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[May 6, 1964] The Predicament: Transit by Edmund Cooper

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by Victoria Lucas

It Finally Came!

Just a wee plug.  My favorite publisher is Faber & Faber.  While I was wiping the drool from my face during a perusal of their last catalog, something caught my eye.  An interesting book, of course, but this time not a playbook (my usual fare, when I can afford it): it was a novel by a popular British author, Edmund Cooper.  If you saw “The Invisible Boy” (the movie), you saw a version of his The Brain Child, a book published the year before.  But the novel I finally counted my pennies and bought long distance was Transit.  The hype made it look delicious, and it had a February 1964 publication date.  So it arrived at last from the Isles.


Cover art by Brian Rigby

Richard Avery/Edmund Cooper

One of the things I learned about Cooper when I looked him up was that he has a number of pseudonyms: George Kinley, Broderick Duain, Martin Lester, … and Richard Avery.  On page one of Transit, in fact in sentence one I learned that the protagonist of this book is … Richard Avery.  I don’t know what that means that he was putting himself in this book, but perhaps it indicates somehow that Avery and Cooper share opinions about things?

In the first part of the book we learn mainly about Richard, but as he suffers “transit” to another planet in this “sector” of the galaxy, he — and we — are introduced to Barbara, then to Mary.  On the planet where Richard, Mary, and Barbara are marooned, we meet Tom, also late of London as well.  They find themselves in a “predicament.”


Edmund Cooper

Predicament under Achernar

The planet is the fourth orbiting Achernar, a blue giant in a binary system.  (The star is real; who knows about the planet.) The four strangers, already divided into two couples by the choices made by their kidnappers, find themselves on a beach of an island in a strange ocean, with just enough food to last them a single day, but with flashcards identifying useful and dangerous animals and plants, one gun and some ammunition for it, knives and hatchets, and general camping equipment, including tents.  Some of their personal belongings have arrived with them, although they don’t yet know how or why. 

The word “predicament” appears in this early characterization by the narrator, Richard: “The predicament … was, itself, neither clear nor sane.” Of course I looked up the word (as I always do when faced with any word that appears to be important or undefined).  Partridge’s Origins, “a short etymological dictionary of modern English,” delves into the earliest prototypes of the word, taking it back to the Latin for “proclaim.” It is something proclaimed, thus circumstantial, and by extension unpleasant.  One does not land in a predicament by one’s own power except by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Each of the protagonists looked down to see a crystal gazing up at them in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park.  That was the wrong place at the wrong time that landed them on an island on another planet that had not heretofore been home to anything brighter than a crocodile-like creature.

From Kensington Gardens to The Garden

Like the garden populated only by Adam and Eve, this book concerns only four people (and some ghosts of the past haunting their brains) until close to halfway through the book, when unknown others make themselves known but not seen.  Before they begin to impinge on the solitude enjoyed by Tom and Mary, Richard and Barbara, the four (but especially Richard) are occupied by trying to figure out what has happened to them and why.  As they experience their first sunset under two moons, Richard considers the classic universe occupied by the 20th-century Christian, then continues, “But perhaps God had many children, and some of his children were adept at the manufacture of hypnotic crystals.  And other things.”

At first Richard misses London; then, as they camp out on an island on which they are apparently abandoned, he has a “vision of the morning rush hour packed with victims for the City’s concentration camp.” Richard considers that he is having entirely too many visions, and thinks, “Maybe I’m in a lovely nut-house in London” just before the hears the gunshots that herald the end of their idyl.  Instead of being ejected from a primeval garden by God, the two couples are rousted by what turn out to be another group of four dropped on the opposite shore of the island — but these are not humans.

Remaining Mum

To tell you any more about the plot would, I think, rob it of the elements of surprise on which Cooper depends to keep the story fresh.  I will disclose that it is an optimistic tale despite Richard’s and the other characters’ speculations, sufferings, and hardships.  Richard does speak of the “impossible unending promise of tomorrow,” and, particularly about their group, “the conspiracy of sex.” However, the really good thing about this book, aside from the quality of the writing, is the character development.  Most formulaic stories, including detective, romance, and science fiction — all of which Cooper has written — have little to no character development.  The people are often stock characters, Everyman or Everywoman, and they do not learn, change, or otherwise evolve during their stories.  This book is enough about evolution, change, development that I think perhaps “transit” is not just meant in terms of physically going from one place to another, but more like its synonym “movement” or the definition “pass through,” or (from the original Latin) “go across.”

Richard and his companions pass through many states of mind, grow and become different from the people they were when they first saw the crystals.  My criticisms below pale before this achievement.

The Demerits

You will be familiar with my first criticism.  It’s about the way women are generally treated in SF–even by women authors.  We are too helpless, too unintelligent, too timid to make our own decisions.  When they are first on the island, both women assert that “somebody has to be responsible for us” (the group of 4) and “make the decisions.” Barbara adds, “A man.” Of course it is Richard, who, despite a probationary period, remains the group leader afterward.  The women do learn to use weapons and to be responsible for themselves, but they do not make the decisions nor participate in them.

Second, the ending: I find it really unsatisfactory.  Without revealing too much, I feel as if Cooper, whose eighth novel this was, reached a word count and decided that was enough.  Perhaps he felt that with a wide-open future before his protagonists there was no need to expand further.  I’m too practical for that.  I want to know how their future could be accomplished with the tools they have, and I’m also pretty disappointed in the aliens who brought them to the garden.  The very qualities that they appreciate in the humans are the ones they seem to lack themselves.  Oh, well.  I say go read the book and see what you think.  I give it maybe 4 out of 5.  Pretty good.

Parting Note

And now for a word about my own future.  My own predicament is also “neither clear nor sane,” and I am doing the only thing I know to do about it, leaving for what I hope are greener pastures.  Look for me next month in San Francisco.

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Fashion, music, politics, sports, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[May 4, 1964] A Matter of Proportion, Revisited

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[The Journey meets extraordinary people in its travels, many of whom go one to join the endeavor.  A fan we met at the most recently attended convention tore into the back issues and promptly fell in love with one of the featured stories.  It led to an epiphany, which resulted in this lovely article you see below, on navigating the Symplegades of sex and gender in our modern year of 1964…]


by Napoleon Doom

There’s something undeniably rewarding about stumbling upon a piece of literature that resonates with you. “A Matter of Proportion” by Anne Walker, had lain in wait for me like a literary landmine, set in 1959. Though the piece is now five years old, considering the social milieu at present, this is worth revisiting, and not just because it’s an excellent read.

The story is narrated through Special Corps Squad Leader, Willie. Their squad is charged with laying mines to stop a nebulous enemy force, simply called Invader. Upon my first reading (and prompted by the art accompanying the story), I presumed Willie to be male.

However, on subsequent readings, I took notice of how careful the author was to never address Willie by specific pronouns. Aside from the singular use of the term “Daddy-o,” by second in command Clyde Esterbrook, the narrator is addressed in the neutral. This use of slang may be more indicative of Willie’s position as the head of the unit, or perhaps even Clyde’s own beatnik leanings than of Willie.

When the Special Ops team is planting mines along an elevated railway, Willie “felt the hum in the rails that every tank-town-reared kid knows.” There is a conscious effort to avoid claiming Willie as a tank-town boy or girl.

When Willie delves into the unusual past of second in command, Clyde Esterbrook, he responds, "You're the only person who's equipped for it. Maybe you'd get it, Willie." The use of the term “person” here, instead of man or woman, keeps Willie’s gender objective. The reader is allowed to embody this character, and ascribe the gender of their choosing.

I’ve struggled of late with being seen as an ill fit for my gender. How lovely a notion to not be held hostage by it! With Betty Freidan’s “The Feminine Mystique” flying off the shelves, women for the first time feel free to take an introspective look at themselves and what it is they truly want from life. While this is potentially a step forward, the truth is that at this moment in time, we have no point of reference for what a self-actualized “person” looks like, only a self-actualized man. Ergo, the natural inclination is to imitate the masculine, and forsake all things feminine in pursuit of self-fulfilment. There’s an irony in that.

We see this in the fashions coming out of Europe. Shift dresses, devoid of waistlines, disguise the curves indicative of womanhood. Femininity must be hidden. This isn’t equality; it is conceding that women are inferior and erasing them.

Yet I have a sickness, perhaps even a perversion. I confess, I have a love for all things feminine and glamorous. This is exacerbated by the fact that I am, myself, a woman.

Femininity, even in its most unadorned form, is viewed as a kind of manipulation. The mere feminine form forces some people to feel things against their will, licentious, disgraceful things. Perhaps because of this, women are encouraged to be understated and subdued — that is, if they want respect. A sound, intelligent woman must become the picture of neutrality for society to condone her. She exists not for herself, but to graciously reflect the wants of those around her — just as Willie does for the reader.

Willie clearly lives in a distant future. Co-ed military forces, lead by a person of unresolved gender aren’t the only suggestion of this. In Willie’s time, walkie-talkies have been abandoned in favour of “ICEG—inter-cortical encephalograph”. These are communication devices “planted in [an operative’s] temporal bone”, allowing all members of a team to enjoy a sort of mechanical telepathy.

