We begin with afish story.
The locale is Venus; the "fish" is Ichthysaunis elasmognathus, a
three-hundred-foot monster that has never been landed and
perhaps never -will be, in spite of powered equipment built to
the scale of a floating platform as big as an aircraft carrier.
This story won overwhelmingly in the novelette category: it
got five nominations, and more votes than the next four stories
combined.
Nebula Award, Best Novelette 1965
THE DOORS OF HIS FACE,
THE LAMPS OF HIS MOUTH
Roger Zeiazny
I'm a baitman. No one is born a baitman, except in a French
novel where everyone is. (In fact, I think that's the title. We
Are All Bait. Pfft!) How I got that way is barely worth the
telling and has nothing to do with neo-exes, but the days of the
beast deserve a few words, so here they are.
The Lowlands of Venus lie between the thumb and
forefinger of the continent known as Hand. When you break
into Cloud Alley it swings its silverblack bowling ball toward
you without a warning. You jump then, inside that firetailed
tenpin they ride you down in, but the straps keep you from
making a fool of yourself. You generally chuckle afterwards,
but you always jump first.
Next, you study Hand to lay its illusion and the two middle
fingers become dozen-ringed archipelagoes as the outers
resolve into greengray peninsulas; the thumb is too short, and
curls like the embryo tail of Cape Horn.
You suck pure oxygen, sigh possibly, and begin the long
topple to the Lowlands.
There, you are caught like an infield fly at the Lifeline
landing areaiso named because of its nearness to the great
delta in the Eastern Baylocated between the first peninsula
and "thumb." For a minute it seems as if you're going to miss
Lifeline and wind up as canned seafood, but afterwards-
shaking off the metaphorsyou descend to scorched concrete
and present your middle-sized telephone directory of authori-
zations to the short, fat man in the gray cap. The papers
show that you are not subject to mysterious inner rottings and
etcetera. He then smiles you a short, fat, gray smile and motions
you toward the bus which hauls you to the Reception Area. At
the R.A. you spend three days proving that, indeed, you are not
subject to mysterious inner rottings and etcetera.
Boredom, however, is another rot. When your three days are
up, you generally hit Lifeline hard, and it returns the
compliment as a matter of reflex. The effects of alcohol in
variant atmospheres is a subject on which the connoisseurs
have written numerous volumes, so I will confine my remarks to
noting that a good binge is worthy of at least a week's time and
often warrants a lifetime study.
I had been a student of exceptional promise (strictly
undergraduate) for going on two years when the Bright Water
fell through our marble ceiling and poured its people like
targets into the city.
Pause. The Worlds Almanac re Lifeline: ". . . Port city on
the eastern coast of Hand. Employees of th'e Agency for
Nonterrestrial Research comprise approximately 85% of its
100,000 population (2010 Census). Its other residents are
primarily personnel maintained by several industrial corpora-
tions engaged in basic research. Independent marine biologists,
wealthy fishing enthusiasts, and waterfront entrepreneurs make
up the remainder of its inhabitants."
I turned to Mike Perrin, a fellow entrepreneur, and
commented on the lousy state of basic research.
"Not if the mumbled truth be known."
He paused behind his glass before continuing the slow
swallowing process calculated to obtain my interest and a few
oaths, before he continued.
"Carl," he finally observed, poker playing, "they're shaping
Tensquare."
I could have hit him. I might have refilled his glass with
sulfuric acid and looked on with glee as his lips blackened and
cracked. Instead, I grunted a noncommittal: "Who's fool
enough to shell out fifty grand a day? ANR?"
He shook his head.
"Jean Luharich," he said, "the girl with the violet contacts
and fifty or sixty perfect teeth. I understand her eyes are really
brown."
"Isn't she selling enough facecream these days?"
He shrugged.
"Publicity makes the wheels go 'round. Luharich Enterprises
jumped sixteen points when she picked up the Sun Trophy.
You ever play golf on Mercury?"
I had, but I overlooked it and continued to press.
"So she's coming here with a blank check and a fishhook?"
"Bright Water, today," he nodded. "Should be down by now.
Lots of cameras. She wants an lkky, bad."
"Hmm," I hmmed. "How bad?"
"Sixty day contract, Tensquare. Indefinite extension clause.
Million and a half deposit," he recited.
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"I'm Personnel Recruitment. Luharich Enterprises ap-
proached me last month. It helps to drink in the right places.
"Or own them," he smirked, after a moment.
I looked away, sipping my bitter brew. After awhile I
swallowed several things and asked Mike what he expected to
be asked, leaving myself open for his monthly temperance
lecture.
"They told me to try getting you," he mentioned. "When's
the last time you sailed?"
"Month and a half ago. The Corning."
"Small stuff," he snorted. "When have you been under,
yourself?"
"It's been awhile."
