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Another Rib

Marion Zimmer Bradley and John Jay Wells [Juanita Coulson] The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction , June 1963
Introduction to John Jay Wells' and Marion Zimmer Bradleys ANOTHER RIB

We do not know if either of the co-authors of this story were familiar
with the Cabbalistic teaching that Adam Cadmon, or Primal Man, was
androgynous; or with the far from notional statement of the great Biblical
Commentator, Rashi, that the word translated as "rib" in Genesis I, xxi,
actually means "side," and that the operation in fact -- by removing the
feminine "side of Adam Androgyne -- transformed our bisexual Ancestor into
our monosexual ancestors. Familiar or not, they have taken an admittedly
daring theme and dealt with it in good sense and good taste. Marion Zimmer
Bradley, whose first major sale was CENTAURUS CHANGELING ( F&SF , April
1954), hails from "a somewhat Lovecraftian farm in upstate New York,"
now lives in Texas with her husband and twelve year old son. She has
published many stories and books in many different fields under many
different names, but says that Science Fiction is her first love and the
only fiction that she consistently writes under her own name. Mrs. Bradley
also describes herself as "a nut on circus acrobatics, carnivals, Italian
opera, and folksinging." If any of these interests are shared by John Jay
Wells, we cannot say. In fact, we can say very little about him. His real
name is known only to his collaborator, who describes him as in amateur
journalism, and having some reputation, additionally, as a promising
artist. And now suppose you read their story? It is a strange one, and it
occurs under the strange stars of a strange world . . .

"Remember, you requested it," Fanu murmured. The little alien's
pronunciation was as toneless, as flat as ever, and yet, somehow, it
carried sympathy and distress. "I am sorry, John."

John Everett slumped before the film viewer. At last, reluctantly,

he leaned forward and underlined his shock with a second view. "When --

when did you take this?" he asked.

"A -- I do not know your words for it -- a revolution ago. Do you wish

for a current view, my friend?"

"No. God, no! This is bad enough. You're -- sure of your identification?"

Fanu's three-fingered hand riffled expertly for a sheet of co-ordinates.

Shaking, forcing his eyes and mind to activity, Everett checked the data,

glancing back now and then at the viewer to verify. There was no doubt.

That was Sol -- that had been the Sun -- that vast incandescent swirl

covering . . . oh God, covering a range well beyond Pluto!

He became aware that he had been sitting quite still for man long minutes,

stiff muscles and sluggish circulation forcing themselves, at last, even

through the numbness of his brain. Fanu was waiting.

Fanu was always waiting. The alien had waited aeons. Not Fanu himself,

of course, but his kind. Waiting; always waiting for other life forms,

other intelligences, new civilizations -- new enthusiasms. They had waited

too long. There weren't many left.

"Looks like we've joined you," Everett muttered, bitterly, at last.

"I do not quite understand -- ?"

"You said -- " he paused, groping for a kind word, "that your people are

becoming exinct. Look like mine are -- already."

"Survivors -- "

He got to his feet so quickly he knocked over the chair, and spent fumbling

minutes setting it right. "But there are no survivors. We were the first

probe. Out to the stars. All the way to Proxima Centauri. For what?

An Earth-type planet. Fine, we found one -- but for what? For whom?

Oh, God, for whom!"

"John," softly, a three-fingered hand falling on his shoulder. "You are

not alone, not as I am. You have your friends, your -- your crew."

Everett walked over to the window, and stared out at the valley, dotted

with the tiny huts of the expedition. "For now, yes. Siexteen men -- a good

crew. But we're mortal, Fanu. Human life is pitifully short, compared with

yours. We're mortal --