This collective mind becomes the driving force behind this story, as the special ops team rides piggyback on ICEG mate, Clyde Esterbrook’s, senses. They watch through Clyde’s own eyes as he performs impossible feats of bravery, with an almost preternatural grace. This piques their curiosity. Who is Clyde, and how did he come by these uncanny skills?

Clyde is perhaps as much an anomaly as Willie. He is described as a “big, bronze, Latin-Indian with incongruous hazel eyes.” I imagine a non-white person among the higher brass would be something quite shocking to many enlisted men. Clyde of course seems unbothered by what others may think of him. Rather than feeling violated by their compatriots digging through his skull, Clyde seems pleased by the opportunity to scatter his heroic chestnuts.

“There's always a way… if you're fighting for what you really want.”

Brave though he may be, Clyde proves far more reluctant to divulge memories from his past. When Clyde lays claim to having been a survivor of Operation Armada, Willie immediately knows something is amiss. That particular mission had only one survivor, Edwin Scott. He had been a medical student, rendered paraplegic by the ordeal. Scott had been a “snub-nosed redhead” and Clyde most definitely was not.

Bothered by his deception, Willie asks Clyde what he knows about Edwin Scott. Clyde’s answer is one that could never have been anticipated.

"Well, I was Edwin Scott, Will."

Clyde goes on to make the claim that the body he now inhabits was formerly that of “a man called Marco da Sanhao”, a former wrestler from Brazil. He had been rendered brain dead during a bombing, and thus became specimen for an experimental brain transplant procedure. Edwin Scott was willing to do whatever it took to be the recipient of this abandoned body and escape his wheelchair. 

Scott, an educated white man, enjoying all the benefits granted to him by society – save the limitations of his disability- elected to live the rest of their life as a person of colour. Race, every bit as much as gender, is used to consign people to a certain station in life. Scott’s freedom however, is not one defined by race. The promise of having returned function of his body outweighed any fear of judgement.

While we can’t know the political climate of Willie and Clyde’s world, we live day to day in that of their creator. Willie and Clyde represent two methods of coping with the mercurial demands of society, which is what I imagine Invader is symbolic of. Invader has no real name, no affiliation, no identifiable features, not even a clearly understood motive. It is simply a force that attacks and compels those who would oppose it into submission.

In the battle against Invader, Willie fights camouflaged in shades of neutral, becoming invisible and pliant. For civilians, like you and me, our minds are an escape. We have a certain freedom that Willie no longer enjoys now that their mind is one with the ICEG collective.

Clyde, conversely, undergoes a metamorphosis into something more conspicuous, a “big, bronze, Latin-Indian with incongruous hazel eyes.” He is unafraid of the societal consequences if it means he has a chance for his own self-fulfilment. At the same time, he believes this fulfilment can only come from shedding his disabled body.

As a female author, I was especially struck by Walker’s execution of these two characters. I am well aware of the prevailing attitude towards women authors as being subpar. Women, they say, are consumed by sentimentality, and romantic caprices. Their work lacks substance or innovation, and is just a pale imitation of the craft. Like Clyde, I had come to see myself as being handicapped. It’s why I adopted a male nom de plum, hoping to have my work evaluated on its merits alone.

Like many writers, I insert myself into my stories. I enter the literary world not as an androgynous omnipresence like Willie, but as a man. In my dreams, graphic novels and audio-dramas, I fashioned myself a new body from words and pictures of my own creation. This body, the body of Napoléon Doom, doesn’t have to live shrouded and subdued in exchange for respect. Napoléon can be flamboyant and bold without apologies- in fact people adore him for it, he’s such an iconoclast!

It’s a fantasy of course. People celebrate effeminate men like those long-haired The Beatles, or the mod boys of Carnaby street, so long as they remain on stage or in magazines. In the mundane world, such men are far from adored. They are ridiculed, or worse, violently brutalized as punishment for their failure to conform. Perhaps they too force some people to feel things against their will, licentious, disgraceful things.

In much the same way, I imagine Edwin Scott fantasized about life inside Da Sanhao’s body. In wartime, Clyde was appreciated for his strength and cunning. People might have been willing to overlook the fact that he was a “big, bronze, Latin-Indian” so long as he served a function in Special Ops. However, Clyde has never existed in the mundane world.

Scott had experience with the injustices suffered by the handicapped. He chose to abandon his body because of them. As Clyde, he has yet to experience racial prejudice. We can hope that in this distant future, society has evolved to be more accepting. The problem with society of course, is that it’s made up of people, and people are notoriously intolerant of differences.

I’m well aware of the sideways glances I receive, and the whispers that go on behind my back. I’m a sad throwback to a bygone era when glamour and beauty were cherished rather than denounced as tools of oppression. Mocking people like me helps others distinguish themselves as sophisticated and modern by comparison. Yet, I’m satisfied with myself, or rather selves. The rest of the world seems split into factions, all equipped at birth with their own ICEGs. They are one mind, with many eyes, easily falling in step with the unwritten rules reverberating through their heads. I am not among them.

I think about my nieces and nephews, and the future they might live in. Regardless of gender, there will be some flaw, some difference that they will be shamed for. I have no expectations of this world becoming a more sensitive, caring place. I instead hope that they will learn to be confident, and satisfied in themselves, rather than living costumed in the expectations of others.

I wonder how Clyde will fare? He can never take his costume off.

[You can meet Napoleon Doom and see her amazing projects at her own abode…]




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Book, Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[May 2, 1964] The Big Time (May 1964 Analog)

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by Gideon Marcus

Making it

Many people harbor a desire for fame — their face on the screen, their star on a boulevard, their name in print.  That's why it's been so gratifying to have been given plaudits by no less a personage than Rod Serling, as well as the folks who vote for the Hugos. 

But it wasn't until this month that one of us finally made the big time.  Check out this month's issue of Analog, for in the very back is a letter whose sardonic commentary makes the author evident even before one gets to the byline.  Yes, it's our very own John Boston, Traveler extraordinaire.

Bravo, Mr. Boston.  You've got a bright future.

As for Analog… there the outlook isn't so clear.

The Issue at Hand


Cover by John Schoenherr

The Problem of the Gyroscopic Earth, by Capt. J. P. Kirton

Captain Kirton's treatise on the link between the galactic magnetic field and Earth's precessions is both unreadable and ludicrous.  Basically (he argues), as the axis wobbles, pointing the poles at different sections of the sky in a many thousand-year cycle, the Milky Way works its voodoo and causes mass extinctions.

Pretty pictures are included, but I believe Kirton was indulging in some of Dr. Leary's happy juice when he wrote this.

One star (and only because the scale doesn't go any lower).

Undercurrents (Part 1 of 2), by James H. Schmitz


by John Schoenherr

Two years ago, James Schmitz introduced us to Telzey Amberdon, a 15 year old girl whose telepathic abilities allow her to establish the sentience of an alien species.  It was sort of like Piper's Little Fuzzy, and while it wasn't the most adeptly written piece, the premise and the protagonist were so intriguing that I wanted to see more stories about them.

The good news is that I got another story.  The bad news is that it isn't very good.

In this installment, Telzey goes off to the planet of Orado for advanced schooling at Penhanron College, along with Gonwil Lodis, an older girl on the threshold of adulthood and heir to a vast fortune.  When Telzey makes telepathic contact with Gonwil's fierce canine bodyguard, Chomir, she learns of a plot to murder Gonwil, but the details remain frustratingly out of reach.  Telzey must use her wits and her ever increasing talent to find the would-be assassins before they complete their mission.

It sounds pretty fantastic when written like this and, condensed down to its bare essentials, Undercurrents could be a great story.  But the thing is padded to oblivion with pointless exposition, with whole pages of content that get explained again in a few paragraphs later on anyway.  Moreover, I'm pretty sure that the dog is the lynchpin to the crime — I'll wager that in the conclusion, Chomir will turn out to have some sort of conditioning to turn on his owner.

I'll keep reading because I love the character, and I appreciate that there are a plethora of interesting women in Schmitz's world, but this could have been so much better in the hands of a more skilled (or interested?) writer.

Two stars.

Fair Warning, by John Brunner


by Michael Arndt

On a Pacific atoll, moments before the atom bomb's big brother is about to be set off, a supernatural being manifests to adjust the device's detonator and ensure that it can go off properly.  There's a Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin air about the event, but delivered with a sly smile.  Horrified, the scientists get drunk and smash their equipment. 

It wasn't badly written, but I found it kind of pointless.  Two stars.

Once a Cop, by Rick Raphael


by John Schoenherr

This is the second installment in Raphael's "Code Three" universe, featuring a future where the North American continent is crisscrossed by mile-wide freeways.  Cars hurtle from town to town at speeds over 200 mph, and the job of the Highway Patrolman is more necessary — and dangerous — than ever.

Once again, we follow the exploits of the seasoned Sergeant Ben Martin, rookie Clay Ferguson, and surgeon Kelly Lightfood, crew of "Beulah", a 60-foot patrol behemoth.  The piece depicts a number of crises, from a drunk speedster who soars off a highway curve, to a trucker who gets lost in a sandstorm, but the main arc involves a spoiled rich kid who is taken into custody after zooming through a closed lane and almost plowing into an accident scene.  Said kid's father is a big wheel in corporate America, and he tries everything from bribery to blackmail to get his son out of trouble. 

