The small fuzzy species discovered on the planet Zarathustra has been declared sapient, but now that the Fuzzies are protected by law, the humans who have colonized Zarathustra have to figure out how to live with them...
100 science fiction stories make up this massive collection.
Works and authors include:
Four-Day Planet by Henry Beam Piper
The Hour of Battle by Robert Sheckley
The House from Nowhere by Arthur G. Stangland
The Huddlers by William Campbell Gault
Human Error by Raymond F. Jones
The Hunted Heroes by Robert Silverberg
I Like Martian Music by Charles E. Fritch
Was a Teen-Age Secret Weapon by Richard Sabia
I'll Kill You Tomorrow by Helen Huber
A Stranger Here Myself by Dallas McCord Reynolds
If at First You Don't... by John Brudy
Impossible Voyage Home by Floyd L. Wallace
In Case of Fire by Gordon Randall Garrett
In the Cards by Alan Cogan
In the Control Tower by Will Mohler
The Orbit of Saturn by Roman Frederick Starzl
The Year 2889 by Jules Verne and Michel Verne
An Incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz
Revolution by Poul William Anderson
Infinite Intruder by Alan Edward Nourse
The Infra-Medians by Sewell Peaslee Wright
Inside John Barth by William W. Stuart
Insidekick by Jesse Franklin Bone
Instant of Decision by Gordon Randall Garrett
The Instant of Now by Irving E. Cox, Jr.
Irresistible Weapon by Horace Brown Fyfe
Islands in the Air by Lowell Howard Morrow
The Issahar Artifacts by Jesse Franklin Bone
It's a Small Solar System by Allan Howard
It's All Yours by Sam Merwin
The Jameson Satellite by Neil Ronald Jones
Jimsy and the Monsters by Walt Sheldon
Join Our Gang? by Sterling E. Lanier
Joy Ride by Mark Meadows
The Judas Valley by Gerald Vance
Junior Achievement by William Lee
The Junkmakers by Albert R. Teichner
The Jupiter Weapon by Charles Louis Fontenay
The K-Factor by Harry Harrison
The Keeper by Henry Beam Piper
Keep Out by Fredric Brown
The Kenzie Report by Mark Clifton
The Knights of Arthur by Frederik Pohl
Know Thy Neighbor by Elisabeth R. Lewis
A Knyght Ther Was by Robert F. Young
Larson's Luck by Gerald Vance
THE LAST DAYS OF EARTH by GEORGE C. WALLIS
The Last Evolution by John Wood Campbell
The Last Gentleman by Rory Magill
Last Resort by Stephen Bartholomew
The Last Straw by William J. Smith
The Last Supper by T. D. Hamm
Lease to Doomsday by Lee Archer
Let'em Breathe Space by Lester del Rey
Letter of the Law by Alan Edward Nourse
The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster
The Machine That Saved The World by William Fitzgerald Jenkins
Man Who Hated Mars by Gordon Randall Garrett
The Man Who Saw the Future by Edmond Hamilton
A Matter of Magnitude by Al Sevcik
The Measure of a Man by Randall Garrett
The Memory of Mars by Raymond F. Jones
'Mid Pleasures and Palaces by James McKimmey
The Mightiest Man by Patrick Fahy
Millennium by Everett B. Cole
The Misplaced Battleship by Harry Harrison
Missing Link by Frank Patrick Herbert
The Montezuma Emerald by Rodrigues Ottolengui
Mr. President by Stephen Arr
Mr. Spaceship by Philip K. Dick
The Native Soil by Alan Edward Nourse
Navy Day by Harry Harrison
Next Logical Step by Benjamin William Bova
No Moving Parts by Murray F. Yaco
The Nothing Equation by Tom Godwin
Old Rambling House by Frank Patrick Herbert
One-Shot by James Benjamin Blish
Oomphel in the Sky by Henry Beam Piper
Operation Haystack by Frank Patrick Herbert
Your Money Back by Gordon Randall Garrett
An Ounce of Cure by Alan Edward Nourse
The Penal Cluster by Ivar Jorgensen
Piper in the Woods by Philip K. Dick
Planetoid 127 by Edgar Wallace
Police Operation by H. Beam Piper
Postmark Ganymede by Robert Silverberg
Project Mastodon by Clifford Donald Simak
Proteus Island by Stanley G. Weinbaum
The Quantum Jump by Robert Wicks
The Radiant Shell by Paul Ernst
The Red Room by H. G. Wells
The Risk Profession by Donald Edwin Westlake
Scrimshaw by William Fitzgerald Jenkins
Second Variety by Philip Kindred Dick
Shock Absorber by E.G. von Wald
Sjambak by John Holbrook Vance
Sodom and Gomorrah, Texas by Raphael Aloysius Lafferty
This World Must Die! by Horace Brown Fyfe
Toy Shop by Henry Maxwell Dempsey
Darkness by H. P. Lovecraft
But then, out of nowhere, came Jack Holloway—with a family of Fuzzies and a great deal of evidence that they were more than just cute little animals. If the Fuzzies were a race of intelligent beings, then Zarathustra would automatically become a Class-IV inhabited planet, and the Company’s charter and privileges would be over. The chartered Zarathustra Company wasn’t going to allow that to happen...
