TV

[November 15, 1963] A Sign of Things to Come? (The Outer Limits, Episodes 5-8)

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by Natalie Devitt

Last month I questioned whether it was worth the average person’s time to watch The Outer Limits. Sure, The Architects of Fear was a great episode, but all of the other episodes during the show’s first month on the air were not nearly as strong. After continuing to watch the program for yet another month, I finally have reached a verdict, and the answer yes. The Outer Limits really seems to come into its own this month. Allow me to explain.

The Sixth Finger, by Ellis St. Joseph

In The Sixth Finger, Edward Mulhare stars as a scientist named Professor Mathers, who has developed a process that he hopes will improve the fate of mankind. The scientist hypothesizes that by speeding up man’s evolution that man will somehow become so intelligent that he will become more peaceful. Of course, the plan goes haywire when Mathers actually tests his hypothesis out on a real human subject. David McCallum, who you may have recently seen in The Great Escape, plays Gwyllm Griffiths, a miner who volunteers to be a test subject for Mathers. Shortly after the process begins, Mathers realizes that Griffiths is not only becoming smarter at a speed much faster than he ever could have predicted, but also that Griffiths has begun undergoing a number of physical transformations, including growing a sixth finger. Also, as time passes, Griffiths becomes more and more difficult to control.

This is the first very satisfying episode of The Outer Limits since The Architects of Fear. Part of what made both episodes so effective was the special effects makeup. Similar to The Architects of Fear, an actor in The Sixth Finger undergoes a pretty impressive transformation over the course of the episode. In this case, Griffiths’ hair thins while his skull increases in size. His ears take on more of a pointed shape, and let’s not forget the finger referenced in the episode’s title.

While I am sure the novelty may wear off at some point, I am finding myself a little excited to see what kind of alien or monster is going to be at the center of each week’s story. The creations made for The Outer Limits may not be quite level of some of Jack Pierce’s makeup for Universal’s movie monsters, like Frankenstein or the Wolfman, but they certainly are unique and ambitious for a weekly show. This is a case where great makeup really helps an already strong story reach its true potential. The Sixth Finger easily earns three and a half stars.

The Man Who Was Never Born, by Anthony Lawrence

The Man Who Was Never Born is about Joseph Reardon, an astronaut who accidentally drives his spacecraft thorough a time portal into the future. In the year 2148, he lands and realizes that much of Earth’s population has been almost entirely wiped out. The one survivor he does meet is a disfigured man named Andro. Andro is played by none other than North by Northwest actor Martin Landau, an actor who I am sure viewers of The Twilight Zone are very familiar with, having starred in Mr. Denton on Doomsday. He and Joseph decide to go back in time to stop the scientist responsible for creating Andro’s disfiguring disease, which left him looking a bit like Lon Chaney Sr. or Charles Laughton in the 1923 and 1939 versions of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

I know, the premise sounds similar to just about any plot on The Twilight Zone. A recent story such as No Time Like the Past could come to mind. So, if you are thinking this is yet another run-of-the mill time travel tale, you’re in for a pleasant surprise. An episode with a familiar beginning suddenly turns into a surprisingly good retelling of Beauty and the Beast, which I must admit I never saw coming.

What really sets this episode apart is its impressive cinematography, which was clearly inspired by Jean Cocteau’s 1946 adaptation of the story. The Outer Limits’ take on the classic fairy tale also utilizes a lot of point-of-view shots. Each shot is very expressionist, so how Andro is shot differs greatly; depending on who is looking at him and their feelings towards him. The classic Hollywood high-key lighting, shots with Vaseline on the lens and the use of images superimposed on top of one another make the viewer feel like they are actually inside a fairy tale. The whole thing concludes with a very striking shot. The Man Who Was Never Born is a feast for the eyes, which is why I give this entry in the series four stars.

O.B.I.T., by Meyer Dolinsky

Senator Orville, played by Maverick actor Peter Breck, is investigating a murder that took place at a military base. While conducting his investigation, Orville begins to uncover what seems to be a poor work environment. Behind the work-place drama, he finds a machine called O.B.I.T., which stands for Outer Band Individuated Teletracer. O.B.I.T. not only tracks employees on the base, but also records anyone within a five hundred mile radius without their consent or knowledge. As troubling as that is, that is not the worst of it. Those who use it, cannot stop using it. One user describes the machine by saying, “No one can joke or laugh. It watches. Worst of all, I watch it. I can’t stop. It’s like a drug, a horrible drug. I can’t resist it. It’s an addiction.”

Initially, O.B.I.T. seemed more like something you would find on Perry Mason rather than on The Outer Limits. Not being a big fan of courtroom dramas myself, I was not terribly interested, but when the plot started to feel more like a George Orwell novel, I suddenly felt more engaged as a viewer.O.B.I.T. is not very visually stimulating; it is an episode that really is carried by the strength of its script and the ideas contained in the script. This is an episode that stayed with me, and it became more disturbing, the more I thought about it. For me, the total erosion of privacy is terrifying because it is something that could actually happen, but O.B.I.T. is interesting whether or not you subscribe to the belief that people with nothing to hide have nothing to fear. I give O.B.I.T. three and half stars.