I hadn't expected to like this series so much, but Rafael does an excellent job of presenting the technical aspects of the story smoothly, and all of the vignettes are exciting.  It reads less like a cop show (viz. the TV show Highway Patrol) and more like a series on firefighters.  Plus, I dig that there is a prominent and tough woman in the crew.

Four stars, and keep 'em coming.

A Niche in Time, by William F. Temple


by Laszlo Kubinyi

Artists are a moody bunch, and apparently, most of the greats had profound moments of doubt that almost stymied their careers.  It turns out that, for many of them, the difference between throwing in the towel and going on to make masterpieces is an organization of time travelers.  They appear on the doorstep of the depressed creators and take them to the future to see the laurels of success.  Then the artists' memories are wiped, but the impetus remains.

No, it doesn't make a lot of sense, and this story would veer strongly into two-star territory if not for the final twist.  And, while the premise is hard to swallow, it is consistent unto itself.

Three stars.

Hunger, by Christopher Anvil


by Laszlo Kubinyi

Last up, we get a look at a failing settlement on a colony planet, whose inhabitants have been laid low by disease and mechanical failures such that just two men and a baby remain.  Their only hope is the sack of potatoes one of the fellows has managed to obtain from another straggling settlement.

The fortunes of the three are made all the worse when a pleasure yacht arrives from Earth and proceeds to set the forest afire with negligent aplomb.  The two colonists are left with but one option: use their resourcefulness to capture the yacht and make the jerks stop their wanton destruction.

This story was almost quite good.  The setup was interesting and I like a story that starts with one problem and then brings in another out of left field.  What keeps the piece solidly in the three-star range is the page of moralization at the end, in which a character opines that it's struggle that makes happiness possible, but then takes things too far by saying, "Back home, they're always talking about abolishing hunger.  They might think about it some more."  Plus, there's just some awkwardness and nastiness about the ending, and the suggestion of women as prizes that rubbed me the wrong way.

So, three stars.  Maybe it was better before Editor Campbell got his paws on it.

Summing up

April is done, so let's close the books and do the numbers!  Starting from the bottom, we have Amazing, managing to earn just two stars.  Some folks liked the Smith and Brown better than John Boston, but in general, it was a stinker.  That's a shame since it may be the only magazine to date with more words penned by women than by men.  The Analog we just got through, Boston letter notwithstanding, gets 2.6 stars.  Meanwhile F&SF earns an uninspiring 2.7 stars, but it did feature good stories by Clingerman and Carr (and if you like Ballard, by him, too).  Finally, Fantastic gets 2.9 stars, but if you're a Leiber and/or Moorcock fan, it might earn more from you.

This leaves three mags at three stars or higher, which is pretty good, actually.  IF gets exactly three, with the Cordwainer Smith story making it a worthy acquisition.  Worlds of Tomorrow has got some great stuff in it, even a good Jack Sharkey tale fer Chrissakes, and scores 3.3.  And the new New Worlds gets a respectable 3.4.

Women wrote 4 of the 43 new fiction pieces this month.  And despite the somewhat low showings of a lot of the mags, there were more standout tales this month than most.

Onward to June!

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[April 30, 1964] Mary Mary Quite Contrary: Mary Quant and the Modern Woman

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by Gwyn Conaway

One of the brightest fashion minds of our time has been hiding under our very noses. Though she isn’t an atelier in Paris, she has pulled the rug right out from under our feet. André Courrèges, whom I spoke about in my last article, is often attributed with inventing the miniskirt, but it’s Mary Quant who holds more claim over its popularity and invention. From her store in London to her fresh polka dots, let’s look at how Mary Quant is propelling fashion forward in a fresh way.


Mary Quant in her studio, developing her ideas for the early 1960s. On the right, see her wearing her fully-realized mini skirt fashion herself. Her post, activity, and sharp demure perfectly sum up the powerful woman behind this bold trend.

Bazaar, Quant’s boutique on the corner of Brompton and King’s Road in London, opened its doors in 1955. The store has since become a hallmark of the neighborhood. After the dreary reconstruction of London, middle-class women yearned for bold palettes and fast-paced silhouettes. While these fashions could be seen in films and magazines and the runways of Paris and New York, Bazaar offered this to the masses.

Quant started pushing the boundaries of skirt hems in the fifties, shortly after Bazaar opened. She wanted to create a fashion that allowed women to chase after the bus, when necessary. A truly modern woman, she exploited utility to create iconic looks that felt hip and powerful.


Quant considering her design choices this year, 1964.

And she hasn’t let up as 1964 comes to pass. Just last year, her design was named the first Dress of the Year by the Fashion Museum, Bath, which promises to be a long-standing tradition. The ensemble in question is a grey wool ‘Rex Harrison’ cardigan dress with a cream blouse, the bow collar hanging almost as long as the hem above the knee. This expert balance of professional and whimsical, classic sentiments being redefined by a younger, bolder generation, are the hallmarks of a Mary Quant design.

Unlike the mod trends of André Courrèges, Mary Quant puts modern women at the forefront of every decision. Her garments are fashionable, yet comfortable. They’re utilitarian, for a girl on the go, rain or shine, while encouraging individuality in a way that Courrèges does not. While his fashions are technologically utopian in theme, lifting up the Space Age and Futurism, Quant’s designs are made to let city women live a powerful dream. 

Graphic yet delicate silks paired with classic, nubby wools are a favorite contrast for Quant. Her stripes and polka dots speak of timeless femininity while wrapped in the sturdy embrace of tweed and loden. Even her PVC raincoats, as seen above, carry that delicate balance between powerful and whimsical. Note the peter pan collar, a staple of girls’ fashion in the 1950s, now becoming a symbol of a rising, intellectually-driven beauty industry made by women, for women.


Not only do her fashions bring us forward, but they also pay homage to the groundbreaking efforts of Coco Chanel, and the leaps women took to join the modern age in the 1920s. Note the dropped double-welt pockets, hanging parallel to the skirt hem, and the self-fabric belt draped across the hips.

Yes, Mary Quant’s reach has extended far beyond fashion, into the mentality of Londoners and fashion enthusiasts across the world. No longer does fashion belong only to the ateliers in Paris, or Savile Row. Perhaps the second half of the twentieth century will be shaped by the masses rather than social elitism. What a fantastic thought! Whether the name Mary Quant is on the tip of everyone's tongue in fifty years makes no difference. Her impact is resounding, and will guide beauty for our generation, and those to come.

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Book, Magazine

[April 28, 1964] Out With the Old…. (New Worlds, May-June 1964)

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by Mark Yon

Scenes from England

Hello again!

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I would have anything to report to you this month. The changes in ownership and editorship at New Worlds last month had left things in a fair degree of confusion and chaos. Although new hands were at the wheel, it wasn’t clear when exactly we would see the fruits of their labours. Well, here we are, with an issue that seems determined to ring in the changes and make a dramatic impact.


cover by James Cawthorn

The issue at hand

This is a magazine with surprises from the start. The first shock I noticed when I unwrapped my copy, freshly delivered by the postman, is that the magazine has physically changed shape, from the traditional pulp digest size format to a more shelf-friendly paperback size. This strikes me as a good idea, possibly prolonging time on the newsstands or even in the shops where it can sit happily with the latest paperbacks at W. H. Smiths or John Menzies. 

I was also surprised that the magazine/paperback is cheaper than the old magazine, from 3/- to 2/6 [that's from about 72 cents to 60 cents for the Americans in the audience (Ed)]. This might make new readers more willing to ‘give-it-a-go’.

The next immediately noticeable change is the cover. Gone are the bland old unicoloured covers with boring type, replaced by something that immediately catches the eye. It’s deceptively simple, yet immediately striking. Whilst the artwork by James Cawthorn is not like that created by older artists such as Brian Lewis, Gordon Hutchings and Gerard Quinn, it is a very welcome alteration from those of late. Perhaps more importantly from a practical perspective it is also immediately recognisable, as different from the previous covers as it is from Astounding, Galaxy and the like, which should generate a much-needed unique identity.

The cover also highlights that the lead story is one written by one of the vanguards of this New Wave of stylish fiction. J. G. Ballard made quite an impression with his last story, The Terminal Beach in the March issue – astounding many and confusing and confounding others. Equinox thus arrives with high expectations.

But first, new editor Michael Moorcock sets out his stall with a bold mission statement in his editorial, A New Literature for the Space Age.  Quoting “controversial” American writer William Burroughs, Moorcock states that the new New Worlds will emphasise literary merit over science which suggests to me a focus on softer science fiction based around the social sciences rather than the old-style cliches of spaceships and planetary exploration. More inner space than outer space, perhaps! The choice of Burroughs as a quoted influence (and as an article later in the issue) is a clear sign that things are being deliberately shaken up. It also highlights that the expansion of consciousness through drugs is now part of the British mainstream – or at least amongst the young. To this we can add sex and what some might consider obscene language in order to, as Moorcock puts it, ‘(provide) a kind of SF which is unconventional in every sense and which must be recognised as an important revitalisation of the literary mainstream.’

This ambitious aim seems new and original, but actually is not that different from what previous editor John Carnell was attempting to achieve, admittedly with varying degrees of success. Perhaps with such a bold statement and a newer, younger, fresher face at the helm, the new New Worlds might just reverse the present trend of declining sales.