Conn Maxwell, at the armor-glass front of the observation deck, watched the landscape rush out of the horizon and vanish beneath the ship, ten thousand feet down. He thought he knew how an hourglass must feel with the sand slowly draining out.
It had been six months to Litchfield when the Mizar lifted out of La Plata Spaceport and he watched Terra dwindle away. It had been two months to Litchfield when he boarded the City of Asgard at the port of the same name on Odin. It had been two hours to Litchfield when theCountess Dorothy rose from the airship dock at Storisende. He had had all that time, and now it was gone, and he was still unprepared for what he must face at home.
Thirty minutes to Litchfield.
The words echoed in his mind as though he had spoken them aloud, and then, realizing that he never addressed himself as sir, he turned. It was the first mate.
He had a clipboard in his hand, and he was wearing a Terran Federation Space Navy uniform of forty years, or about a dozen regulation-changes, ago. Once Conn had taken that sort of thing for granted. Now it was obtruding upon him everywhere....
They stood together at the parapet, their arms about each other's waists, her head against his cheek. Behind, the broad leaved shrubbery gossiped softly with the wind, and from the lower main terrace came music and laughing voices. The city of Wardshaven spread in front of them, white buildings rising from the wide spaces of green treetops, under a shimmer of sun-reflecting aircars above. Far away, the mountains were violet in the afternoon haze, and the huge red sun hung in a sky as yellow as a ripe peach.
His eye caught a twinkle ten miles to the southwest, and for an instant he was puzzled. Then he frowned. The sunlight on the two thousand-foot globe of Duke Angus' new ship, the Enterprise, back at the Gorram shipyards after her final trial cruise. He didn't want to think about that, now.
Instead, he pressed the girl closer and whispered her name, "Elaine," and then, caressing every syllable, "Lady Elaine Trask of Traskon."
"Oh, no, Lucas!" Her protest was half joking and half apprehensive. "It's bad luck to be called by your married name before the wedding."
"I've been calling you that in my mind since the night of the Duke's ball, when you were just home from school on Excalibur."...
The red loess lay over everything, covering the streets and the open spaces of park and plaza, hiding the small houses that had been crushed and pressed flat under it and the rubble that had come down from the tall buildings when roofs had caved in and walls had toppled outward. Here, where she stood, the ancient streets were a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet below the surface; the breach they had made in the wall of the building behind her had opened into the sixth story. She could look down on the cluster of prefabricated huts and sheds, on the brush-grown flat that had been the waterfront when this place had been a seaport on the ocean that was now Syrtis Depression; already, the bright metal was thinly coated with red dust. She thought, again, of what clearing this city would mean, in terms of time and labor, of people and supplies and equipment brought across fifty million miles of space. They'd have to use machinery; there was no other way it could be done. Bulldozers and power shovels and draglines; they were fast, but they were rough and indiscriminate. She remembered the digs around Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro, in the Indus Valley, and the careful, patient native laborers—the painstaking foremen, the pickmen and spademen, the long files of basketmen carrying away the earth. Slow and primitive as the civilization whose ruins they were uncovering, yes, but she could count on the fingers of one hand the times one of her pickmen had damaged a valuable object in the ground. If it hadn't been for the underpaid and uncomplaining native laborer, archaeology would still be back where Wincklemann had found it. But on Mars there was no native labor; the last Martian had died five hundred centuries ago.
The planet had been used as a military staging point during the last interstellar war between the Federation and the System States Alliance, and somewhere among the leftover war debris on the planet is rumored to be the supercomputer that won the war.
Many believe that this supercomputer can provide the answers to lift Poictesme out of economic stagnation and make it a prosperous place again. Conn has been gathering information just for this purpose - the search is on...
At the moment, he was looking rather like King Charles II being bothered by one of his mistresses who wanted a peerage for her husband.
"But, Mrs. Fleming," he was expostulating. "There surely must be somebody else.... After all, you'll have to admit that this isn't the sort of work this agency handles."
The would-be client released a series of smoke-rings and watched them float up toward the air-outlet at the office ceiling. It spoke well for Rand's ability to subordinate esthetic to business considerations that he was trying to give her a courteous and humane brush-off. She made even the Petty and Varga girls seem credible. Her color-scheme was blue and gold; blue eyes, and a blue tailored outfit that would have looked severe on a less curvate figure, and a charmingly absurd little blue hat perched on a mass of golden hair. If Rand had been Charles II, she could have walked out of there with a duchess's coronet, and Nell Gwyn would have been back selling oranges.
"Why isn't it?" she countered. "Your door's marked...