The Human Factor, by David Duncan

The Human Factor takes place on a remote outpost in Greenland. One of the people at the outpost is Major Brothers, played by Houseboat actor Harry Guardino, a man who feels responsible for the death of one of his soldiers. A soldier who Brothers thinks may have returned to haunt him as a ghost. Major Brothers’ goes through great lengths to rid himself of hallucinations, and ends up paying a visit to Doctor Hamilton. Doctor Hamilton, played by All About Eve actor Gary Merrill, has recently created a device to help him read other people’s thoughts. Doctor Hamilton tries to use the machine on Brothers, only for things to not go as planned. The two men end up accidentally switching minds. Brothers is now in Hamilton’s body and poses a threat to those around him. Unfortunately, nobody will believe Doctor Hamilton, who is stuck in Brothers’ body.

The Human Factor is only fair. The acting is more than good enough, but without a strong story, the episode goes nowhere. On the surface, the episode has a little bit of something for everyone, including action and romance, but the whole thing really struggled to maintain suspense and my attention for the full hour. Sadly, the brief glimpses of the ghost haunting Major Brothers were the only moments of excitement for me. As a result, I can only give it two stars.

If this past month is any indication of where the show is headed, I am very excited. So, if you have not turned into The Outer Limits yet, I highly recommend you start. As the opening monologue says, “Experience the awe and the mystery which reaches from the inner mind to – The Outer Limits.”



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Magazine

[November 13, 1963] Good Cop (the December 1963 Amazing)

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by John Boston

Amazing is starting to resemble a good cop/bad cop routine, and this December 1963 issue is brought to us by the good cop. 

The cover story is To Plant a Seed, a longish novelet by Neal Barrett, Jr., in which this still fairly new writer earnestly wrestles with one of the more familiar plots in SF’s cupboard: Earthfolks go starfaring, encounter colorful primitive aliens, usually highly religious; observe them under a strict rule of noninterference; then the aliens start doing really strange stuff.  After the mystery is milked for a while, the revelation: typically, the aliens aren’t so primitive after all, or at least they are the remnants of something greater. 

Here the aliens are the barely humanoid Kahrii, who cultivate the Shari, plants which are the only other life form here on the extremely hot and otherwise barren Sahara III (and how likely is that ecology?).  The Shari provide their food, clothing, and everything else they have.  So why have they suddenly cut down their entire crop and begun using the pieces to build something in this desert that looks like a boat, which they could never have seen?  And should the human observers break the command against interfering to stop this racial suicide?  Barrett wrings a decent amount of suspense out of these questions; one knows generally what is going to happen, but why and how remain interesting enough. 

As for the human observers: these are Gito, the assigned observer (male of course), and Arilee, whose job title is Mistress, the latest of several in Gito’s career.  But she’s pretty smart for a Mistress—a Nine, in fact, on some completely unexplained social ranking scale—and Gito has allowed her to wander around the tunnels of the Kahrii and make her own observations.  Despite her formal designation as a male plaything, she is a significant actor in the story, and she ultimately saves Gito’s bacon.  And in fact that’s part of Barrett’s point, that she transcends the condescending role she occupies.  But it’s still frustrating and annoying to see a reasonably capable SF writer displaying more imagination in devising a completely alien society than in thinking about the likely future of his own.  Aside from that, this is a pretty solid performance on a well-established theme.  Three stars, towards the top of the range.

The other novelet is The Days of Perky Pat by Philip K. Dick, who has now had stories in three consecutive issues.  This one is far better than the others, which I described as resembling rambling stand-up routines.  Here he reverts to his long-standing preoccupation with life after catastrophe, in this case, as in many others, a nuclear war.  The characters, called “flukers” because it’s only by a fluke that they survived, live underground in the old fallout shelters, kept alive by the grace of the “careboys,” mollusk-like Martians who drop food and other goods to sustain the flukers’ lives. 

The adult humans are completely preoccupied with Perky Pat, a blonde plastic doll that comes with various accessories including boyfriend, which the flukers have supplemented with various improvised objects in their “layouts,” which seem to be sort of like a Monopoly board and sort of like a particularly elaborate model train setup.  On these layouts, they obsessively play a competitive game, running Perky Pat and her boyfriend through the routines of life before the war, while their kids run around unsupervised on the dust- and rock-covered surface chasing down mutant animals with knives.

Obviously the author has had an encounter with a Barbie doll complete with accessories, and didn’t much care for it.  This is as grotesque a black comedy as you’ll find, with plot developments reminiscent of Robert Sheckley, but not at all played for yocks.  Some years ago Anthony Boucher reviewed one of Dick’s books and used the phrase “the chilling symbolism of absolute nightmare.” Here it’s mixed with over-the-top satire and is still pretty chilling.  Four stars.

F.A. Javor’s Killjoy is a rather short story on another familiar theme: Earthfolk starfaring to find exotic alien fauna and hunt and kill it, with a twist that will probably be morally satisfying to many.  But the whole thing is hyper-contrived.  Two stars.

The oddest item in the issue is The God on the 36th Floor by Herbert D. Kastle, who has had a scattered handful of stories in the SF magazines (many more in other genres), but also edited the last two issues of Startling Stories, for what that may be worth.  His main credentials, though, are contemporary novels, mostly original paperbacks, with titles like One Thing On My Mind and Bachelor Summer.  So it’s not surprising that this story doesn’t read much like what you’d find in an SF magazine; it’s more like something adapted from a script for The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits. 