To the stories themselves. 

Equinox, by J.G. Ballard

And so, in this new age of literary SF, we begin with a bang. The latest in J. G.’s stories here in Britain is more straightforward than his last (The Terminal Beach, March 1964) and more similar in tone to his previous take on a disaster novel, that of The Drowned World (1962).
It’s all rather grim to begin with. Doctor Sanders is on a boat travelling up the Matarre River in the Cameroun. We discover that this is not a journey for leisure. He is in search of an old friend, Suzanne Clair, another doctor working at a leper colony and much of this first part of the story is about his journey into the unknown.
All of this is most un-science-fictional. It reads more like a tale of colonialism in the Third World, combined with the physical and metaphysical journey taken in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.  This first part of Equinox builds the tension to create the now standard Ballard tone of grubbiness and decay, a world in decline.
And then it takes a left turn into the strange. The Ballardian twist is that the jungle is somehow changing things into crystal, by means and for reasons unknown. It’s both beautiful and yet also odd. Nobody writes like Ballard, which is why this is a good start for the new order.  4 out of 5.

[This story is definitely in the same universe as this month's The Illuminated Man. (Ed.)]

Never Let Go of My Hand, by Brian Aldiss

Aldiss’ latest gives us his usual sense of humour but this one also has a serious element towards the end. The beginning of the story starts like a comical Aldiss story.  Two humans, an elderly mother and her middle-aged son, are abducted by aliens and kept for observation. There’s some initial amusement over the strange nature of the aliens, which are weird. I feel that Aldiss has been staring at his fruit bowl too long for inspiration – one being banana shaped and the other pear-shaped! The humans discover that in their new environment normal laws of physics do not seem to exist and that time appears to run backwards. This has the result of them getting younger, which has consequences at the end of the story. It is also weirdly Freudian, up to the unconvincing end, which loses the story a point. Overall it feels like two ideas jammed together that don’t work well together. As an attempt to be different it’s OK, but not one of his best. 3 out of 5.

The Last Lonely Man, by John Brunner

Above this story, there’s a blurb that says that John is perhaps bigger in reputation with you in the States than here. That may be true, but this story doesn't represent his best work.

There’s a great idea within: in the future, instead of dying, people can choose to be transferred to another person’s body in a process known as Contact. People make contracts with family and friends so that they can continue after death, eventually being assimilated into the other person’s body. Where this one gets interesting is that there is a plot point where Mr. Hale, our main protagonist, has a chance meeting in a bar with someone who persuades him to take on a Contact contract as he has no one else to Contact with. It’s an intriguing premise, though the consequences of this arrangement seem too convenient and the ending is rather predictable.  3 out of 5.

The Star Virus, by Barrington J. Bayley

And here’s another author we know already, though the name may not be entirely familiar. ‘B.J. Bayley’, as his name is written on the contents page, is perhaps better known to you as Barrington J. Bayley, who has frequented New Worlds before, last as “P. F. Woods” in the April 1964 issue. He has had many pseudonyms – even the editor states at the beginning of this story that he has been ‘hiding his light under a bushel of pen-names’. 

The Star Virus is a space opera story involving space pirates and an alien artefact. Initially, it is strangely old-fashioned, to such an extent that, at first, I wondered if the author’s intent was to parody the old-school pulp SF story. It involves Rodrone, a space-adventurer, and his latest find, The Lens. (I’m sure that the Lens artefact is something that EE ‘Doc’ Smith may have misplaced or has had borrowed for a while.) Escaping arrest on a planet called Stundaker, with The Lens he rocks around the galaxy in a tale that feels like it would not be out of place in the Golden Age of the 1940’s. Where this tale is made more contemporary is by making the characters quite unpleasant and the story grimmer and more downbeat than anything from the Golden Age. It’s fast moving and feels like an attempt to tap into the old sense of wonder but with a modern, grittier perspective, which is admirable but didn’t quite work for me.  High marks for effort but I think for me it’ll depend on where it goes in the second (final) part next issue. 3 out of 5.

(Turns out I was wrong — this is a single-parter, and earns just 2 of 5 for it [MY 6-8-64])

Myth-Maker of the 20th Century, by J.G. Ballard

We finish with an article penned by J.G. Ballard, this time giving a non-fictional account of someone who both Ballard and Moorcock feel is a major new influence in the genre: William Burroughs. It’s a little generous in its hyperbole, but it is clearly heart-felt. As an agenda for the new style magazine it makes a good case.

As might be expected, there is no Book Review section and a very brief Letters page. I’m sure these will be added over time as the new magazine settles into its new form. It’ll be interesting to see what readers make of these changes and whether they agree with these major changes in direction.

Summing up

And there we have it – the first issue for a new age. Moorcock has pulled out all the stops here, managing to bring in many of his friends, the people who are reshaping the genre, in order to send out a clear message: this is new, this is different and they’re not afraid to take risks.

The future of British science fiction is uncertain, but based on what I’ve read here, it does appear to be vibrant, exciting and guaranteed to create a response. This issue is reflective of the current state of the British genre scene – very different to what has been before. It is hoped that such a bold statement will also pick up additional readers responsive to that, but only time will tell. 

This issue makes me realise that things at New Worlds have needed a jolt for a while, and this issue shows what can be done with new energy and enthusiasm. It’s not perfect, but I’ve not been as excited over an issue as this one for a long time. New Worlds is dead – long live New Worlds! Now it remains to be seen if this standard can be maintained or improved.

One last wrinkle – the magazine has changed from a monthly issue to a bimonthly release – at least for now. The next issue will therefore be out at the end of June (fingers crossed!), which is probably when I’ll speak to you next. 

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[April 26th, 1964] The Start Of A Wild Ride (Doctor Who: The Keys of Marinus, parts 1 to 3)

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By Jessica Holmes

Hello, everyone, and welcome back to my monthly ramblings on Doctor Who. We’re in for a treat this time: Terry Nation’s back with another serial! This story sends the companions zipping about a planet with screaming forests and acid seas in a twisted scavenger hunt where the prize is a bit more special than a bottle of bubbly or a box of chocolates: the TARDIS.

THE SEA OF DEATH

Our journey begins on a pretty beach, and being interplanetary tourists, the companions immediately set out to explore. However, they aren’t alone on what turns out to be an island. A small fleet of one-man submarines makes landfall, and soon they have an unwanted tag-along shadowing their steps.

That’s not the only danger on the island. When Susan tries to go paddling in a tidal pool, she loses her shoe. No, it didn’t wash away: it dissolved!

Well, the sea doesn’t seem quite so appealing any more, does it?

One of the poor chaps in the mini-submarines learned that the hard way. One little crack, and all that’s left of him is his rubber suit.

Spotting a pyramid-like structure in the distance, the group investigate. Time for the educational content. This time, we’re looking at architectural history!

When Ian and Barbara notice that there's no mortaring on this pyramid, because the stonework is so precise, Barbara offers up real-world examples in the Egyptians and the peoples of central and south America. I wonder if it’s in the contract that the writers have to include an educational element, because it does feel a bit shoehorned.

Meanwhile, Susan’s off in her own little world, and her uncanny knack for putting herself in mortal peril sends her falling straight through a wall. Moments later, the Doctor enters the pyramid the same way.

Susan narrowly avoids death when a knife conveniently finds itself buried between the shoulderblades of her web-footed assailant, but she’s not out of the woods yet; there’s someone else in this pyramid.

Ian makes it through the spinning wall too, and to Barbara's surprise, so does she, with an unsettling shot revealing the hooded figure to be waiting just on the other side.

Moments later, Ian comes to the defence of the stranger when one of the web-footed invaders tries to kill them, and their tussle ends with Ian shoving him into a pit in the floor, which leads right to the sea.

The sea of acid.

So, I have to linger here for a moment, because I have a couple of things to say.

For one, who on EARTH (or rather, Marinus) put that in? If I built a house over an active lava lake, which is of course my life's ambition, I wouldn't put a great big hole in the floor where anyone could fall or be pushed in, for heaven’s sake.

For two, Ian just killed someone. A family show!

We finally get to meet the hooded figure, whose name is Arbitan, and it seems that he’s friendly. Or at least friendlier than the wetsuited invaders, who are called the Voord. Ian says he should have thought the pyramid impregnable, to which I say: pardon? Ian, the whole lot of you breached the outer walls by accident.

Arbitan shows the companions the device this pyramid was built to hold: the Mind of Marinus, which Arbitan’s people used as a moral arbiter, and later, a moral enforcer, actively manipulating the minds of men to force moral correctness.

Well, that is extremely creepy.

I don’t care that everything was supposedly hunky dory. Taking away the free will of a populace, even for a noble goal, is a genuinely frightening concept. However, unlike with The Daleks, it doesn’t appear, for now at least, that Nation is interested in interrogating this idea as he did with the virtues and pitfalls of absolute pacifism.

No, instead the companions are roped into a plot to restore this machine to full functionality, but not of their own free will — Arbitan holds the TARDIS hostage.

Oh, and the Voord came to be when one person managed to resist the machine, and freed a bunch of other people from its control.

Are we sure the Voord are the baddies, here?

