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  TO

  FOLLOW

  A sTAR

  Nine Science Fiction Stories

  About Christmas

  edited and with an Introduction

  by Terry Carr

  An anthology of science fiction stories about Christmas? It seems a surprising subject, for science fiction is a literature of the future, whereas Christmas is a celebration of an event in the past. Ye, when you think of it, this seeming contradiction is precisely what makes this collection of stories so fascinating: for good fiction draws strength from conflict between opposites. I think you’ll be surprised at the speculations you’ll find in this book . . . and perhaps they’ll bring you new insights into some of our most cherished beliefs.

  Thus editor Terry Carr introduces his imaginative compendium of tales about Christmas Yet to Come, which includes the following:

  In “Christmas on Ganymede” Isaac Asimov describes the problems of spacemen who must recreate Santa Claus and his flying sleigh out of a few gravo-repulsers.

  Earthmen, visiting Frank M. Robinson’s “The Santa Claus Planet,” find themselves in a gift-giving war.

  The “Christmas Tree” in John Christopher’s tale is the last touch of earthly life that a certain spaceman can ever know.

  The hero of Arthur C. Clarke’s “The Star” is a Jesuit and an astrophysicist who finds his two roles in conflict over a terrible Christmas discovery.

  Gordon R. Dickson’s “The Christmas Present” tells the touching story of a space being who gave as a gift the only thing he possessed his life.

  The children in James White’s “Christmas Treason” can read men’s minds—but can’t always understand them correctly.

  In “The New Father Christmas” Brian W. Aldiss writes of a time when Santa Claus does not leave new toys but carries off old people.

  Love, hate, fear, desire, greed, self-sacrifice they are all here, as they have always been where there are human problems and not-so-human beings.

  TO

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  A sTAR

  OTHER ANTHOLOGIES EDITED BY TERRY CARR

  The Best Science Fiction of the Year (2 volumes)

  An Exaltation of Stars

  The Infinite Arena: Seven Science Fiction Stories About Sports

  Into the Unknown: Eleven Tales of Imagination

  New Worlds of Fantasy (3 volumes)

  On Our Way to the Future

  The Others

  Planets of Wonder: A Treasury of Space Opera

  Science Fiction for People Who Hate Science Fiction

  This Side of Infinity

  Universe (3 volumes)

  Worlds Near and Far: Nine Stories of Science Fiction and Fantasy

  WITH DONALD A. WOLLHEIM

  World's Best Science Fiction: 1963-1971 (7 volumes)

  No character in this book is intended to represent any actual person; all the incidents of the stories are entirely fictional in nature.

  Copyright © 1977 by Terry Carr

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Conventions. Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers, and simultaneously in Don Mills, Ontario, by Thomas Nelson & Sons (Canada) Limited. Manufactured in the United States of America.

  First Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Main entry under title:

  To follow a star.

  1. Science fiction, American. 2. Science fiction, English. 3. Christmas

  stories. I. Carr, Terry.

  PZ1.T575 [PS648.S3] 813'.0876 77-2727

  ISBN 0-8407-6573-8

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHRISTMAS ON GANYMEDE by Isaac Asimov: Copyright 1941 by Better Publications, Inc.; copyright renewed © 1968 by Isaac Asimov. From Startling Stories, January 1942, by permission of the author.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR JESUS by Frederik Pohl: Copyright © 1956 by Ballentine Books, Inc. From Alternating Currents, by permission of the author.

  THE SANTA CLAUS PLANET by Frank M. Robinson: Copyright 1951 by Everett F. Bleiler and T. E. Dikty. From The Best Science-Fiction Stories: 1951, by permission of the author.

  CHRISTMAS TREE by John Christopher: Copyright 1949 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. From Astounding Science Fiction, February 1949, by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10022.

  THE STAR by Arthur C. Clarke: Copyright 1955 by Royal Publications, Inc. From Infinity Science Fiction, November 1955, by permission of the author and his agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10022.