Protagonist Der (a nickname) works in Public Relations in a big company, but he’s had some sort of breakdown and can’t actually function any more.  Through happenstance he’s managed to stay on, collecting his salary and pretending to do a nonexistent job.  But a new man, Tzadi, shows up and seems to know a lot about him, and everybody else too.

Further interaction with the mysterious Tzadi suggests that Der is at even more risk than he feared; and things keep moving until we are in the territory of such paranoia epics as Heinlein’s They and Dick’s Time Out of Joint.  So it’s another familiar idea, but nicely developed through dialogue and visualization, not to mention unobtrusively slick writing.  Three stars, again near the top of the range. 

The issue’s biggest surprise is H.B. Fyfe’s The Klygha, which features more spacefaring Earth explorers (I refuse to say Terrans like the author; nobody but SF writers will ever use that word), lobster-like inhabitants of the planet they are exploring, another spacefaring explorer from somewhere else entirely (the Klygha), a cat, lots of telepathy, and some hidden motives. 

I am not saying more because the author has juggled these absolutely stock elements from the back pages of the last decade’s SF magazines into an extremely clever construction, and much of the pleasure of it initially is just figuring out what’s going on, in a way a little reminiscent of Bester’s Fondly Fahrenheit. It’s not quite on that level, but it’s certainly a little tour de force, much better than the other Fyfe stories I’ve read, mostly in Astounding and Analog, which are clever enough but entirely too gimmicky and superficial.  Four stars.

Sam Moskowitz is back with another “SF Profile,” Fritz Leiber: Destiny x 3, one of his better efforts: he doesn’t say anything overtly wrong or ridiculous, there are no gross offenses against the English language that cannot be attributed to Amazing’s proofreading, and (unlike his usual practice) he gives as much attention to Leiber’s recent work as to that of the ‘30s and ‘40s.  Indeed he goes so far as to describe Leiber’s latest novel, called The Wanderer, which has not even been published yet.  The title refers to the fact that Leiber has had two significant hiatuses in SF writing and thus has started his career three times, and also to an early novella titled Destiny Times Three, which deserves neither its present obscurity nor Moskowitz’s over-praise.  While Moskowitz skips over some of Leiber’s more significant work, that probably has as much to do with space limitations as his preference.  Three stars.

And just to put a cap on it, I read The Spectroscope, the book review column by S.E. Cotts, who generally gets little respect . . . and it’s not bad!  These are fairly perceptive reviews despite Cotts’ slightly stuffy manner.  No stars, since we don’t ordinarily comment on these things at all, but another pleasant surprise.

So: this is certainly the best issue of Amazing this year; in fact, you have to go back to March and April 1962 to find anything comparable.  But the bad cop, as always, lurks outside the interrogation room, slapping his blackjack into his palm.  Next month, we are promised more Edgar Rice Burroughs.

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Book

[November 11, 1963] An integral future (Yevgeny Zamyatin's We)

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by Margarita Mospanova

Hello, dear readers!

Do you have books that you’ve always wanted to read but never got the chance to? Books that you’ve heard so much about they’ve long since made their place in your bookish plans and budgets, but haven’t quite managed to reach your hands?

The reason these books remain unopened still might be lack of time. Not quite full wallet. Or simply their absence from the nearest bookstore. But in my case, the reason often was censorship.

It won’t come as a surprise to many of you, but being a published author in the USSR almost unfailingly meant having to obey various rules and regulations of the people in power, written or unwritten. As such, many of the titles that I undoubtedly would have greatly enjoyed at the time were rebuffed by the editors before they even saw the light of day.

Now that I no longer reside in the Soviet Union, obtaining Soviet books is even harder. However, some of them were fortunate enough to trickle through the borders, with or without their authors. And here we come to the subject of this humble review.

We by Yevgeny Zamyatin written in 1921 and first published in English in 1924 in New York, is still very much forbidden in USSR. The original Russian edition only came out in 1952 and, again, only in New York.

Having read the book, I can certainly see why.

The story is set far in the future, at least a thousand years or more, with the world having been conquered by a so called United State. As the name implies, there are no other countries or nations, though that might be attributed to the fact that a war wiped out more than 99% of the planet’s population several centuries earlier.

Curiously enough, though perhaps not unexpectedly at all, the war was fought over food and resulted in the creation of a petroleum-based substance that took its place on the people’s plates. The more conventional meals were slowly forgotten.

The nation, meanwhile, is governed by a single person, called the Well-Doer, who is overly fond of mass surveillance and standardizing his subjects. Names have been replaced by given numbers. People live in glass, completely transparent, apartments, and cannot draw down the curtains unless they have, ah, received the pink permission slip. Yes, it means exactly what you think it means.

When they go to sleep, they no longer dream, as dreaming is an illness and has been cured long ago. At breakfast, they chew exactly 50 times per each bite. On the streets, they move as one, marching in lines, wearing the same uniforms. Confusing emotions and imagination gave way to logic and reason. To formulae, equations, and science. There is no freedom. The people are happy.

They are also planning to build a space rocket (with the appropriate mathematical name, "The Integral") to share their way of life with any extraterrestrial life forms they might encounter.

