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