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Terry Carr

  CHRISTMAS ON GANYMEDE . . . . . .Isaac Asimov

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR JESUS . . . .Frederik Pohl

  THE SANTA CLAUS PLANET . . . .Frank M. Robinson

  CHRISTMAS TREE . . . . . . . . . . . . .John Christopher

  THE STAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Arthur C. Clarke

  THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT . . . .Gordon R. Dickson

  CHRISTMAS TREASON . . . . . . . . . . .James White

  THE NEW FATHER CHRISTMAS . . . .Brian W. Aldiss

  LA BEFANA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Gene Wolfe

  TO

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  A sTAR

  INTRODUCTION

  An anthology of science fiction stories about Christmas? It seems a surprising subject, for science fiction is a literature of the future, whereas Christmas is a celebration of an event in the past; science fiction is usually characterized by its emphasis on scientific thinking, whereas Christmas is a religious occasion; science fiction deals with humanity’s adaptation to change, and Christmas is a time for affirmation of unchanging values.

  Yet when you think of it, these seeming contradictions are precisely what make this collection of stories so fascinating: for good fiction draws strength from conflict between opposites.

  Probably this is why so many of science fiction’s finest writers have been drawn to the subject of Christmas. In a world increasingly dominated by science, how will this affect our religious convictions? When we voyage to new planets, will our traditions undergo unexpected changes? When we meet strange creatures in other star-systems, will we be able to communicate to them what Christmas means to us?

  The questions are fascinating, and the stories that arise from them are sometimes amusing, often very moving. I think you’ll be surprised at the speculations you’ll find in this book . . . and perhaps they’ll bring you new insights into some of our most cherished beliefs.

  —Terry Carr

  Christmas

  on

  Ganymede

  BY ISAAC ASIMOV

  Consider the problems of miners who work on Ganymede, moon of Jupiter, 390,000,000 miles from Earth: isolated on a world so different from our own, surrounded by beings who know nothing of our traditions, how might these men teach their alien work-mates how we celebrate Christmas? Isaac Asimov suggests it wouldn’t be impossible—only very difficult, and apt to lead to hilarious confusion.

  Isaac Asimov is one of the most popular writers of science fiction, winner of the Hugo and Nebula awards for his novel The Gods Themselves and of special Hugo awards for his Foundation series and his many articles and books on science.

  Olaf Johnson hummed nasally to himself and his china-blue eyes were dreamy as he surveyed the stately fir tree in the corner of the library. Though the library was the largest single room in the Dome
, Olaf felt it none too spacious for the occasion. Enthusiastically he dipped into the huge crate at his side and took out the first roll of red-and-green crepe paper.

  What sudden burst of sentiment had inspired the Ganymedan Products Corporation, Inc., to ship a complete collection of Christmas decorations to the Dome, he did not pause to inquire. Olaf’s was a placid disposition, and in his self-imposed job as chief Christmas decorator, he was content with his lot.

  He frowned suddenly and muttered a curse. The General Assembly signal light was flashing on and off hysterically. With a hurt air Olaf laid down the tack-hammer he had just lifted, then the roll of crepe paper, picked some tinsel out of his hair and left for officers’ quarters.

  Commander Scott Pelham was in his deep armchair at the head of the table when Olaf entered. His stubby fingers were drumming unrhythmically upon the glass-topped table. Olaf met the commander’s hotly furious eyes without fear, for nothing had gone wrong in his department in twenty Ganymedan revolutions.

  The room filled rapidly with men, and Pelham’s eyes hardened as he counted noses in one sweeping glance.

  “We’re all here. Men, we face a crisis!”

  There was a vague stir. Olaf’s eyes sought the ceiling and he relaxed. Crises hit the Dome once a revolution, on the average. Usually they turned out to be a sudden rise in the quota of oxite to be gathered, or the inferior quality of the last batch of karen leaves. He stiffened, however, at the next words.

