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  AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN

  from THE BEST OF JOHN WYNDHAM

  John Wyndham

  SPHERE BOOKS

  Published 1973

  ISBN 0 7221 9369 6

  Copyright© The Executors of the Estate of the late John Wyndham 1973

  INTRODUCTION

  AT a very tender age my latent passion for all forms of fantasy stories, having been sparked by the Brothers Grimm and the more unusual offerings in the children's comics and later the boy's adven­ture papers, was encouraged in the early 1930s by the occasional exciting find on the shelves of the public library with Burroughs and Thorne Smith varying the staple diet of Wells and Verne.

  But the decisive factor in establishing that exhila­rating ‘sense of wonder’ in my youthful imagi­nation was the discovery about that time of back numbers of American science fiction magazines to be bought quite cheaply in stores like Wool­worths. The happy chain of economic circum­stances by which American newstand returns, some­times sadly with the magic cover removed or mutilated, ballasted cargo ships returning to English ports and the colonies, must have been the mainspring of many an enthusiastic hobby devoted to reading, discussing, perhaps collecting and even writing, science fiction – or ‘scientifiction’ as Hugo Gerns­back coined the tag in his early Amazing Stories magazine.

  Gernsback was a great believer in reader partici­pation; in 1936 I became a teenage member of the Science Fiction League sponsored by his Wonder Stories. Earlier he had run a compe­tition in its fore­runner Air Wonder Stories to find a suitable banner slogan, offering the prize of ‘One Hundred Dollars in Gold’ with true yankee bragga­dacio. Discovering the result some years later in, I think, the September 1930 issue of Wonder Stories seized upon from the bargain-bin of a chain store, was akin to finding a message in a bottle cast adrift by some distant Robinson Crusoe, and I well remember the surge of jingo­istic pride (an educa­tional trait well-nurtured in pre-war Britain) in noting that the winner was an English­man, John Beynon Harris.

  I had not the slightest antici­pation then that I would later meet, and acknow­ledge as a good friend and mentor, this contest winner who, as John Wyndham, was to become one of the greatest English story-tellers in the idiom. The fact that he never actually got paid in gold was a disappoint­ment, he once told me, that must have accounted for the element of philo­so­phical dubiety in some of his work. Certainly his winning slogan ‘Future Flying Fiction’, al­though too late to save the maga­zine from foundering on the rock of eco­nomic depression (it had already been amalga­mated with its stable­mate Science Wonder Stories to become just plain, if that is the right word, Wonder Stories), presaged the firm stamp of credi­bility combined with imagi­native flair that charac­terized JBH's writings.

  John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris (the abundance of fore­names conve­niently supplied his various aliases) emerged in the 1950s as an important contem­porary influence on specu­lative fiction, parti­cularly in the explo­ration of the theme of realistic global catas­trophe, with books such as The Day of the Triffids and The Kraken Wakes, and enjoyed a popularity, which continued after his sad death in 1969, comparable to that of his illus­trious pre­decessor as master of the scientific romance, H. G. Wells.

  However, he was to serve his writing apprentice­ship in those same pulp maga­zines of the thirties, competing success­fully with their native American contributors, and it is the purpose of this present collection to high­light the chrono­logical develop­ment of his short stories from those early beginnings to the later urbane and polished style of John Wyndham.

  ‘The Lost Machine’ was his second published story, appea­ring in Amazing Stories, and was possibly the proto­type of the sentient robot later developed by such writers as Isaac Asimov. He used a variety of plots during this early American period parti­cu­larly favour­ing time travel, and the best of these was undoubtedly ‘The Man From Beyond’ in which the poign­ancy of a man's reali­za­tion, caged in a zoo on Venus, that far from being aban­doned by his fellow-explorers, he is the victim of a far stranger fate, is remark­ably out­lined for its time. Some themes had dealt with war, such as ‘The Trojan Beam’, and he had strong views to express on its futility. Soon his own induc­tion into the Army in 1940 produced a period of crea­tive inactivity corres­ponding to World War II. He had, however, previously established him­self in England as a promi­nent science fiction writer with serials in major period­icals, subse­quently reprinted in hard covers, and he even had a detec­tive novel published. He had been well repre­sented too – ‘Perfect Crea­ture’ is an amu­sing example – in the various maga­zines stemming from fan activity, despite the vicissi­tudes of their pre- and imme­diate post-war publish­ing insec­urity.