The story follows one of the lead builders working on the rocket. A model citizen, D-503, decides to start a journal, depicting his daily life and thoughts, and then put it onto the rocket. Enlighten the aliens, so to speak.


the author

I will let you, dear readers, read for yourself exactly what we learn through each of D-503’s entries, but suffice it to say, action, drama, and (really, really awkward) romance abound. As well as, at times, rather confused ramblings of a man who has never before been confronted with illogical feelings.

Naturally, I read the novel in Russian. However, I did take time to peruse the 1924 English translation as well. On its own, it seems to be a fairly good read, but I’m afraid it falls somewhat short of the source. In the Russian We the writing is uneven, full of short bursts and ragged edges, that seem to be smoothed or faded when one opens up the English copy. And I’m not talking about the length of the sentences, but rather the structure and choice of words. Still, that slight demerit only really matters if one makes it a point to compare the two versions. If you have the chance (and ability) read it in Russian. Otherwise, the English copy will serve perfectly well.

The style of prose itself is very much in tune with the character, never straying too far from what we might expect, and yet delivering a gripping account of D-503’s deconstruction of his own world. The contrast between the mathematical precision of some parts and emotional upheavals of the others works nicely to highlight the faults of the world Zamyatin built.

Despite the bleakness and sheer uniformness of the United State, the characters we meet throughout the novel are vibrant and very much alive. Every single one of them has something to say, and every single one of them is worth listening to. The characters are the novel’s strongest side, and after finishing the book, I caught myself wanting to know what happens to them next.

In fact, the characters have quite possibly outshone any and all possible allusions to USSR and its problems for me. The satire and criticisms are plain, don’t get me wrong, but considering that Zamyatin wrote the book when the Soviet Union was only in its infancy, the impression they left with me is not quite as deep as one might expect. 

I greatly enjoyed We, for all its dystopian gloominess. This is a book that has now become a permanent fixture on my bookshelves and I foresee many rereads in its future. And so, dear readers, I invite you to try it out for yourselves. I promise it will not disappoint.

I give “We” by Yevgeny Zamyatin five integrals out of five. 




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Magazine

[November 9, 1963] Change and Constancy (December 1963 Galaxy)

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by Gideon Marcus

If you've been following the papers this week, you can't have missed the biggest news: the tour of Madame Nhu, the sister-in-law of South Vietnamese President Ngô Đình Diệm, was pushed from the front page when a military coup toppled the Asian country's government and assassinated its head on November 2.

Rioting and looting followed but was quickly suppressed.  The American government took a few days to decide on a diplomatic policy, but given our investment in the region (8,000 troops now), formal recognition was inevitable.  It occurred on November 7, and a day later, the new South Vietnamese government divvied out top posts to leaders of the junta.

That a rebellion happened is hardly surprising given the arrogance and corruption of the Diệm administration.  For months, students and monks have been protesting by the thousands, some of the latter even choosing to immolate themselves to send a message.  But whether or not the new regime will govern any more acceptably is an open question (my prediction: no). 

Speaking of changes that aren't, a couple of years ago, Fred Pohl took the helm of Galaxy, relieving its founding editor, Horace Gold.  Though Pohl has made a mark with Galaxy's sister mag, IF, Galaxy remains a rather uninspiring shadow of its former self.  This particular issue, the December 1963 Galaxy features a host of familiar A-listers and, for the most part, their work is rather tired:

The Star King (Part 1 of 2), by Jack Vance

The creator of the near-superlative The Dragon Masters returns with a tale illustrating the intersection of personal vengeance and cosmic justice.  Thousands of years from now, the known universe is divided into two spheres: the inner worlds, where ambivalence and stagnation reign; and the great Beyond, where entrepreneurial spirit still lives, but so do a half dozen crimelords, who traffic in human misery.  Kirth Gersen is a space vigilante who has dedicated his life to combating evil.

This is just Part 1, but already I see indications that this won't be the hit Vance's last short novel was.  The first section is riveting, wherein Gersen meets Lugo Teehalt, a planet "locater" who (prior to the meeting) had discovered a planet more beautiful than Earth and, once he found he was working for Grendel the Monster, one of the crimelords, didn't want to expose the world to rapine.  I would have been perfectly happy to read a story set entirely on Smade's Planet (the setting of the meeting) which features naught but a landing pad and a Smade's tavern. 

Unfortunately, the remainder of Part 1 becomes a fairly standard Stainless Steel Rat/Retief-without-the-funny adventure story, the kind where the hero is always a two steps ahead of his adversary and explaining his methodology all the way.  Also hindering the story are the superfluous interstitial pieces, literally pages from cosmic encyclopediae.  I also found the lack of female characters particularly glaring.  In fact, we only meet one near the end, a romantic interest.  So unimportant is her own story that when we momentarily leave Gersen's viewpoint (which had been constant throughout) it is just to see what she thinks of Gersen! 

Three stars so far, and a hunch it won't get better.

The Big Pat Boom, by Damon Knight

As the old adage goes, "charge what the market will bear," and in this story, the market is a host of purple aliens with a lot of cash to burn who express a passion for cow turds.  So ensues a dramatic repurposing of the American cattle industry.