Jack Holloway found himself squinting, the orange sun full in his eyes. He raised a hand to push his hat forward, then lowered it to the controls to alter the pulse rate of the contragravity-field generators and lift the manipulator another hundred feet. For a moment he sat, puffing on the short pipe that had yellowed the corners of his white mustache, and looked down at the red rag tied to a bush against the rock face of the gorge five hundred yards away. He was smiling in anticipation.
“This’ll be a good one,” he told himself aloud, in the manner of men who have long been their own and only company. “I want to see this one go up.”
He always did. He could remember at least a thousand blast-shots he had fired back along the years and on more planets than he could name at the moment, including a few thermonuclears, but they were all different and they were always something to watch, even a little one like this. Flipping the switch, his thumb found the discharger button and sent out a radio impulse; the red rag vanished in an upsurge of smoke and dust that mounted out of the gorge and turned to copper when the sunlight touched it. The big manipulator, weightless on contragravity, rocked gently; falling debris pelted the trees and splashed in the little stream....
The old man at whose right she sat noticed, and reached out to lay his hand on hers.
"My dear, you're worried," he said softly. "You, of all people, shouldn't be, you know."
"The theory isn't complete," she replied. "And I could wish for more positive verification. I'd hate to think I'd got you into this—"
Garnon of Roxor laughed. "No, no!" he assured her. "I'd decided upon this long before you announced the results of your experiments. Ask Girzon; he'll bear me out."
"That's true," the young man who sat at Garnon's left said, leaning forward. "Father has meant to take this step for a long time. He was waiting until after the election, and then he decided to do it now, to give you an opportunity to make experimental use of it."
The man on Dallona's right added his voice. Like the others at the table, he was of medium stature, brown-skinned and dark-eyed, with a wide mouth, prominent cheekbones and a short, square jaw. Unlike the others, he was armed, with a knife and pistol on his belt, and on the breast of his black tunic he wore a scarlet oval patch on which a pair of black wings, with a tapering silver object between them had been superimposed....
The Statehouse appeared to cover about a square mile of ground and it was an insane jumble of buildings piled beside and on top of one another, as though it had been in continuous construction ever since the planet was colonized, eighty-odd years before.
At what looked like one of the main entrances, the car stopped. I told our Marine driver and auto-rifleman to park the car and take in the barbecue, but to leave word with the doorman where they could be found. Hoddy, Thrombley and I then went in, to be met by a couple of New Texas Rangers, one of them the officer who had called at the Embassy. They guided us to the office of the Secretary of State.
"We're dreadfully late," Thrombley was fretting. "I do hope we haven't kept the Secretary waiting too long."
From the looks of him, I was afraid we had. He jumped up from his desk and hurried across the room as soon as the receptionist opened the door for us, his hand extended....
THE SHIP FROM TERRA
MAIN CITY LEVEL
MEETING OUT OF ORDER
ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR KIVELSON
PRACTICE, 50-MM GUN
DARKNESS AND COLD
THE BEACON LIGHT
CIVIL WAR POSTPONED
THE TREASON OF BISH WARE
Commander-in-Chief Front and Center
Rakkeed, Stalin, and the Rev. Keeluk
Four-and-Twenty Geek Heads
If You Read It in Stanley-Browne
You Can Depend on It It's Wrong
The Bad News Came After the Coffee
Bismillah! How Dumb Can We Get?
Authority of Governor-General von Schlichten
Don't Push Them Anywhere Put Them Back in the Bottle
The Geek Luftwaffe and the Kragan Airlift
Of Princedoms Which Have Been Won by Conquest
The Shadow of Niflheim
A Bag of Tricks We Don't Have
The Reviewers Panned Hell Out of It
A Place in my Heart for Hildegarde
How it will end is in the (merely) two Terran hands of the new governor-general, a man shrewd enough to know that "it is easier to banish a habit of thought than a piece of knowledge." The problem is, the particular piece of knowledge he needs hasn't been used in 450 years. . . .
"And ten tens are a hundred," one of the clerks in blue jackets said, adding another stack to the pile of gold coins.
"Nineteen hundreds," one of the pair in dirty striped robes agreed, taking a stone from the box in front of him and throwing it away. Only one stone remained. "One more hundred to pay."
One of the blue-jacketed plantation clerks made a tally mark; his companion counted out coins, ten and ten and ten.
Dosu Golan, the plantation manager, tapped impatiently on his polished boot leg with a thin riding whip.
"I don't like this," he said, in another and entirely different language. "I know, chattel slavery's an established custom on this sector, and we have to conform to local usages, but it sickens me to have to haggle with these swine over the price of human beings. On the Zarkantha Sector, we used nothing but free wage-labor."
"Migratory workers," the guard captain said. "Humanitarian considerations aside, I can think of a lot better ways of meeting the labor problem on a fruit plantation than by buying slaves you need for three months a year and have to feed and quarter and clothe and doctor the whole twelve."...