There are five Keys Of Marinus, scattered far and wide, and they need to be retrieved if the Mind Of Marinus is to regain control of the Voord. Arbitan provides the companions with a set of teleport dials, worn on the wrist like a watch, and asks them to keep an eye out for his daughter while they’re looking for the keys.

And because Doctor Who is surprisingly comfortable for a family show with showing on-screen death, no sooner have the companions departed than Arbitan gets knifed by a Voord.

The Doctor, Susan and Ian arrive at their destination to find that Barbara has vanished. Ian finds her travel dial on the floor. And there's blood on it!

Fun episode, this one. An easy watch.

4 out of 5.

THE VELVET WEB

This is where things get weird.

Very weird.

It doesn’t take long for the rest of the group to track Barbara down. What fate has befallen her? Oh, it’s simply dreadful.


Honestly. Leave her alone for five minutes and she turns into Cleopatra.

She’s lounging on a daybed, dressed in fine silks, while servants feed her fruit.

Along comes a young man to hopefully clear a few things up. In this city, everything is perfect. It’s a post-scarcity society. Everyone is perfectly content, because you can get whatever you want, whenever you want. If it sounds too good to be true, that’s because it probably is. That’s both commentary on the episode and life advice.

Once the group have gone to sleep, one of the servants comes back into the room and places a mysterious device on each of their foreheads. However, Barbara’s device falls off, and when she awakens, she sees this place for what it really is. The fine silks? Rags. The crystal glasses? Dirty old mugs. This city of luxury? A trap that’s about to snap shut.

Barbara flees, unable to convince the others, and their host reports her perception to his own masters…who are brains in jars. With eyestalks, no less. They look silly and unsettling at the same time. These are the true rulers of this society, all the humans in the city being mind-controlled slaves.

The inherent horror of mind-control aside, it’s funny to watch the others fall over themselves in amazement when presented with worthless junk.


"Never seen anything like it!"

Barbara runs into the servant who placed the devices, Sabitha, and quickly works out that this is Arbitan’s disappeared daughter. However, though she remembers that Arbitan sent her here, she can’t remember anything else. She manages to save Barbara’s life, however, when the creepy host attacks her. She can’t save her from a brainwashed Ian, however, who drags her before the rulers of the city.

Then they order him to kill her.

Barbara manages to escape his grasp, but does she make a run for it? No way! She goes straight for the brains in jars, who for all their intelligence, haven’t accounted for the fragility of glass, or how good humans are at breaking things when we feel like it.

With the brains all smashed up, the humans of the city are freed, and what’s the first thing they do? Burn the place to the ground!

Barbara, you sparked a revolution…and found a key!

It turns out that the young man is actually one of Arbitan’s folk, and he was sent out to complete the same task that has fallen to our companions: recovering the keys. A friend of his was also sent out, but it appears he has got into trouble. The Doctor volunteers to see if he can track the friend down, and if not him, the key. The rest of the group decide to look for the other keys, and they agree to meet up in a week.

I’m sure it’ll go fine.

Susan, not one for long farewells, is the first to leave, but to her detriment, for she winds up in the middle of a forest…and all the trees are screaming.

This was a real cracker of an episode. Loved it.

4.5 out of 5.

THE SCREAMING JUNGLE

As the forest quiets down, the rest of the group catch up with Susan, but she’s still in a state of terror.

I think Susan could do with a bit of toughening up. For someone who ends up in trouble so often, you’d think she’d be a bit harder to scare. Apart from being a poor example to set for girls her age, it’s just getting to be a bit annoying.

Barbara spots a strange idol down a dark, almost hidden path, and in her infinite wisdom goes and starts poking at it. She finds the key attached to the statue, but as she attempts to retrieve it, the arms of the idol come to life and grab her, and the wall swivels, taking away both Barbara and the statue.

Well, at least they got the key. Or did they?

It’s a fake! The others go on ahead to look for the next key, leaving Ian to stick around to recover Barbara, and the real Key of Marinus.

Still, this is Ian we’re talking about. He makes his way to the other side of the wall the same way Barbara did, and on the other side finds another statue, this time wielding an axe. Unwittingly triggering a pressure plate, it’s only Barbara’s timely intervention that saves his head from splitting like a watermelon when the axeman takes a swing at him. It looks like this whole place is booby trapped!

The pair start looking for a way out. A door opens, and Barbara, channelling the first person to get bumped off in any horror flick, goes inside, promptly gets trapped in a net, and then the wall above, covered in bamboo spikes, starts to descend.

For goodness’ sake, Barbara, don’t just bleat at Ian for help. It’s a fishing net. I’m sure you can manage.

Luckily for Barbara, before she can become a human pincushion, a hooded man intervenes. However, while he’s trying to confirm that Barbara isn’t a Voord, an inconvenient vine pops through the window and starts strangling him.


You just can’t trust nature. This is exactly why I never go outside.

Ian and Barbara save him from the overgrown ivy bush, but it’s too late. The old man holds on just long enough to give Ian a cryptic string of letters and numbers, then drops down dead.

So, they have a code, but what for? A safe? It doesn’t look like it. They get to combing the room, and Ian finds the old man’s diary, learning from it that he was working on growth acceleration, speeding up the natural world. Well, I think we can guess as to why the forest is so weird. When night falls, its growth accelerates so much that it can overrun the building within minutes.

That doesn’t really explain why the plants have minds of their own, or why it’s just at night (unless I missed something), but there you go.

As the plants are on the verge of overwhelming Ian and Barbara, they realise that the code is not a code at all, but a chemical formula, and when they find the right jar, they find the key. In the nick of time they hop to their next destination: a freezing mountainside.

I can’t wait to find out what happens next!

I don’t think I liked this episode quite as much as the previous, but it was still a jolly good romp.

4 out of 5.

CONCLUSION

In this serial, Nation seems to be going for a more episodic than serial format, stringing together a series of smaller adventures to build a greater whole. I think it works very well, building up a breathless momentum which I hope will hold with the next few episodes.

Doctor Who can sometimes suffer from slow pacing, and if that’s a problem for me, an adult, I can only assume it’s a problem for the younger members of the audience too. Nation has found a way to mitigate this problem, and while I don’t think it can be used for all stories (nor should it be), I do hope that Doctor Who makes use of this format more often.

All in all, I have thoroughly enjoyed these episodes, and I look forward to watching the rest with all of you.

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[April 24, 1964] Some Justice to Mete Out (The Twilight Zone, Season 5, Episodes 25-28)

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by Natalie Devitt

Exploring how a person’s conduct can shape the direction their life takes has been a big part of The Twilight Zone, and this past month has been no exception. In some episodes, poetic justice seems to have been achieved by the episode‘s conclusion. Other times, characters are given punishments that do not quite seem to fit the crime. This month’s morality plays include a story about a dying man’s last wish to make sure his greedy relatives get what he thinks they deserve, a town is blanketed in darkness the morning it is scheduled to execute someone who may have been wrongly convicted of a crime, a man that annoys those around him with obnoxious noises is suddenly unable to block out sounds that he finds unpleasant, and a broke ventriloquist who pays the price when he is convinced by his dummy to take up robbery to improve his finances.

The Masks, by Rod Serling

Actress-turned-director Ida Lupino and star of The Twilight Zone’s The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine returns to the show for The Masks. This time, she is not in front of the camera but in the director’s chair. The Masks is set in New Orleans against the backdrop of Mardi Gras. In the episode, character actor Robert Keith plays Jason Foster, a rich and elderly man, who is told by his doctor that he can measure what is left of his life “in moments.” After receiving his grim prognosis, Jason vows to live at least until midnight in order to take care of some unfinished business, which includes gathering with his family for a very unusual farewell.

During the family gathering, Jason states in a very matter-of-fact tone, “You all came here for one purpose: to watch me go and cry bon voyage, to put coins on my closed eyes, and with your free hands start grabbing things from my shelves.” He tells them in order to inherit his entire fortune, they must wear hideous masks until midnight, which proves to be much harder than expected. The masks he provides them with are from “an old Cajun” and “they have certain properties.” They are told that each mask represents the “antithesis of the wearer.” But what they do not realize is that each person wears a mask that actually reflects their true nature. Also, that Jason has one final surprise planned for them at the midnight unmasking.

With a story like this, I cannot help but wonder about the events that led Jason’s family to where they are when the episode starts. The anger and the resentments building up over the years, and whether Jason may have contributed to the situation. In any case, this episode featured one of Rod Serling’s better scripts this season. In addition to Rod Serling’s stronger script, The Masks featured a mostly good cast and some of the more impressive special effects makeup I have seen on the series in recent memory. Overall, the month got off to an impressive start with this episode, which is why it earns four stars from me.

I Am the Night, Color Me Black, by Rod Serling

The Hustler’s Michael Constantine plays Sheriff Charlie Conch, who arrives at work nervous about the day’s planned execution. Oddly, it is past the time the sun usually rises and the sun still is yet to come up. One of his deputes mentions to him, “It’s 7:30 in the morning and it’s pitch black outside. I’ve never seen it any blacker.” What is strange is that surrounding towns do not seem to be experiencing the same phenomenon.