A fun ride that's very well told, but in the end, it doesn't quite manage to say anything.  A wasted opportunity, but worth three stars.

For Your Information, by Willy Ley

Galaxy's professor has been running on low energy for a while, and this article, on the origin of constellation names, scrapes the bottom of the topic barrel.  Only the Q&A offers tidbits of interest.  It's a shame since Ley's column was a big reason I originally got a subscription to the magazine…good God…13 years ago!  Two stars.

If There Were No Benny Cemoli, by Philip K. Dick

After Earth blows itself nearly to cinders, its colonies on Mars, Venus, and the surrounding stars come back to take over the planet's reconstruction.  They also want to bring the apocalypse's perpetrators to justice.  Such efforts are thwarted, however, when a revived sentient newspaper points the blame solely at a minor rabblerouser named Benny Cemoli, taking the heat off the real instigators.

I often like Dick, I sometimes love Dick, but this time around, I found the satire unfocused.  Moreover, the idea of a newspaper that can create headlines out of thin air without need for reporters is ridiculous (though it turns out that the paper was actually being manipulated by the perpetrators, the implication is that this was not always so).  Two stars.

Lullaby: 1990, by Sheri S. Eberhart

A song to be sung after the Bomb falls.  It worked for me.  Five stars.

And All the Earth a Grave, by C. C. MacApp

A coffin maker's marketing department finds its budget accidentally increased a hundredfold.  Since budgets are made to be used, unprecedented promotions follow, and the company's casket sales go through the roof.  And with all these coffins, you've got to find something to put in them…

Another manufactured demand story, like Knight's above, but not as good.  Two stars.

In the Control Tower, by Will Mohler

A poor man's 1984 following the ill-fated journey of an urban draftsman who tries to climb the mysterious floating tower in the center of his city.  It starts with a strong moodiness but degenerates into haphazard incomprehensibility — another experimental piece that trades substance for style.  Two stars.

No Great Magic, by Fritz Leiber

It's been a while since Leiber returned to the world of The Big Time, the war waged across time between the Snakes and the Spiders over humanity's history.  Here we catch up with Greta, a former Spider U.S.O. performer who has lost her memory and sought refuge with a Manhattan play company.  This troupe insists on exceedingly accurate costumage and manner, for reasons you'll quickly discern. 

Magic starts rough but picks up pace throughout.  It is aided by author Leiber's utter familiarity with the stage, and I found the female viewpoint refreshing.  Four stars.

I don't think this issue of Galaxy will inspire anyone to set themselves on fire, but neither will it inspire more than a tepid reaction from its readers.  Maybe it's time for a revolution…

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Fashion, music, politics, sports

[November 7, 1963] This Performance Not Wholly Silence (John Cage and his art)

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by Victoria Lucas

Oh, it was so magnificent!  I will never be the same.

You see, I was sitting on a chair in the wide lobby of the Drama Department after hours, with the glass doors closed, a typewriter table in front of me with my typewriter on it, transcribing an interview that my mentor (composer) Barney Childs did with his former teacher Elliot Carter.  My location was prescribed by the fact that my office (and the entire area below me), under the theater itself, was under construction.  This was my only opportunity to work there on my office Selectric typewriter without the noise of jackhammers. 

As I typed I noticed something strange.  Carter spoke about another composer, whom I had barely heard of: John Cage.  He had nothing good to say about him, even going so far as to call Cage’s music “obscene.” I had heard a lot of stuff said, seen a lot of stuff written about composers, but I had never heard one composer call another composer’s music “obscene.” This is the age of Lenny Bruce, after all.  I can understand what would be obscene about his material, but music?  What could be “obscene” about music?

I was so intrigued by this what when drama graduate student Susan Jackson said she was driving to a concert/dance performance in Tempe to see a friend in the Merce Cunningham dance company that travels with Cage, I asked if I could accompany her.  Susan is only a couple of years older than I am, but she is so sophisticated, so funny.  It was Susan who once tested my statement that no matter what name you use to call me I will know you are referring to me and answer accordingly.  In a crowded, noisy room, probably in my office or that lobby of the Drama Department, she shouted some name.  I didn’t know she was looking at me, but I immediately turned to face her and answered her call.  She laughed; then, when I understood what had happened, so did I.

Just the two-hour trip to Tempe, on the outskirts of Phoenix, was a delight, although Susan had to concentrate on her driving (a Volkswagen Beetle) because it was snowing!

Now, for those of you who don’t live in Arizona it might not be obvious that snow is a rare commodity in the flatter parts of the state.  It snows in the mountains and in the higher ranges, like Prescott and Flagstaff, more or less regularly each winter.  But in the Phoenix and Tucson areas, which are in valleys, it snows maybe once a decade or so.  Therefore, it was an event when we unfolded ourselves to get out of the car almost across the street from the concert hall, and crunched through a light crust of snow. 

But we did not go into the hall immediately.  We were parked outside the little house of another of Susan’s friends, who also knew the dancer.  (Merce Cunningham and John Cage are at this time on tour of the United States, the two of them in a Volkswagen van traveling with the dance company and accompanist David Tudor and his electronic equipment.)