  But after the war and into the fifties the level of science fiction writing in general had increased consi­derably, and John rose to the challenge by selling success­fully to the American market again. In England his polished style proved popular and a predi­lection for the para­doxes of time travel as a source of private amuse­ment was perfectly exem­plified in ‘Pawley's Peepholes’, in which the gawp­ing tourists from the future are routed by vulgar tactics. This story was later success­fully adapted for radio and broad­cast by the B.B.C.

  About this time his first post-war novel burst upon an unsus­pecting world, and by utili­zing a couple of unori­ginal ideas with his Gernsback-trained atten­tion to logically based expla­natory detail and realis­tic back­ground, together with his now strongly deve­loped narra­tive style, ‘The Day of the Triffids’ became one of the classics of modern specu­lative fiction, survi­ving even a mediocre movie treat­ment. It was the fore­runner of a series of equally impressive and enjoyable novels inclu­ding ‘The Chrysalids’ and ‘The Mid­wich Cuckoos’ which was success­fully filmed as ‘Village of the Damned’. (A sequel ‘Children of the Damned’ was markedly inferior, and John was care­ful to dis­claim any responsi­bility for the writing.)

  I was soon to begin an enjoy­able asso­ciation with John Wyndham that had its origins in the early days of the New Worlds maga­zine-publish­ing venture, and was later to result in much kindly and essen­tial assis­tance enabling me to become a specia­list dealer in the genre. This was at the Fantasy Book Centre in Blooms­bury, an area of suitably asso­ciated literary acti­vities where John lived for many years, and which provi­ded many pleasu­rable meet­ings at a renowned local coffee establish­ment, Cawardine's, where we were often joined by such person­alities as John Carnell, John Chris­topher and Arthur C. Clarke.

  In between the novels two collec­tions of his now widely pub­lished short stories were issued as ‘The Seeds of Time’ and ‘Consider Her Ways’; others are re­printed here for the first time. He was never too grand to refuse mater­ial for our own New Worlds and in 1958 wrote a series of four novel­ettes about the Troon family's contri­bution to space explo­ration – a kind of Forsyte saga of the solar system later collected under the title ‘The Outward Urge’. His ficti­tious colla­borator ‘Lucas Parkes’ was a subtle ploy in the book version to explain Wyndham's appa­rent devia­tion into solid science-based fiction. The last story in this collection ‘The Empti­ness of Space’ was written as a kind of post­script to that series, especially for the 100th anni­versary issue of New Worlds.

  John Wyndham's last novel was Chocky, published in 1968. It was an expan­sion of a short story follow­ing a theme similar to The Chrysalids and The Midwich Cuckoos. It was a theme pecu­liarly appro­priate for him in his advancing matu­rity. When, with charac­teristic reti­cence and modesty, he announced to a few of his friends that he was marry­ing his beloved Grace and moving to the country­side, we al
l felt that this was a well-deserved retire­ment for them both.

  But ironically time – always a fasci­nating subject for specu­lation by him – was running out for this typical English gentle­man. Amiable, eru­dite, astrin­gently humo­rous on occasion, he was, in the same way that the gentle Boris Karloff portrayed his film monsters, able to depict the night­mares of humanity with fright­ening realism, made the more deadly by his masterly preci­sion of detail. To his great gift for story-telling he brought a lively intellect and a fertile imagi­nation.

  I am glad to be numbered among the many, many thou­sands of his readers whose ‘sense of wonder’ has been satis­facto­rily indulged by a writer whose gift to posterity is the compul­sive reada­bility of his stories of which this present volume is an essen­tial part.