Paul Fix of television’s The Rifleman plays Colby, a reporter who questions the department’s handling of the case. Colby reminds the men at the sheriff‘s department that, “ The murdered man was not a decent man. He was a cross burning psychopathic bully who attacked the man in there.” The accused is named Jagger, and he was protecting members of a church from a racist when the alleged murder took place. Ivan Dixon, who appeared in the earlier episode The Big Tall Wish, stars as the church’s reverend.

Practically everyone in town shows up for the hanging in “the remote, little mid-western village.” It is getting closer and closer to the execution time and the sun still has not risen. While the rope is being prepared for Jagger’s hanging, the journalist asks one of the deputies, “Did it ever occur to you that there is something odd going on around here? Perhaps we better dispense with business as usual until we find out exactly what is going on.”

I Am the Night, Color Me Black, looks great and features a number of outstanding performances, but it would have benefited from being a little more subtle. For anyone willing to look past how heavy-handed the moralizing in this entry can be, it is a good but not amazing episode. Three stars.

Sounds and Silences, by Rod Serling

John McGiver returns to the The Twilight Zone after appearing in The Bard. In Sounds and Silences, he plays Roswell G. Flemington, a man who takes delight in making noise. As Rod Serling’s opening monologue states, Roswell’s “noise-making is in inverse ratio to his competence and his character.” Roswell runs a model ship company, spending much of his free time blustering around the office like a modern day Queeg, and listening to blaring recordings of fighting battleships, much to the dismay of those around him.

One day, his wife tells him that she just cannot take it anymore. She complains, “What was once an idiosyncrasy of yours is now an obsession. This insistence on blaring noises and running a household like it was a destroyer escort on convoy duty- the combination has now become quite impossible and I can’t live with it.” After a couple decades of marriage, they are finished. But Roswell is happy about his marriage ending, because now he can devote more attention to making noise.

Shortly after, while trying to sleep, he wakes up to the sound of a leaky faucet, unusually loud and unpleasant. Once the faucet stops making noise, another sound begins to bug him. Soon little noises are driving him to the brink of madness. Eventually, he has to seek professional help. Is this punishment for what he has put others through all these years?

The episode has few redeeming qualities. The script leaves a lot to be desired. I think this entry is supposed to be funny, but it I do not remember laughing once. The main character acts like a giant child, which I know is kind of the point, but that begins to wear thin after a while. Most of the characters, which include his wife and his employees, are not much more tolerable than he is. It was hard resisting the urge to change the channel, so one and a half stars is all that I can give to Sounds and Silences.

Caesar and Me, by Adele T. Strassfield

Former child star Jackie Cooper is perfectly cast as Jonathan West, a penniless ventriloquist in Caesar and Me. He and his dummy, Caesar, perform under the name Little Caesar and Jonathan. Jonathan has difficulty securing a stable source of income, but he dreams that one day Little Caesar and Jonathan will be a headlining act. Jonathan has an unhealthy attachment to Caesar and tells the dummy that they are “together forever.” Caesar is mentioned in Rod Serling’s opening monologue as being a “small splinter with large ideas.” Jonathan considers supplementing his income with a side job until his work with Caesar starts to bring in the big bucks. The only problem is that Jonathan has never held down a “real job.”

But Caesar has been paying attention. One day Caesar asks him, “Just a little money for food and rent, is that it? Is that all you want out of life?” Caesar convinces Jonathan that robbery is the solution to his money woes, saying “Open your eyes. Look around you. The streets are paved with gold, and it’s sitting out there, waiting for us.” Caesar feeds Jonathan more lines like, “After tonight’s job, we’ll be on easy street.” Of course, things do not go exactly as planned.

I tried to watch Caesar and Me with an open mind. It is not really bad, just frustrating because it feels too much like a rehash of The Dummy. It brings absolutely nothing new to table. In fact, they even reused the same dummy. The talented Jackie Cooper could not completely save this episode. Then there was the ending, which while mildly entertaining, is hardly fair. Poor Jonathan just cannot seem to catch a break. Caesar and Me receives two and a half stars.

Characters during the past month of The Twilight Zone have encountered some interesting and sometimes unexpected outcomes as a result of their actions. Regarding the quality of the episodes, however, two were enjoyable while the other two offerings were a little disappointing. With only two months left before the end of the season, I hate to admit that I am a little nervous about the forthcoming episodes.

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[April 22, 1964] World Affairs (May 1964 Fantastic)

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by Victoria Silverwolf

Hail, Britannia

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the Beatles again have the most popular song on the U.S. charts.  This time is it's a cheerful little melody called Can't Buy Me Love.


You'd be grinning too, if you were that popular.

I suppose there will be no end of imitations.  My sources in the UK tell me a new group just released its first album.  You can't tell from the minimalist cover, but they're called the Rolling Stones.


I thought they were called Decca.

The album isn't yet available on this side of the Atlantic, so I can't tell you what it sounds like.  Judging by the haircuts, I assume it will be a lot like the Fab Four.  Fantastic Five, maybe, if Marvel Comics doesn't object.

The British don't just export music, of course.  They also supply us with sex and violence, in the person of James Bond, Agent 007.  From Russia With Love, the sequel to the hit movie Dr. No opened on Yankee screens this month.


One should always be properly dressed while wielding a pistol.

All's Fair

Other nations besides the United Kingdom have a chance to impress Americans for the next couple of years.  The New York World's Fair opened to the public today, with exhibits from dozens of foreign countries, as well as several states and business corporations.


That's the Unisphere, symbol of the Fair.  I call it a globe.

Those of us with long memories will recall the 1939 New York World's Fair.  It's hard to believe that a quarter of a century has gone by.


The pointy one is the Trylon and the round one is the Perisphere.  They look more modern than the new one, don't they?

It would tedious to try to describe all the stuff going on at this extravaganza, but let me point out a few highlights.  Science fiction fans will want to visit the Space Park.


NASA shows off their fancy equipment.

The state of Wisconsin brags about its most famous products.


Does that mean the World's Largest Cheese gets in free?

Noted puppeteers Sid and Marty Krofft will present a stage spectacular called Les Poupées de Paris (The Dolls of Paris.) So what?  Who cares about a kiddie puppet show?  Well, this musical revue is for adults only.  Seriously.  You have to be at least twenty-one years old to get in.  It's just too sexy and too scary for the little ones.


Here's one of the scary parts.  I can't show you the sexy parts unless you have proof of age.

For those of us who can't make it to the Big Apple this year or next, at least we can explore strange new worlds in the pages of our favorite magazines.  Let's head for the main gate and see what the latest issue of Fantastic has to offer.

Tickets, Please


art by Ed Emshwiller

Adept's Gambit, by Fritz Leiber

Our first exhibit is an oldie but a goodie — this issue's Fantasy Classic deserves the name, and I won't complain about filling more than one-third of the issue with a reprint.  It appeared in the pages of the 1947 Arkham House collection Night's Black Agents.


Cover art by Ronald Clyne

Just over three thousand copies of the book exist, so most fantasy fans won't be familiar with this novella featuring our old friends Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.

A brief introductory note explains that the two adventurers are no longer in their usual fantasy realm of Nehwon.  Having made their way through passageways that connect all possible worlds, they are now on Earth.  To be specific, the Eastern Mediterranean area, in what seems to be ancient times.  Don't expect historical fiction, though.  This is a place full of enchantment and supernatural menace.

As they often do, the pair relax after their struggles in the arms of beautiful young women.  Things quickly go wrong when Fafhrd's paramour turns into a sow.  He suspects his companion of playing tricks on him, but this theory explodes when the Mouser's girlfriend changes into a giant snail.  Both ladies regain their normal shapes after a while, but whenever either of the heroes embraces a woman, the same thing happens.

This is, of course, an intolerable situation.  Reluctantly, they seek out their eldritch mentor Ningauble of the Seven Eyes.  That bizarre being sends them on a weird quest, in the company of a mysterious woman.  A long flashback sequence, narrated by the woman, relates the strange connection she has with her brother, a powerful practitioner of black magic.  It all leads up to a final confrontation with the evil sorcerer.

Nobody writes sword-and-sorcery adventures as well as Fritz Leiber.  This tale has just the right balance of wit, imagination, action, suspense, fully realized characters, colorful descriptions, and more than a touch of the macabre. 

Five stars.

To the Victor, by Leo P. Kelley


Cover art by George Schelling

We exit the giant Leiber pavilion and enter the first of four smaller exhibits. 

The setting is a planet inhabited by primitive aliens.  Humans colonized the place long ago, filling it with vast, high-tech buildings.  They want more elbowroom, and the aliens don't want their environment sacrificed to the newcomers.  Conflict is inevitable.  This isn't the usual kind of war, however.  One human being and one alien face each other in single combat.

A man well over one hundred years old, with doubts about what humanity has done to the planet, is the protagonist.  He witnesses the battle, and makes a symbolic gesture of his own.

The author contrasts the rapaciousness of the technological invaders with the aliens' love of the natural world.  I appreciate the point he's trying to make, but he does it in a heavy-handed way.  The combat scene involves odd, almost comic Rube Goldberg devices, which spoils the story's somber mood.

Two stars.

Master of Chaos, by Michael Moorcock


Cover art by Virgil Finlay

Time for a brief excursion outside the American section of this paper World's Fair, and a quick look at what the British have on display.  Will they offer us something as groundbreaking as the Beatles?