We spent a brief time with her friend and then bundled up again for the walk to the Tempe Union High School Auditorium, when I entirely lost the two of them.  When I got to the box office, I looked around and they were gone.  After buying my ticket, I looked for them in the lobby, in the theater, the restrooms, but didn’t see them.  I was reluctant to try to go backstage, where my friends were most likely to be.  I finally got a look at the program.  I have never heard of any of the other performers: among them Carolyn Brown, Viola Farber, Shareen Blair, Barbara Lloyd, and Steve Paxton.  I wondered which of them was Susan’s friend.  The absent composers included Pierre Schaeffer, Toshi Ichiyanagi, and Bo Nilsson, who occupied the first part of the program.  Cage had the second part, after intermission, all to himself, a piece called “Antic Meet.”

Nevertheless, it was Cage whom I saw first after reluctantly seating myself in a noisy audience.  The stage had been stripped of everything including the back curtain, was clear all the way to the brick back wall.  The only thing on the stage was a baby grand piano that had been thoroughly wired for sound, sitting off to one side where it would not be in the dancers’ way.  The lights did not dim, but sometime after 8 pm there was some man with salt-and-pepper hair pushing a wooden light ladder on wheels (you know, those tall things they use to change ceiling lights for a stage) down the central aisle!  I thought he was demented.  I didn’t know then that that was John Cage.  I didn’t realize that he was pushing it because it was a musical instrument: it made a squeaking noise as he moved it.

When he got it at the apron, as far as he could push it, he walked over to a wall near the steps at stage right and began rattling his fingernails against the newly installed acoustic tile.  The audience seemed fascinated, but the event didn’t incur silence; in fact it seemed to make it noisier.  The audience began to settle when the occasional figure in a leotard floated, ran, jumped, or walked across the stage.  The house lights never did diminish.

Presumably this was to let patrons who wished to walk out do so in the light.  I say that because they did.  Rather than fight the fact that their music is not standard, the performers simply let people leave and lit their way, and they put in a little mini-intermission after each piece.  I went into the restroom once and heard the other patrons talking.  They were asking each other for aspirin to cure their headaches they claimed were induced by the music.  Some left altogether from the restroom door.

“And what was the music like,” you ask.  Well, apparently Cage is in a loud phase.  The only instrument not already played by Cage was the piano, and it was managed by David Tudor, who had (I learned later) spent the five hours before the concert wiring the piano for sound.  Two large speakers decorated each side of the stage.  Cage kept walking over and adjusting the volume—up.

I really don’t know how to describe it.  I realized that I was trapped, because I didn’t know where my host or driver was.  I didn’t even know—with my poor sense of direction—if I could find the car and house again in the dark, but it wouldn’t help even if I could, with no keys.  I contemplated going out and sitting in the lobby (rather than outside in the snow), because the noise from the piano harp, legs, sounding board, and everything else Tudor wired was so loud.  That was how and why I experienced the breakthrough I did.  I couldn’t leave.  I decided to stay and started to resent the people who were leaving, although I soon didn’t care.  They couldn’t help leaving any more than I could help staying.  The music was loud and had no melody, no rhythm, nothing definable to get a handle on it.  It sounded like nothing I had ever heard before.

Exactly.  That was exactly it: I had never heard anything like it before, and eventually that was why I stayed in the concert hall rather than sitting in the lobby.  At some point early on it was obvious that the music and dance were on separate tracks, had nothing to do with each other. 

Nevertheless, I remember one moment of rapture: two dancers were onstage, a man cradling and rocking a woman lying on his stomach as he stretched out face up on his elbows and knees, when the music and dance came together in a lightning stroke of simultaneity.  This is it, I thought.  This is what happens when separate lines of action meet and entwine unintentionally.  Chance.  Chance interactions.  Cage’s stock in trade.  These wonderful surprises are the dessert for the meal, the punchline to the joke, the treat for the trick. 

The rest of the evening was all tricks, but I was not in a mental space where I hoped for more such treats.  I found myself in a heightened sense of awareness that was unperturbed when people stumbled over me in their flight to get out of the building.  (All I remember is trying to see around them as I eagerly stared at the stage, my ears open and willing to receive any sound.) When the concert was over, about a third of the audience was left, and most of us drifted onto the stage, where Cage stood and Tudor dismantled the piano wiring.  I wouldn’t have dared go up there, but, as I hesitated, more and more people climbed the steps on either side.  At last I too climbed up and listened to what others asked Cage.

Some of the questions were hostile, like “Do you call that music!?!” To which Cage calmly answered (I suppose that he is used to this) something like, “Not necessarily.  We could call it noise.” He was not attached to his music, not attached to being liked or complimented.  He was serene.  I had never met anyone like this.  I could not think of anything to ask him.

I walked the few steps to Tudor, who was busy with the piano but answering questions as well.  I asked him how long it took him to set up the piano and how long to break down—or maybe someone else asked one of those questions.  I’ve given the time to set up, five hours, and the time to break it down and pack it up (known in theaterspeak as “striking the set”) is two hours.  So Cage and the company had plenty of time to answer questions, meet with people, get out of costume and pack, etc. 

At some point Susan found me.  Breaking away reluctantly I walked back with her and her friend to Susan’s bug and got in.  It had stopped snowing.  Like a famous composition of Cage’s in which performers do not play their instruments, the evening was finally silent.