  “In connection with the crisis, I have one question to ask.” Pelham’s voice was a deep baritone, and it rasped unpleasantly when he was angry. “What dirty imbecilic troublemaker has been telling those blasted Ossies fairy tales?”

  Olaf cleared his throat nervously and thus immediately became the center of attention. His Adam’s apple wobbled in sudden alarm and his forehead wrinkled into a washboard. He shivered.

  “I—I—” he stuttered, quickly fell silent. His long fingers made a bewildered gesture of appeal. “I mean I was out there yesterday, after the last—uh—supplies of karen leaves, on account the Ossies were slow and—”

  A deceptive sweetness entered Pelham’s voice. He smiled. “Did you tell those natives about Santa Claus, Olaf?”

  The smile looked uncommonly like a wolfish leer and Olaf broke down. He nodded convulsively.

  “Oh, you did? Well, well, you told them about Santa Claus! He comes down in a sleigh that flies through the air with eight reindeer pulling it, huh?”

  “Well—er—doesn’t he?” Olaf asked unhappily.

  “And you drew pictures of the reindeer, just to make sure there was no mistake. Also, he has a long white beard and red clothes with white trimmings.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Olaf, his face puzzled.

  “And he has a big bag, chock-full of presents for good little boys and girls, and he brings it down the chimney and puts presents inside stockings.”

  “Sure.”

  “You also told them he’s about due, didn’t you? One more revolution and he’s going to visit us.”

  Olaf smiled weakly. “Yeah, Commander, I meant to tell you. I’m fixing up the tree and—”

  “Shut up!” The commander was breathing hard in a whistling sort of way. “Do you know what those Ossies have thought of?”

  “No, Commander.”

  Pelham leaned across the table toward Olaf and shouted: “They want Santa Claus to visit them!”

  Someone laughed and changed it quickly into a strangling cough at the commander’s raging stare.

  “And if Santa Claus doesn’t visit them, the Ossies are going to quit work!” He repeated, “Quit cold—strike!”

  There was no laughter, strangled or otherwise, after that. If there was more than one thought among the entire group, it didn’t show itself. Olaf expressed that thought:

  “But what about the quota?”

  “Well, what about it?” snarled Pelham. “Do I have to draw pictures for you? Ganymedan Products has to get one hundred tons of wolframite, eighty tons of karen leaves and fifty tons of oxite every year, or it loses its franchise. I suppose there isn’t anyone here who doesn’t know that. It so happens that the current year ends in two Ganymedan revolutions, and were five per cent behind schedule as it is.”

  There was pure, horrified silence.

  “And now the Ossies won’t work unless they get Santa Claus. No work, no quota, no franchise—no jobs! Get that, you low-grade morons. When the company loses its franchise, we lose the best-paying jobs in the System. Kiss them good-by, men, unless—”

  He paused, glared steadily at Olaf, and added:

  “Unless, by next revolution, we have a flying sleigh, eight reindeer and a Santa Claus. And by every cosmic speck in the rings of Saturn, were going to have just that, especially a Santa!”

  Ten faces turned ghastly pale.

  “Got someone in mind, Commander?” asked someone in a voice that was three quarters croak.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  He sprawled back in his chair. Olaf Johnson broke into a sudden sweat as he found himself staring at the end of a pointing forefinger.

  “Aw, Commander!” he quavered.

  The pointing finger never moved.

  Pelham tramped into the foreroom, removed his oxygen nosepiece and the cold cylinders attached to it. One by one he cast off his thick woolen outer garments and, with a final, weary sigh, jerked off a pair of heavy knee-high space boots.

  Sim Pierce paused in his careful inspection of the latest batch of karen leaves and cast a hopeful glance over his spectacles.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Pelham shrugged. “I promised them Santa. What else could I do? I also doubled sugar rations, so they’re back on the job—for the moment.”

  “You mean till the Santa we promised doesn’t show up.” Pierce straightened and waved a long karen leaf at the commander’s face for emphasis. “This is the silliest thing I ever heard of. It can’t be done. There ain’t no Santa Claus!”

