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  “Do not presume upon my generosity,” the grand vizier warned. “You are not the only storyteller in Baghdad.”

  Hari-ibn-Hari looked disappointed, but he meekly agreed, “One copper, oh guardian of the people.”

  Six weeks later, Hari-ibn-Hari sat in his miserable little hovel on the Street of the Storytellers and spoke thusly to several other storytellers sitting around him on the packed-earth floor.

  “The situation is this, my fellows: the sultan believes that all women are faithless and untrustworthy.”

  “Many are,” muttered Fareed-al-Shaffa, glancing at the only female storyteller among the men, who sat next to him, her face boldly unveiled, her hawk’s eyes glittering with unyielding determination.

  “Because of the sultan’s belief, he takes a new bride to his bed each night and has her beheaded the next morning.”

  “We know all this,” cried the youngest among them, Haroun-

  el-Ahson, with obvious impatience.

  Hari-ibn-Hari glared at the upstart, who was always seeking attention for himself, and continued, “But Scheherazade, daughter of the grand vizier, has survived more than two months now by telling the sultan a beguiling story each night.”

  “A story stays the sultan’s bloody hand?” asked another storyteller, Jamil-abu-Blissa. Lean and learned, he was sharing a hookah water pipe with Fareed-al-Shaffa. Between them, they blew clouds of soft, gray smoke that wafted through the crowded little room.

  With a rasping cough, Hari-ibn-Hari explained, “Scheherazade does not finish her story by the time dawn arises. She leaves the sultan in such suspense that he allows her to live to the next night, so he can hear the conclusion of her story.”

  “I see!” exclaimed the young Haroun-el-Ahson. “Cliffhangers! Very clever of her.”

  Hari-ibn-Hari frowned at the upstart’s vulgar phrase but went on to the heart of the problem.

  “I have told the grand vizier every story I can think of,” he said, his voice sinking with woe, “and still he demands more.”

  “Of course. He doesn’t want his daughter to be slaughtered.”

  “Now I must turn to you, my friends and colleagues. Please tell me your stories, new stories, fresh stories. Otherwise the lady Scheherazade will perish.” Hari-ibn-Hari did not mention that the grand vizier would take the tongue from his head if his daughter was killed.

  Fareed-al-Shaffa raised his hands to Allah and pronounced, “We will be honored to assist a fellow storyteller in such a noble pursuit.”

  Before Hari-ibn-Hari could express his undying thanks, the bearded, gnomish storyteller who was known throughout the bazaar as the Daemon of the Night, asked coldly, “How much does the sultan pay you for these stories?”

  Thus, it came to pass that Hari-ibn-Hari, accompanied by Fareed-al-Shaffa and the gray-bearded Daemon of the Night, knelt before the grand vizier. The workmen refurbishing the golden ceiling of the grand vizier’s chamber were dismissed from their scaffolds before the grand vizier demanded, from his chair of authority:

  “Why have you asked to meet with me this day?”

  The three storytellers, on their knees, glanced questioningly at one another. At length, Hari-ibn-Hari dared to speak.

  “Oh, magnificent one, we have provided you with a myriad of stories so that your beautiful and virtuous daughter, on whom Allah has bestowed much grace and wisdom, may continue to delight the sultan.”

  “May he live in glory,” exclaimed Fareed-al-Shaffa in his reedy voice.

  The grand vizier eyed them impatiently, waiting for the next slipper to drop.

  “We have spared no effort to provide you with new stories, father of all joys,” said Hari-ibn-Hari, his voice quaking only slightly. “Almost every storyteller in Baghdad has contributed to the effort.”

  “What of it?” the grand vizier snapped. “You should be happy to be of such use to me—and my daughter.”

  “Just so,” Hari-ibn-Hari agreed. But then he added, “However, hunger is stalking the Street of the Storytellers. Starvation is on its way.”

  “Hunger?” the grand vizier snapped. “Starvation?”