  — LESLIE FLOOD

  AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN (1951)

  Report No. 1. From Mantus, Commanding No. 8 Expeditionary Party (Sol 3), to Zennacus, C-in-C Vanguard Emigration Forces (Electra 4).

  Sir,

  Craft State: Fully serviceable 4; slightly damaged 1; lost in action 2.

  Casualty State: Fit personnel 220; unfit 28; lost in action 102.

  Present Position: 54/28/4 X 23/9/10-Sol 3.

  Supply State: v. satisfactory. Equipment: satisfactory.

  Morale: fair, improving.

  Approach was made to Sol 3 at 28/11 (Electra 4 time). Signs of hostility were imme­diately encountered. Expe­dition withdrew without counter action. Approach made in other hemisphere. Signs of greater hostility encountered. Two ships were dis­inte­grated with all aboard. Third ship sustained minor fractures, ditto 28 crew, 2 lost. Expedition with­drew. Signs of hostility in all inhabited places visited. Conference was called. It was decided to set down in unin­habited area, if suitable. Very suitable posi­tion located after search. Expe­di­tion set down with­out inter­ference 34/12 at read­ing given. In con­sider­ation of hostility en­count­ered, con­struc­tion of a redoubt was commenced immediately.

  Dear Zenn, the above is for the official record but even from that you may judge that this planet, Earth, is one hell of a spot. Just my damned luck to draw Party No. 8. Serves me right for behaving like an honest fool when I could as easily have fiddled the draw.

  I'll never get any place on politics, I'm afraid — even if I ever do get back from this grotes­quely mis­conceived planet. I would sum it up as a dis­gusting and danger­ous dump with the potentialities of a para­dise.

  To begin with the worse features — about two-thirds of the place is water­logged. This results in masses of suspended vapour for ever hang­ing about in its atmo­sphere. Imagine the gloomy effect of that for a start!

  But it is almost worse when the main masses of vapour clear, for then the humid air gives to the whole sky a hid­eously ominous shade of blue. Not, of course, that one would expect the place to look like home but there does seem to be a kind of wanton per­versity over every­thing.

  One would assume that develop­ment would take place in the most suit­able and salub­rious spots — but not here. The larger centres were not diffi­cult to dis­ting­uish from above, being clearly of arti­ficial con­struc­tion with marks (some form of commu­nica­tions?) radiating from them. And all were remarkably ill-situated.

  As we steered close to one, we had thought our­selves unper­ceived, but on our approach it was clear that prepa­rations had been made against us. The defences were, indeed, already in action — with­out any attempt to inquire whether we came in good faith. One must assume from this that the inhabi­tants are of an abnor­mally suspi­cious or possibly a sheerly vicious dispo­sition.

  Considering it possible that other parts of this world might be uninformed about us, we moved half­way round the planet before making another approach. Here the centres of habi­tation were more frequent and had a more orderly appearance, many of them being laid out in lattice form.

  They proved, how­ever, to be even better defended, and over a con­sider­able range. Indeed, so accurate was their esti­mate that two unfortu­nate vessels were completely dis­inte­grated and another some­what fractured.

  We in the other four felt our craft and our­selves shaken so much and sub­jected to such stress and tension that we thought the end had come for us also. Luck, how­ever, was with us and we were able to draw out to a safe dis­tance with the loss of only certain fragile but unim­por­tant objects.

  After that we pro­ceeded with great caution to inves­tigate several other cities. We found every one of them em­battled against us.

  We do not under­stand why the inhabi­tants should, with­out provo­cation or inquiry, turn weapons upon us in this way. We have been given no chance to explain that we come with peaceful intentions — nor indeed any chance to attempt commu­nica­tion at all. It is a very disap­point­ing and omi­nous climax to our long journey and it has depressed us.

  I called a confer­ence to decide on our next move. The views aired there were not en­couraging. Every con­tri­bution to the debate endorsed that this planet is crazy beyond belief. Some com­pen­sations did emerge, how­ever.

  The concentration of civili­zation in unsuitable spots — moist humid areas, often along­side large bodies of water — cannot be acci­dental though its purpose is obscure. But it does, quite absurdly, mean that the most hospi­table regions are with­out signs of life.

