they couldn't wait any longer for you to get back and to send the watch Les! You're not listening!"

But he was. He was listening very hard.