  Hari-ibn-Hari explained, “We storytellers have bent every thought we have to creating new stories for your lovely daughter—blessings upon her. We don’t have time to tell stories in the bazaar anymore—”

  “You’d better not!” the grand vizier warned sternly. “The sultan must hear only new stories, stories that no one else has heard before. Otherwise, he would not be intrigued by them, and my dearly loved daughter would lose her head.”

  “But, most munificent one,” cried Hari-ibn-Hari, “by devoting ourselves completely to your needs, we are neglecting our own. Since we no longer have the time to tell stories in the bazaar, we have no other source of income except the coppers you pay us for our tales.”

  The grand vizier at last saw where they were heading. “You want more? Outrageous!”

  “But, oh far-seeing one, a single copper for each story is not enough to keep us alive!”

  Fareed-al-Shaffa added, “We have families to feed. I myself have four wives and many children.”

  “What is that to me?” the grand vizier shouted. He thought that these pitiful storytellers were just like workmen everywhere, trying to extort higher wages for their meager efforts.

  “We cannot continue to give you stories for a single copper apiece,” Fareed-al-Shaffa said flatly.

  “Then I will have your tongues taken from your throats. How many stories will you be able to tell then?”

  The three storytellers went pale. But the Daemon of the Night, small and frail though he was in body, straightened his spine and found the strength to say, “If you do that, most noble one, you will get no more stories, and your daughter will lose her life.”

  The grand vizier glared angrily at the storytellers. From her hidden post in the veiled gallery, Scheherazade felt her heart sink. Oh, father! she begged silently, be generous. Open your heart.

  At length, the grand vizier muttered darkly, “There are many storytellers in Baghdad. If you three refuse me, I will find others who will gladly serve. And, of course, the three of you will lose your tongues. Consider carefully. Produce stories for me at one copper apiece or be silenced forever.”

  “Our children will starve!” cried Fareed-al-Shaffa.

  “Our wives will have to take to the streets to feed themselves,” wailed Hari-ibn-Hari.

  The Daemon of the Night said nothing.

  “That is your choice,” said the grand vizier, as cold and unyielding as a steel blade. “Stories at one copper apiece, or I go to other storytellers. And you lose your tongues.”

  “But magnificent one—”

  “That is your choice,” the grand vizier repeated sternly. “You have until noon tomorrow to decide.”

  It was a gloomy trio of storytellers who wended their way back to the bazaar that day.

  “He is unyielding,” Fareed-al-Shaffa said. “Too bad. I have been thinking of a new story about a band of thieves and a young adventurer. I think I’ll call him Ali Baba.”

  “That’s a silly name,” Hari-ibn-Hari rejoined. “Who could take seriously a story where the hero’s name is so silly?”

  “I don’t think the name is silly,” Fareed-al-Shaffa maintained. “I rather like it.”

  As they turned in to the Street of the Storytellers, with ragged, lean, and hungry men at every door pleading with passersby to listen to their tales, the Daemon of the Night said softly, “Arguing over a name is not going to solve our problem. By tomorrow noon we could lose our tongues.”

  Hari-ibn-Hari touched reflexively at his throat. “But to continue to sell our tales for one single copper is driving us into starvation.”

  “We will starve much faster if our tongues are cut out,” said Fareed-al-Shaffa.

  The others nodded unhappily
as they plodded up the street and stopped at al-Shaffa’s hovel.

  “Come in and have coffee with me,” he said to his companions. “We must think of a way out of this problem.”

  All four of Fareed-al-Shaffa’s wives were home, and all four of them asked the storyteller how they were expected to feed their many children if he did not bring in more coins.

  “Begone,” he commanded them—after they had served the coffee. “Back to the women’s quarters.”

  The women’s quarters was nothing more than a squalid room in the rear of the hovel, teeming with noisy children.

  Once the women had left, the three storytellers squatted on the threadbare carpet and sipped at their coffee cups.

  “Suppose this carpet could fly,” mused Hari-ibn-Hari.