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Magazine

[November 5, 1963] Beginning to see the light (November 1963 Gamma)

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by Gideon Marcus

There's a change brewing, slowly but surely.  If you've been anywhere near a radio, TV set, or newspaper, you know that the spark lit by the Supreme Court in Brown vs. Board of Education has kindled into a fire, a burning energy to make Black people in America "Free at Last."  We've seen it in countless marches, integrating schools, the new civil rights legislation slowly working its way through Congress, and (sadly) the deplorable counterattacks by reactionary white supremacists.

The battleground also exists on television.  Black people have been few and far between on the little screen: Jack Benny's assistant, Rochester; the dispatcher on Car 54 Where are You?; Ethel Waters playing a dying blues star on Route 66 (and not a dry eye in that house); non-speaking Marines on the set of The Lieutenant. 

Last week marked a refreshing change in the right direction.  First, there was an episode of East Side/West Side, a dramatic look at social workers in New York City.  A Black actor was cast in the role of a psychiatrist, diagnosing the outlook for a mentally impaired individual.  It was a breakthrough for me because it was the first time I saw a Black man cast as the erudite smart one of an ensemble cast.  Moreover, I believe I've seen this character before, which would make him semi-recurring. 

This week's episode of East Side/West Side did not feature the psychiatrist, but (even better) focused on a Black family and the hardships they endured after they lost their young child.  It starred James Earl Jones, whom I know from his stage work, as well as several other actors and actress with whom I was not familiar, but who all turned in excellent performances. 

Last week, there was an episode of The Great Adventure, an educational series spotlighting important moments in American history, depicting the story of Harriet Tubman, who helped thousands of slaves to freedom through the Underground Railroad in the 19th Century. 

And this week, actor/playwright Ossie Davis appeared on the game show, To Tell the Truth!

It's happening, little by little, in all walks of life.  There is light at the end of this tunnel.

And speaking of welcome surprises, I'm happy to present the second issue of the science fiction quarterly, Gamma.  After last month's dreadful line of mags, it was such a relief to have reading material I could look forward to. 

Gamma styles itself as a kind of F&SF plus, getting the best stories with the highest literary merit.  So far, they're doing great.  Gamma 2 is, despite the gorgeous cover by Dollens, really more of a fantasy/horror mag, as befits its publication date, occurring as it did just before Halloween and Dia de los Muertes.  So light the hearth, put a kettle on, and prepare to enjoy a fiendishly pleasant experience:

The Granny Woman, by Dorothy B. Hughes

Novelist Hughes offers up an evocative tale of the Ozarks in which a professor from the city investigates the recent death of The Granny Woman, widely rumored to be a witch.  Was it natural causes, or did the village-folk hex the reputed hexer?  Not sf, not even really fantasy, but a lovely tale just the same, and suitably spooky for the holidays.  Four stars.

The Old College Try , by Robert Bloch

An over-eager colonial administrator is dispatched to an alien world to oversee the native mine workers, ignoring the advice from his laid-back predecessor that it is often better to get along than steam headlong into the winds of tradition.

It's a competently written, Sheckley-esque satire with a joke ending you'll see a mile away.  Bloch, the author of Psycho, is one of the more effective horror writers out there, but he didn't strain his talents making this piece.  Three stars.

Michael, by Francesca Marques

Every five year old dreams of going on an adventure, but are the aliens calling Michael real or a sign of his mental instability?  Told from the point of view of his older sister, this is a beautiful vignette with an excellent sting in its tail.  Well done, Francesca, especially for a first tale!  Four stars.

Deus Ex Machina by Richard Matheson

Robert Carter, 34, accountant and father, lives a perfectly normal life until the morning he simultaneously bumps his head and cuts his throat — exposing the wires and oil that betray his robotic origin.  Has Carter gone mad or is he on his way to discovering the truth of the world? 

It's not a bad piece, but like Bloch, Matheson (possibly the finest sff screenplay writer in the business) did not devote much effort this passable but forgettable work.  Three stars.

The Kid Learns, by William Faulkner

Where Gamma 1 featured an early genre piece by Tennessee Williams, this time around, it's William Faulkner's turn.  The Kid Learns dates back to 1925 and involves a young crimelord aspirant who tangles with a rival and ends up on a date with death.  Good, not great, but I did appreciate that I had to read twice to understand what had happened.  Three stars.

King's Jester, by Jack Matcha

An overagitated corporate executive hires a Court Jester to lighten the mood, but the contract only serves to facilitate a complete breakdown — of the president and the company.  A overly heavy piece that thuds to an ending, I wasn't particularly impressed.  Two stars.

Here's Sport Indeed! by William Shakespeare and Ib Melchior

Ib Melchior, son of opera star Lauritz Melchior, has combed the works of The Bard to assemble the damnedest tale of planetary exploration you ever read.  An utterly insane exercise, and one that tickled me in all the right places.  Five stars.

Portfolio by Burt Shonberg

Here's something nifty: The fellow behind the weird paintings in the film, The House of Usher, has provided several new weird compositions just for this issue.  Worth a look.  5 stars.