"It's been over a year, hasn't it? That time you got cut by the
screw, under the Dolphin?"
I turned to him.
"I was in the river last week, up at Angleford where the
currents are strong. I can still get around."
"Sober," he added.
"I'd stay that way," I said, "on a job like this."
A doubting nod.
"Straight union rates. Triple time for extraordinary circum-
stances," he narrated. "Be at Hangar Sixteen with your gear,
Friday morning, five hundred hours. We push off Saturday,
daybreak."
"You're sailing?"
"I'm sailing."
"How come?"
"Money."
"lkky guano."
"The bar isn't doing so well and baby needs new minks."
"I repeat-"
". . . And I want to get away from baby, renew my contact
with basicsfresh air, exercise, make cash . . ."
"All right, sorry I asked."
I poured him a drink, concentrating on HgS04, but it didn't
transmute. Finally I got him soused and went out into the night
to walk and think things over.
Around a dozen serious attempts to land Ichthysaurus
elasmognathus, generally known as "lkky," had been made
over the past five years. When lkky was first sighted, whaling
techniques were employed. These proved either fruitless or
disastrous, and a new procedure was inaugurated. Tensquare
was constructed by a wealthy sportsman named Michael Jandt,
who blew his entire roll on the project.
After a year on the Eastern Ocean, he returned to file
bankruptcy. Cariton Davits, a playboy fishing enthusiast, then
purchased the huge raft and laid a wake for lkky's spawning
grounds. On the nineteenth day out he had a strike and lost one
hundred and fifty bills' worth of untested gear, along with one
ichthysaurus elasmognathus. Twelve days later, using tripled
lines, he hooked, narcotized, and began to hoist the huge
beast. It awakened then, destroyed a control tower, killed six
men, and worked general hell over five square blocks of
Tensquare. Cariton was left with partial hemiplegia and a
bankruptcy suit of his own. He faded into waterfront
atmosphere and Tensquare changed hands four more times,
with less spectacular but equally expensive results.
Finally, the big raft, built only for one purpose, was
purchased at auction by ANR for "marine research." Lloyd's
still won't insure it, and the only marine research it has ever
seen is an occasional rental at fifty bills a dayto people anxious
to tell Leviathan fish stories. I've been baitman on three of the
voyages, and I've been close enough to count lkky's fangs on
two occasions. I want one of them to show my grandchildren,
for personal reasons.
I faced the direction of the landing area and resolved a
resolve.
"You want me for local coloring, gal. It'll look nice on the
feature page and all that. But clear thisIf anyone gets you an
lkky, it'll be me. I promise."
I stood in the empty Square. The foggy towers of Lifeline
shared their mists.
Shoreline a couple eras ago, the western slope above Lifeline
stretches as far as forty miles inland in some places. Its angle of
rising is not a great one, but it achieves an elevation of several
thousand feet before it meets the mountain range which
separates us from the Highlands. About four miles inland and
five hundred feet higher than Lifeline are set most of the
surface airstrips and privately owned hangars. Hangar Sixteen
houses Cal's Contract Cab, hop service, shore to ship. I do not
like Cal, but he wasn't around when I climbed from the bus and
waved to a mechanic.
Two of the hoppers tugged at the concrete, impatient
beneath flywing haloes. The one on which Steve was working
belched deep within its barrel carburetor and shuddered
spasmodically.
"Bellyache?" I inquired.
"Yeah, gas pains and heartburn."
He twisted setscrews until it settled into an even keening,
and turned to me.
"You're for out?"
I nodded.
"Tensquare. Cosmetics. Monsters. Stuff like that."
He biinked into the beacons and wiped his freckles. The
temperature was about twenty, but the big overhead spots
served a double purpose.
"Luharich," he muttered. "Then you are the one. There's
some people want to see you."
"What about?"
"Cameras. Microphones. Stuff like that."
"I'd better stow my gear. Which one am I riding?"
He poked the screwdriver at the other hopper.
"That one. You're on video tape now, by the way. They
wanted to get you arriving."
He turned to the hangar, turned back.
"Say 'cheese.' They'll shoot the close closeups later."
I said something other than "cheese." They must have been
using telelens and been able to read my lips, because that part
of the tape was never shown.
I threw my junk in the back, climbed into a passenger seat,
and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, Cal himself emerged
from the office Quonset, looking cold. He came over and
pounded on the side of the hopper. He jerked a thumb back at
the hangar.
"They want you in there!" he called through cupped hands.
"Interview!"
"The show's over!" I yelled back. "Either that, or they can
get themselves another baitman!"
His rustbrown eyes became nailheads under blond brows
and his glare a spike before he jerked about and stalked off. I
wondered how much they had paid him to be able to squat in
his hangar and suck juice from his generator.
Enough, I guess, knowing Cal. I never liked the guy,
anyway.
Venus at ...
qwertych25