  Fareed-al-Shaffa humphed. “Suppose a genie appeared and gave us riches beyond imagining.”

  The Daemon of the Night fixed them both with a somber gaze. “Suppose you both stop toying with new story ideas and turn your attention to our problem.”

  “Starve from low wages or lose our tongues,” sighed Hari-ibn-Hari.

  “And once our tongues have been cut out, the grand vizier goes to other storytellers to take our place,” said the Daemon of the Night.

  Fareed-al-Shaffa said slowly, “The grand vizier assumes the other storytellers will be too terrified by our example to refuse his starvation wage.”

  “He’s right,” Hari-ibn-Hari said bitterly.

  “Is he?” mused Fareed. “Perhaps not.”

  “What do you mean?” his two companions asked in unison.

  Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Fareed-al-Shaffa said, “What if all the storytellers refused to work for a single copper per tale?”

  Hari-ibn-Hari asked cynically, “Would they refuse before or after our tongues have been taken out?”

  “Before, of course.”

  The Daemon of the Night stared at his fellow storyteller. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “I am.”

  Hari-ibn-Hari gaped at the two of them. “No, it would never work. It’s impossible!”

  “Is it?” asked Fareed-al-Shaffa. “Perhaps not.”

  The next morning, the three bleary-eyed storytellers were brought before the grand vizier. Once again Scheherazade watched and listened from her veiled gallery. She herself was bleary-eyed as well, having spent all night telling the sultan the tale of Ala-al-Din and his magic lamp. As usual, she had left the tale unfinished as the dawn brightened the sky.

  This night she must finish the tale and begin another. But she had no other to tell! Her father had to get the storytellers to bring her fresh material. If not, she would lose her head with tomorrow’s dawn.

  “Well?” demanded the grand vizier as the three storytellers knelt trembling before him. “What is your decision?”

  The three of them had chosen the Daemon of the Night to be their spokesperson. But as he gazed up at the fierce countenance of the grand vizier, his voice choked in his throat.

  Fareed-al-Shaffa nudged him, gently at first, then more firmly.

  At last the Daemon said, “Oh, magnificent one, we cannot continue to supply your stories for a miserable one copper per tale.”

  “Then you will lose your tongues!”

  “And your daughter will lose her head, most considerate of fathers.”

  “Bah! There are plenty of other storytellers in Baghdad. I’ll have a new story for my daughter before the sun goes down.”

  Before the Daemon of the Night could reply, Fareed-al-Shaffa spoke thusly, “Not so, sir. No storyteller will work for you for a single copper per tale.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped the grand vizier.

  “It is true,” said the Daemon of the Night. “All the storytellers have agreed. We have sworn a mighty oath. None of us will give you a story unless you raise your rates.”

  “Extortion!” cried the grand vizier.

  Hari-ibn-Hari found his voice. “If you take our tongues, oh most merciful of men, none of the other storytellers will deal with you at all.”

  Before the astounded grand vizier could reply to that, Fareed-

  al-Shaffa explained, “We have formed a guild, your magnificence, a storyteller’s guild. What you do to one of us, you do to us all.”

  “You can’t do that!” the grand vizier sputtered.

  “It is done,” said the Daemon of the Night. He said it softly, almost in a whisper, but with great finality.

  The grand vizier sat on his chair of authority getting redder and redder in the face, his chest heaving, his fists clenching. He looked like a volcano about to erupt.

  When, from the veiled gallery above them, Scheherazade cried out, “I think it’s wonderful! A storyteller’s guild. And you created it just for me!”

  The three storytellers raised their widening eyes to the balcony of the gallery, where they could make out the slim and graceful form of a young woman, suitably gowned and veiled, who stepped forth for them all to see. The grand vizier twisted around in his chair and nearly choked with fury.

  “Father,” Scheherazade called sweetly, “is it not wonderful that the storytellers have banded together so that they can provide stories for me to tell the sultan night after night?”