Well, not really.  Like the lead novella, this is a swashbuckling fantasy adventure yarn.  The hero goes to a castle that lies at the edge of the Earth.  After nearly losing his way inside its labyrinthine corridors, and doing battle with a monster, he confronts the sole inhabitant (As tradition demands, a beautiful and seductive sorceress).  Their meeting leads to a new challenge.

The most interesting and original concept in this story is the idea that Earth is surrounded by ever-changing Chaos.  As Chaos is conquered, Earth grows.  It's a striking notion, and adds a novel touch to an otherwise typical example of the genre.

Three stars.

All For Nothing, by David R. Bunch


Cover art by Lutjens

Back to the States with a writer like no one else, for good or bad.  In this offbeat creation, written in the author's eccentric style, a man creates an exact duplicate of himself.  His mad scheme is to challenge God to accept the double in his place, so he can escape from life and the afterlife.  Adding to the horrific mood is the elaborate machines the fellow intends to use to kill himself in a particularly slow and painful way.

I don't know what to make of this grim account of someone who doesn't want to exist in Earth, Heaven, or Hell.  It certainly held my attention, if only in a depressing way. 

Two stars.

Gulliver's Magic Islands, by Adam Bradford, M. D.


Cover art by Blair

If Fritz Leiber's name brought me into the fairgrounds, then Adam Bradford's made me want to find the exit.  Fair is fair, however, and I have to give the man a chance to redeem himself.  His last two Swiftian pastiches failed to add anything to the original, and missed the satiric point.  Will he stumble again?

(By the way, the magazine's editorial reveals that the author's real name is Joseph Wassersug.  He's a physician who writes medical articles.  As far as I can tell, he's never published any fiction other than this series.  The editorial also promises – or should I say threatens? – another one to follow.)

Once again, the narrator follows in Gulliver's footsteps.  He visits Balnibarbi, the island of scientists; Laputa, the flying island that floats above it; Glubbdubdrib, the island of magicians; and Luggnagg, the home of the immortal struldbrugs.  Not much is done with any of these except Balnibarbi.  I have to admit that the author provides some decent satire on the way in which scientists have to chase after money for their projects.  For that reason, this entry is a little better than the others.

(One odd thing that struck me.  The inhabitants of Glubbdubdrib are described as dark-skinned.  The name of their leader is Loother Krring.  All other words made up by the author seem to be meaningless, but this one appears to be an allusion to Doctor Martin Luther King, the famous civil rights leader.  What the point of this reference might be escapes me.)

Two stars

After the Fair is Over

As night falls and we leave the fairgrounds, souvenirs in our hands, we look back over an eventful day.  Obviously, the Fritz Leiber pavilion was the highlight of the fair.  If the other exhibits were disappointing, well, that's life.  At least we can send a postcard telling the folks back home all about it.

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Magazine

[April 20, 1964] Play Ball! (June 1964 Worlds of Tomorrow)

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by Victoria Silverwolf

Opening Ceremonies

Howdy, sports fans!

Baseball season just opened up here in the good old USA.  The New York Mets, relative newcomers to the sport, faced the Pittsburgh Pirates in the first game held at Shea Stadium, their new stomping grounds.


The first day, and already the scoreboard is broken

The Mets lost, 4 to 3.  I know the young team has a pretty bad win-loss record, but that's got to hurt.  Opening day at your brand new stadium and the visitors beat you by one run.

Like a baseball team, the latest issue of World of Tomorrow features nine men.  (No women.) I'm counting editor Frederik Pohl as one of the players, as well as the coach and manager, since he provides the magazine's editorial — it's an interesting essay about C. P. Snow's book The Two Cultures and a Second Look, and how science fiction can build a bridge between science and the humanities.  After he provides a few practice swings, let's get down to the real ballgame.

Batter Up!


cover by Gray Morrow

On Messenger Mountain, by Gordon R. Dickson

A reliable player steps up to the plate with a tale of war and survival in deep space.

The men (no women) of the starship Harrier are having a really bad day.  After discovering an Earth-like planet, they run into an alien vessel.  In this dog-eat-dog picture of the future, the two ships immediately try to destroy each other.  Many men and aliens die, and both vessels have to make crash landings.


by Gray Morrow

The few human survivors find themselves at the foot of a gigantic mountain.  One of the aliens attacks them right away.  They manage to kill it, but not without more casualties.  The aliens are able to alter their body structures rapidly to accommodate changing conditions.

As if that were not enough of a threat, the men have no way to signal for help without carrying a piece of equipment to the top of the mountain.  Three of the crew set out on a long, difficult, and hazardous climb.  Adding to their woes is the fact that there may be another alien alive, and it might be able to disguise itself as a human being. 

Dickson creates a great deal of tension and suspense.  The mountain climbing scenes are vivid and full of realistic details.  The icy environment and shapeshifting aliens remind me of the classic story Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell, Jr. (but not The Thing From Another World, the movie loosely based on the story.) Dickson's aliens are described in more detail than Campbell's, and their ability to change their bodies is believable.

I could quibble with the assumption that first contact with aliens must inevitably lead to conflict, or with the story's ending, which promotes humanity as unique and superior.  These aspects of the story make it seem intended for the pages of Analog.  Overall, however, it's a very good adventure story.

Four stars.

The Twerlik, by Jack Sharkey

Batting second is a player who often strikes out, particularly when he's trying to be funny.  Sometimes he connects with the ball solidly, when he takes off his jester's cap and gets down to serious business.

The Twerlik is a very strange alien.  Its flat, monomolecular, multifilamented body extends over an area of ten square miles, but it only weighs one pound.  It survives on its cold, dark world by absorbing light from the planet's distant sun.  Humans arrive, bringing sources of light far greater than anything the Twerlik has ever known.  Grateful for the gift of energy from the strangers, and for all the new concepts it learns from them, it gives them what they most desire.

Although the themes of be careful what you wish for and the road to Hell is paved with good intentions have been used many times before, Sharkey handles them in a new way.  The alien is fascinating, particularly in the way it picks up novel ideas from the humans.

There's a small hole in the plot logic.  The alien does not even have the concept of self until people show up.  Why, then, does it think of itself as a Twerlik after they arrive?  The humans don't call it that, or even know that it exists.

Despite this tiny flaw, this is the best story by Jack Sharkey that I have ever read.

Four stars.

Short Course in Button Pushing, by Joseph Wesley

Instead of a seventh inning stretch, we get a break from fiction with this article from a writer who has published a handful of stories, mostly in Galaxy.  It starts off with a question that seems simple enough.

What is the range of one of our latest supersonic anti-air warfare Naval missiles?

The author goes on to show how a large number of variables make this impossible to answer.  Atmospheric conditions, the nature of the target; the factors involved are incalculable.  The article has a single point to make, and does it in an efficient, if not intriguing, manner.

Three stars.

Stay Out of Our Time!, by Willard Marsh


by Nodel

Back to the game with this satiric, semi-comic time travel story.

Hiram Wetherbee is a meek little fellow living in the late Twentieth Century.  In his time, it's as easy to visit the far future or the distant past as it is to take a trip to a vacation spot.  However, certain future centuries ban visitors from the past, blaming them for the way they ruined the future.  Hiram, a painter of mediocre talent, intends to travel to 1902, in order to impress the unsophisticated locals with modern art.  (His real motive is to seduce the women of the time, as he's not exactly a big success with the ladies.) A mix-up lands him in one of the forbidden centuries of the future, without enough funds to make his way back.  After some misadventures with the authorities, he gets a guided tour of the time from some friendly folks who find him a remarkable specimen.

I was never quite clear what the author was trying to say, in this portrait of a future without imagination.  Very few people have jobs.  Euthanasia is encouraged.  Abstract art flourishes, but realism is dead.  Hiram talks in clichés, and the people of the future think he's brilliant.  The story is readable, but wanders all over the place and never quite grabs the reader.

Two stars.

Lucifer, by Roger Zelazny

Next in the batting order is a player who is making a name for himself in the writing game.

A man returns to a city that lost all its inhabitants in some unexplained disaster.  He goes into the vast building that provided its power and restarts the generators.

That's the entire plot of this story, which has only one character.  Obviously, the author isn't going for pulse-pounding action.  It's all mood, description, and psychological insight.  On that level, it works very well.

Four stars.

The Great Doomed Ship, by J. T. McIntosh


by Gaughan

Up to the plate comes an old pro with a checkered career.  Although he always swings hard at the ball, he rarely sends it flying over the wall.

The biggest and fastest starship ever built is about to set out on her maiden voyage.  Because it is scheduled to leave exactly two hundred years after the Titanic disaster, some people think it is doomed.

There are other reasons to worry.  This is a time when some folks have premonitions about the future, although these are not always reliable.  A few people have vague feelings of impending disaster about the planned voyage.  Most troubling of all, the designer of the vessel is in a mental institution, having gone into a catatonic state.  Our hero, an investigator with some psychic ability, finds out that the mad engineer deliberately set the ship to blow up when it reaches a certain speed.  He fails to prevent the vessel from taking off, and there is no way to communicate with it.  Complicating matters is the fact that the investigator's sister, who also has extrasensory powers, is aboard.