  This observation, supported by several speakers, did much to raise our spirits. It was deci­ded to set down in one such spot and there to build a redoubt where we can live safely until we shall have dis­covered some means of commu­nica­ting with the in­habi­tants to assure them of our peace­able inten­tions.

  This we have done at the posi­tion stated and I may explain the report on morale by saying that it has given every­one a great lift to be settled in a spot so rich, so lushly furnished with the good things of life. Imagine, if you can, an area composed almost entirely of silicates! This is sober fact. Never did I expect to see such a thing.

  It is Eptus's opinion that the planet itself may consist almost entirely of sili­cates beneath the water and under a hid­eous green mould which covers most of the rest of its sur­face. It is diffi­cult to believe in such a wonder­ful thing as that, so I am accept­ing his view with caution for the present.

  If it were true, how­ever, all our problems would be solved. A com­pletely new era would open for us since we would be justified in assum­ing that the other planets of the Sol system are simi­lar. In other words we should be able to report that we have found a whole system built of sili­cates in easily assimil­able form and inex­haust­ible in extent.

  This remains to be inves­tigated and proved. It is not known to the rest of the company, who assume that this is a mere pocket delec­tably rich in sili­cates.

  The exact site chosen lies between two large rocks, which will provide natural bastions to the north and south sides of the redoubt, making it un­neces­sary for us to do more — than build the east and west walls between them and roof the space thus enclosed.

  This should take no great length of time. Sol is close enough to exert considerable force here. Several members of the party were imme­diately detailed to assim­ilate sili­cates until they were extended to the required shape and pattern.

  They then arranged them­selves in a refractory for­ma­tion bearing upon a remarkably pure quart deposit. Fusing took place in quite a short time. Before long we had the material to make several furnace-lenses, and these are now fusing blocks of first-class boltik from the raw ingre­dients strewn all around us.

  Since we set down we have seen nothing of the in­habi­tants, but several things lead us to suspect that the region, though neglected, is not entirely un­known to them. One is that a part of the ground surface has been hardened some­what as though an exceedingly heavy weight of some land had been dragged over it.

  This mark lies in a line roughly east and west, passing between our two rocks. West­ward it conti­nues with­out feature
for a great distance. To the east, how­ever, it shortly joins a broader mark evi­dently made by the traction of a still heavier object.

  A little on our side of this junction stands a curious for­ma­tion which, by its regularity, we take to be artificial. It is made of an im­perm­anent fibrous material and bears apparently inten­tional markings. Thus:

  DESERT ROAD

  CARRY WATER

  We do not understand the significance of this — if it has any.

  Since I began this account Eptus and Podas have brought me the most fan­tas­tic news yet. I have to believe it because they should know what they are talk­ing about, and assure me that it is posi­tively a fact.

  It seems that Podas collected locally a few speci­mens for exami­nation. Several of them were asym­metrical objects attached in some way to the ground. Another was of different type and showed some degree of symmetry. This latter was in the form of a soft cylinder, having a blunt pro­jec­tion at one end and a tapered one at the other, and was sup­ported by four further projections beneath.

  It was by no means attached to the ground, being able to move itself with agility on the four lower pro­jec­tions. After examining them all care­fully Podas declares that they are all living objects, and that the basis in both types is carbon! Don't ask me how such a thing can be but Eptus supports him, so I have to accept it.

  It has further occurred to them as a result of this dis­covery that if all life on this planet is on a carbon basis it may well account for the neglect of this excel­lent sili­cate region. It does not, how­ever, account for the imme­diate and unprovoked hos­tility of the in­habi­tants, which is a matter that interests me more at the moment.

  Podas states that none of his speci­mens exhibited intelligence, though the cylin­drical object dis­played some clear reflexes to exter­nal stimuli.

  I find it diffi­cult to imagine what a carbon-based intelli­gence could possibly look like but I expect we shall find out before long. I must admit that I look for­ward to this event not only with some mis­giving, but with a con­sider­able degree of dis­taste.