  “Try telling that to the Ossies.” Pelham slumped into a chair and his expression became stonily bleak. “What’s Benson doing?”

  “You mean that flying sleigh he says he can rig up?” Pierce held a leaf up to the light and peered at it critically. “He’s a crackpot, if you ask me. The old buzzard went down to the sub-level this morning and he’s been there ever since. If anything happens to the regular, it just means that we’re without oxygen.”

  “Well,”—Pelham rose heavily—“for my part I hope we do choke. It would be an easy way out of this whole mess. I’m going down below.”

  He stumped out and slammed the door behind him.

  In the sub-level he gazed about in bewilderment, for the room was littered with gleaming chrome-steel machine parts. It took him some time to recognize the mess as the remains of what had been a compact, snugly built lectro-dissociator the day before. In the center, in anachronistic contrast, stood a dusty wooden sleigh atop rust-red runners. From beneath it came the sound of hammering.

  “Hey, Benson!” called Pelham.

  A grimy, sweat-streaked face pushed out from underneath the sleigh, and a stream of tobacco juice shot toward Benson’s ever-present cuspidor.

  “What are you shouting like that for?” he complained. “This is delicate work.”

  “What the devil is that weird contraption?” demanded Pelham.

  “Flying sleigh. My own idea, too.” The light of enthusiasm shone in Benson’s watery eyes, and the quid in his mouth shifted from cheek to cheek as he spoke. “The sleigh was brought here in the old days, when they thought Ganymede was covered with snow like other Jovian moons. All I have to do is fix a few gravo-repulsors from the dissociator to the bottom and that’ll make it weightless when the current’s on. Compressed air-jets will do the rest.”

  The commander chewed his lower lip dubiously.

  “Will it work?”

  “Sure it will. Lots of people have thought of using repulsors in air travel, but they’
re inefficient, especially in heavy gravity fields. Here on Ganymede, with a field of one-third gravity and a thin atmosphere, a child could run it. Even Johnson could run it, though I wouldn’t mourn if he fell off and broke his blasted neck.”

  “All right, then, look here. We’ve got lots of this native purple wood. Get Charlie Finn and tell him to put that sleigh on a platform of it. He’s to have it extend about twenty feet or more frontward, with a railing around the part that projects.”

  Benson spat and scowled through the stringly hair over his eyes.

  “What’s the idea, Commander?”

  Pelham’s laughter came in short, harsh barks.

  “Those Ossies are expecting reindeer, and reindeer they’re going to have. Those animals will have to stand on something, won’t they?”

  “Sure . . . But wait, hold on! There aren’t any reindeer on Ganymede.”

  Commander Pelham paused on his way out. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly as they always did when he thought of Olaf Johnson.

  “Olaf is out rounding up eight spinybacks for us. They’ve got four feet, a head on one end and a tail on the other. That’s close enough for the Ossies.”

  The old engineer chewed this information and chuckled nastily.

  “Good! I wish the fool joy of his job.”

  “So do I,” gritted Pelham.

  He stalked out as Benson, still leering, slid underneath the sleigh.

  The commander’s description of a spinyback was concise and accurate, but it left out several interesting details. For one thing, a spinyback has a long, mobile snout, two large ears that wave back and forth gently, and two emotional purple eyes. The males have pliable spines of a deep crimson color along the backbone that seem to delight the female of the species. Combine these with a scaly, muscular tail and a brain by no means mediocre, and you have a spinyback—or at least you have one if you can catch one.

  It was just such a thought that occurred to Olaf Johnson as he sneaked down from the rocky eminence toward the herd of twenty-five spinybacks grazing on the sparse, gritty undergrowth. The nearest spinies looked up as Olaf, bundled in fur and grotesque with attached oxygen nosepiece, approached. However, spinies have no natural enemies, so they merely gazed at the figure with languidly disapproving eyes and returned to their crunchy but nourishing fare.