As I was reading this story, I kept picturing it as a big budget Hollywood spectacular, in Technicolor and Cinemascope.  The characters all come from Central Casting.  Besides the hero, his sister, and the madman, we've got the stubborn head of the starship company; the hard-drinking co-designer of the ship; the sister's no-good boyfriend; the brave young captain of the vessel, who wins the affections of the sister; and so on. 

I have problems with some of the things McIntosh says about women in his stories, yet, paradoxically, he creates complex female characters who are often more capable than the men are.  The sister is a prime example.  Although she's in a destructive relationship with a faithless lover, her weaknesses never prevent her from winning the reader's sympathy. 

This cinematic epic was enjoyable, if hardly profound, until the end.  It falls completely apart, with an anticlimax that depends on a trivial change in the meaning of a certain premonition the sister has about her fate. 

Two stars.

The Realized Man, by Norman Spinrad

Here's a rookie with only a few credits to his name.  Is he ready for the big league, or should he go back to the minors?  Let's find out.

Derek Carmody is a man who has been mentally and physically enhanced to an extraordinary degree.  His purpose is to arrive alone, without special equipment, on a planet inhabited by primitive aliens, and prepare them for later human colonists.  He does this by becoming chief of the local tribe and offering them technological advantages over their rivals.  It all leads up to a final gesture that will make him a god in the eyes of the natives.

Although the way in which the protagonist uses his superpowers is quite interesting, the story suffers from a lack of suspense.  The author tells you in advance what the character is going to do at the end, and then he does it.  I was a little disappointed that the confident superman didn't get his comeuppance.

Three stars.

What the Dead Men Say, by Philip K. Dick


by Virgil Finlay

We go into the final inning with a novella from a prolific, award-winning, but sometimes controversial author.

Louis Sarapis may be the richest person in the solar system.  So rich, in fact, that not even the tax collectors know how much he's worth.  He is also dead.

In this future, that's not a huge handicap.  By keeping the recently deceased extremely cold, it's possible to temporarily preserve a low level of brain activity.  The so-called half-lifers can communicate with the living, albeit in a limited way.

Attempts to revive the mind of the dead man fail, for unknown reasons.  That would seem to be the end of the matter, except for one thing: messages that seem to be coming from the deceased arrive on Earth from deep in space.  Eventually they take over all forms of electronic communication.  You can't listen to the radio, watch television, or pick up the phone without hearing the dead man's voice.

The deceased's heir is his granddaughter, formerly a drug addict.  Because her grandfather is legally dead, although apparently quite active, she now runs his vast business empire.  She follows his orders from beyond the grave.  In particular, she promotes the political career of a politician who formerly failed to become President of the United States, convinced he can make a comeback and win the office.

There is much more to this long and complex story than I've indicated.  Many subplots appear, along with a wide variety of richly defined characters.  The author avoids his tendency to have disparate elements, not fully integrated, in his works.  The plotting is tight, with all of the seemingly mystical elements explained in a logical way.

(One trivial observation remains.  In passing, the story states that Richard Nixon revived his political career in the 1970's.  I know science fiction writers are supposed to come up with wild speculations, but that's really stretching things.)

Five stars.

The Box Score

Coach Pohl puts his big hitters at the front and back of the magazine, making up for a slight slump in the middle.  With all bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, slugger Philip K. Dick hits a home run.  It makes you want to root for the underdogs.  Go Mets!

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Conventions/Performances, Magazine

[April 18, 1964] A firm line (the May 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

World(Con) Affairs

I've heard a rumor that Galactic Journey will be up for Best Fanzine at this year's Worldcon.  I'm not getting my hopes up — after all, we were promised a spot last year, but we ended up nowhere to be found on the 1963 Hugo ballot.  Still, for all of you who nominated us, we give our humblest thanks and hope you keep doing it!  In any event, we intend on attending this year's Worldcon (dubbed Pacificon II) as it will be held quite close to home, in California's Bay Area.

One person who will definitely not be attending Pacificon II is notorious fan Walter Breen.  Unless you live under a rock (or, perhaps, east of the Colorado), Breen is at the center of the "Breendoggle," a crisis that is currently rending apart West Coast fandom.  Berkeley fans report that Breen, an adult, has a penchant for unsavory activities involving fellows too young to give consent.  Far too young.  While fandom is a tolerant bunch (after all, we're definitely a bunch of weirdos), not only are Breen's actions morally reprehensible, but they attach civil liability to any organization he is a part of.

Needless to say, we support Pacificon II's decision to ban Breen from the convention, as do many.  However, Breen has got a lot of defenders, including Big Name Fan John Boardman, and superfan-turned-pro Marion Zimmer Bradley, who we understand is now in a relationship with Breen.  This saddens us, and we hope that Breen's misguided supporters soon see the light. 

My apologies for bringing up an unpleasant topic.  With luck, that's the last we'll have to write about it.

The Issue at Hand


cover by Ed Emshwiller for The Illuminated Man

On a more (but not much) more cheery note, let's take a look at this month's Fantasy and Science Fiction.  Once again, Editor Davidson wails that no one writes space adventure stories anymore.  That's not really true.  They just don't send them to Avram. 

Instead, we get the following mishmash of fantasy and horror, most of it pretty mediocre:

The Illuminated Man, by J. G. Ballard

Out in deep space, the mutual annihilation of matter and anti-matter depletes the universal store of time.  As a result, the remaining matter blooms, spawning crystalline growths that absorb heat and constrain movement.  In Florida, Belorussia, and Madagascar, wild terrain becomes iridescent with the stuff, and mass evacuations ensue.

Our protagonist, a journalist, becomes trapped in the Everglades while the swamp becomes a kaleidoscopic death trap.  But this phenomenon becomes the least of our hero's worries when he gets caught between two feuding vertices of a love triangle: the local chief of police and a lunatic, who are fighting over the woman now married to the former, once to the latter.

Ballard does love his world catastrophes (viz. the recent classic, The Drowned World).  But while I found the story vivid and certainly unique, Ballard's writing has a somber, sepulchral tone that puts me off.  Illuminated Man is a gloomy trip without much of a destination.

Three stars.

Three Times Around, by Jane Roberts

Beware the laundromat, for the item getting permanently pressed just might be you.  I'm glad to see Jane Roberts back in print, and this is a pleasant little piece of horror.

Three stars.

You Have to Stay Inside, by Calvin Demmon

If there is a genre called "Slice of Life," this might be a "Slice of Horror" — a nicely written episode.  But it needs a story to go with it.

Two stars.

No Place Like Where, by Robert M. Green, Jr.

I'm not sure why Avram chose to spoil the twist of Green's story, which illustrates the perils of making apartment buildings too big and look-alike.  Well, it's not much of a story anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Two stars.

The Building of a Protein, by Theodore L. Thomas

This pointless proto-story column continues, this time on the subject of synthetic protein manufacture, which Thomas suggests could ultimately feed the masses. 

The Second Law of Thermodynamics says we're not going to get quick-grown meat any faster or cheaper than cows.  Maybe more humanely.

Two stars.

Invasion, by Christopher Corson

The aliens apparently lulled us to sleep with this rather unimpressive piece of poetry.  Two stars.

A Red Heart and Blue Roses, by Mildred Clingerman

If there's anyone who can bring back the feeling of Weird Tales or Unknown, it's Mildred Clingerman, who in Roses, chills us with the tale of a mother who finds herself adopted by a most unsavory surrogate son. 

I particularly enjoyed the clever double narrative.  The story is recounted by one hospital patient to another; we initially think the story will be that of the viewpoint character, but it's really her roommate's.

Four stars.

Sea Wrack, by Edward Jesby

Far in the future, the Morlocks live in the sea.  They are not hairy brutes but rather civilized, handsome mermen.  Nevertheless, the Eloi still hate and shun them…to surface-dwellers' ultimate despair and ruin.

An interesting tale, too affected and jolting in its execution to be great.

Three stars.

Mar-ti-an, by Robert Lory

Now that the Ferdinand Feghoot pun column is gone, Avram has diversified the sources of his joke stories.  He needs to find better ones.

One star.

Ghost Lines in the Sky, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor brings us a pleasant but rather sterile article on meridians and parallels.  Of course, it's stuff I've known since junior high, so maybe I'm jaded.

Three stars.

Touchstone, by Terry Carr

Just as Ballard doesn't quite do it for me, Terry Carr always does.  You'll enjoy this one, about a Greenwich Village guy who trades his worries for a hunk of magic black rock.

Four stars.

The New Encyclopaedist, by Stephen Becker

Becker serves up one of those non-fact pieces, about nonconformists inheriting the Earth thanks to their uncommon common sense.  Not bad, though more suited to Analog, maybe Galaxy, than here.

Three stars.

Cantabile, by Jon DeCles

Last up is a baroquely pleasant story about a humanoid with a one-month life span, and the Space-Age princess who briefly loves him.  This is Jon's first sale — I look forward to more works from him.

Three stars.

Summing Up

F&SF continues to be much of a muchness, but at least it keeps Ed Emshwiller, artist extraordinaire, in lucre.  I've given up hope that it'll ever be my favorite magazine again, but it wasn't decidedly unpleasant this month.

And given the other news in this article, "not decidedly unpleasant" is pretty good!

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