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    The Thing in the Attic
    The Thing in the Attic
    The Thing in the Attic
    Ebook47 pages1 hour

    The Thing in the Attic

    By James Blish

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    A small group of intellectuals from a primitive culture of modified monkey-like humans are banished from the treetops for heresy. In their exile on the ground they have to adapt to vastly different circumstances, fight monsters resembling dinosaurs, and finally happen upon the godly giants, whose existence they had questioned.(Goodreads)
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOtbebookpublishing
    Release dateMar 4, 2019
    ISBN9783965370395
    The Thing in the Attic
    Author

    James Blish

    James Blish (1921–1975) was a novelist whose most popular works include Jack of Eagles and his Cities in Flight series, about people fleeing a declining Earth to seek new homes among the stars. He attended Rutgers University and received a bachelor of arts degree in microbiology before serving as a medical technician in World War II, and was an early member of the Futurians, a group of science fiction writers, fans, editors, and publishers. In 1959, Blish received the Hugo Award for his novel A Case of Conscience. He was also a prolific short fiction writer and a major contributor to the Star Trek saga, rewriting scripts into anthologies and producing original stories and screenplays.  

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      Book preview

      The Thing in the Attic - James Blish

      THE THING IN THE ATTIC

      By 

      James Blish

      Illustrated by Paul Orban

      It is written that after the Giants came to Tellura from the far stars, they abode a while, and looked upon the surface of the land, and found it wanting, and of evil omen. Therefore did they make men to live always in the air and in the sunlight, and in the light of the stars, that he would be reminded of them. And the Giants abode yet a while, and taught men to speak, and to write, and to weave, and to do many things which are needful to do, of which the writings speak. And thereafter they departed to the far stars, saying, Take this world as your own, and though we shall return, fear not, for it is yours.

      —THE BOOK OF LAWS

      Honath and his fellow arch-doubters did not believe in the Giants, and for this they were cast into Hell. And when survival depended upon unwavering faith in their beliefs, they saw that there were Giants, after all....

      Honath the Pursemaker was hauled from the nets an hour before the rest of the prisoners, as befitted his role as the arch-doubter of them all. It was not yet dawn, but his captors led him in great bounds through the endless, musky-perfumed orchid gardens, small dark shapes with crooked legs, hunched shoulders, slim hairless tails carried, like his, in concentric spirals wound clockwise. Behind them sprang Honath on the end of a long tether, timing his leaps by theirs, since any slip would hang him summarily.

      He would of course be on his way to the surface, some 250 feet below the orchid gardens, shortly after dawn in any event. But not even the arch-doubter of them all wanted to begin the trip—not even at the merciful snap-spine end of a tether—a moment before the law said, Go.

      The looping, interwoven network of vines beneath them, each cable as thick through as a man's body, bellied out and down sharply as the leapers reached the edge of the fern-tree forest which surrounded the copse of fan-palms. The whole party stopped before beginning the descent and looked eastward, across the dim bowl. The stars were paling more and more rapidly; only the bright constellation of the Parrot could still be picked out without doubt.

      A fine day, one of the guards said, conversationally. Better to go below on a sunny day than in the rain, pursemaker.

      Honath shuddered and said nothing. Of course it was always raining down below in Hell, that much could be seen by a child. Even on sunny days, the endless pinpoint rain of transpiration, from the hundred million leaves of the eternal trees, hazed the forest air and soaked the black bog forever.

      He looked around in the brightening, misty morning. The eastern horizon was black against the limb of the great red sun, which had already risen about a third of its diameter; it was almost time for the small, blue-white, furiously hot consort to follow. All the way to that brink, as to every other horizon, the woven ocean of the treetops flowed gently in long, unbreaking waves, featureless as some smooth oil. Only nearby could the eye break that ocean into its details, into the world as it was: a great, many-tiered network, thickly overgrown with small ferns, with air-drinking orchids, with a thousand varieties of fungi sprouting wherever vine crossed vine and collected a little humus for them, with the vivid parasites sucking sap from the vines, the trees, and even each other. In the ponds of rain-water collected by the closely fitting leaves of the bromeliads tree-toads and peepers stopped down their hoarse songs dubiously as the

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