  The grand vizier started to reply once, twice, three times. Each time, no words escaped his lips. The three storytellers knelt before him, staring up at the gallery where Scheherazade stood openly before them—suitably gowned and veiled.

  Before the grand vizier could find his voice, Scheherazade said, “I welcome you, storytellers, and your guild. The grand vizier, the most munificent of fathers, will gladly pay you ten coppers for each story you relate to me. May you bring me a thousand of them!”

  Before the grand vizier could figure how much a thousand stories would cost, at ten coppers per story, Fareed-al-Shaffa smiled up at Scheherazade and murmured, “A thousand and one, oh gracious one.”

  The grand vizier was unhappy with the new arrangement, although he had to admit that the storyteller’s newly founded guild provided stories that kept the sultan bemused and his daughter alive.

  The storytellers were pleased, of course. Not only did they keep their tongues in their heads and earn a decent income from their stories, but they shared the subsidiary rights to the stories with the grand vizier once Scheherazade had told them to the sultan, and they could then be related to the general public.

  Ten coppers per story was extortionate, in the grand vizier’s opinion, but the storyteller’s guild agreed to share the income from the stories once they were told in the bazaar. There was even talk of an invention from far-off Cathay, where stories could be printed on vellum and sold throughout the kingdom. The grand vizier consoled himself with the thought that if sales were good enough, the income could pay for regilding his ceiling.

  The sultan eventually learned of the arrangement, of course. Being no fool, he demanded that he be cut in on the profits. Reluctantly, the grand vizier complied.

  Scheherazade was the happiest of all. She kept telling stories to the sultan until he relented of his murderous ways and eventually married her, much to the joy of all Baghdad.

  She thought of the storyteller’s guild as her own personal creation and called it Scheherazade’s Fables and Wonders Association.

  That slightly ponderous name was soon abbreviated to SFWA1.

  1SFWA is also the abbreviated form of the Science Fiction Writers Association, the professional organization of science fiction and fantasy writers. The coincidence between that organization’s title and Scheherazade’s association is purely . . . well, intentional.

  Introduction to

  “The Supersonic Zeppelin”

  I worked in the aerospace industry for a number of years, and this story is a slightly exaggerated spoof of how major projects get
initiated and somehow acquire a life of their own.

  The characters herein are also slightly exaggerated portraits of some of the people I worked with. Slightly exaggerated.

  The Busemann biplane concept is real, by the way. I’ve always believed that good science fiction should be based as solidly as possible on real science.

  THE SUPERSONIC ZEPPELIN

  Let’s see now. How did it all begin?

  A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon—no, that’s not right; actually, it started in the cafeteria of the Anson Aerospace plant in Phoenix.

  Okay, then, how about:

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold—well, yeah, but it was only a little after noon when Bob Wisdom plopped his loaded lunch tray on our table and sat down like a man disgusted with the universe. And anyway, engineers don’t moil for gold; they’re on salary.

  I didn’t like the way they all looked down on me, but I certainly didn’t let it show. It wasn’t just that I was the newbie among them: I wasn’t even an engineer, just a recently graduated MBA assigned to work with the Advanced Planning Team, aptly acronymed APT. As far as they were concerned, I was either a useless appendage forced on them, or a snoop from management sent to provide info on which of them should get laid off.

  Actually, my assignment was to get these geniuses to come up with a project that we could sell to somebody, anybody. Otherwise, we’d all be hit by the iron ball when the next wave of layoffs started, just before Christmas.

  Six shopping weeks left; I knew.

  “What’s with you, Bob?” Ray Kurtz asked. “You look like you spent the morning sniffing around a manure pile.”

  Bob Wisdom was tall and lanky, with a round face that was normally cheerful, even in the face of Anson Aerospace’s coming wave of cutbacks and layoffs. Today he looked dark and pouchy-eyed.

  “Last night I watched a TV documentary about the old SST.”

  “The Concorde?” asked Kurtz. He wore a full bushy beard that made him look more like a dogsled driver than a metallurgical engineer.