The Undiscovered Country, by William F. Temple

History is filled with episodes wherein rapacious foreigners kidnap the local princess.  In this case, her highness is a telekinetic from Pluto, and Earthers are the bad guys.  A well-told story marred by the utterly human form of the aliens despite their wildly differing climate, as well as the moral implications: we should be rooting for the girl, but the story is written sympathetically to the terrans.  Three stars.

The Gamma Interview: Robert Sheckley

You better believe I turned to this piece first, and I was not disappointed.  Bob, now situated in Italy and sustaining a shamefully low output to our genre, discusses his views on science fiction and his role in it.  Five stars of goodness from one of the field's greats.

Castaway, by Charles E. Fritch

Gamma's editor once again takes up the quill for his own publication, much to the benefit of the issue.  His story about a shipwrecked Earther, whose planetary imprisonment outlasts the endurance of his physical body, is just beautiful.  Five stars.

Something in the Earth, by Charles Beaumont

As with the last issue, both of Twilight Zone's most featured guest writers make an appearance here (Matheson is the other one).  Sadly, Beaumont's tale of Earth's last patch of forest and the fellow who appoints himself its defender is overly sentimental and not particularly insightful.  Two stars.

I'm Only Lonesome When I'm Lonely, by William F. Nolan

For some people, drifting from cocktail party to cocktail party, living on scotch and the company of others, is a way of life.  But as Nolan's story demonstrates, it's always possible to have too much of a good thing.  An impressively dialogue-reliant piece.  Four stars.


artwork by Luan Meatheringham

Sombra y Sol, by Ray Bradbury

Sadly, the mag ends with the softest of whimpers as everyone's (but mine) favorite "sf" author presents a sort of prose poem, likening the death of little Raimundo during the Day of the Dead to the bull's inevitable end in the arena.  Dry, affected, and just plain bad.  One star.

Well, I hate to end on a sour note.  The fact is, this issue is well worth the 50 cent price, rough patches aside.  Get yourself a copy while you can.

Based on the quality of this and the last issue, I'd get a subscription, too.  And perhaps you can catch reruns of The Great Adventure and East Side/West Side next summer.  That would make your 1964 quite bright, indeed!

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Science / Space Race

[November 3, 1963] Listening To The Stars (the new Arecibo Observatory)

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[Our newest writer hails from Lancashire (England), where she is also brand new faculty at a local College. Though she will primarily be covering science fiction in film and print, she is also a bit of a scientist, as you'll see from this most intriguing new article. If only Analog could get pieces this readable…]


By Jessica Holmes

On clear nights, I like to bundle myself up in as many blankets as I can find, wheel my way over to the park, and sit clutching a flask of tea as I peer down the sight of my fold-up telescope, gazing at the stars. It’s been a ritual of mine for as long as I can remember, ever since I got my very first telescope and charged up the hill to get a better look at the moon. I recall being tremendously disappointed until my mother pointed out I hadn’t taken the lens cap off.

When I managed to use it properly, it opened a window to worlds beyond worlds, and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’m no astronomer by any means, more of an enthusiastic amateur. If I'm lucky, I may get a nice look at the Galilean Moons, but I often find myself wishing I could see so much more, wondering if somewhere out there, there's someone peering back, too far away to see. Then again, that might be the starry-eyed romantic side of me, having grown up with my nose firmly buried in any book that could take me to another world. Well, just this week, the stars came a little bit closer with the opening of a new telescope.

This is the Arecibo Observatory, and it's the largest radio telescope built to date:


Image courtesy of NAIC

The Call Of The Night

But what is a radio telescope? How can we observe space through radio? Does Jupiter sing? Are the bodies of the solar system harmonising in a heavenly chorus?

Well, that's not far off the mark. If you have the right equipment, you can even listen to Jupiter’s emissions yourself! You’ll need a shortwave radio (Jupiter radiates strongest at 22Mhz), and you’ll have to build yourself a large dipole antenna. What you'll hear is an eerie, aggressive static, a lot like waves crashing on the beach. These are the radio emissions produced by charged particles racing through Jupiter’s magnetic field.

The visible portion of the electromagnetic spectrum conveys but a tiny slice of all the information that can be observed in our universe. Above the range of our sight lies the realm of ionising radiation: the extreme ultraviolet, hard and soft x-rays (yes, just like the ones doctors use in hospitals) and deadly gamma rays. Below the range of frequencies we can see is the infrared, and lower in frequency still is the realm of microwaves and radio waves. There are objects in the sky which are utterly undetectable through modern optical telescopes, but the Observatory may detect its invisible radio emanations. Take the recently discovered 'quasi-stellar objects' for example. These are colossal structures located out in the furthest reaches of space, their light so red-shifted that it’s only recently that we’ve actually been able to see one with an optical telescope. How did we know they’re out there? Because they’re screaming at us — in the radio spectrum.


Artist’s impression of a quasar. Image courtesy of JPL.

Radar And Pylons And Dishes, Oh My!

Designed by Professor Gordon and engineered by T. C. Kavanagh, the observatory, which has been in construction since mid-1960, was dedicated on the first of this month and cost a hefty $9.3 million to build. For those of us on my side of the pond, that's £ 3, 323, 995 13s 9½d, if my calculations are correct.

So, what shiny toys did this money buy? More than I ever got for Christmas as a child, that's for sure. Nestled in a natural karst sinkhole south of the Puerto Rican town of Arecibo, the colossal wire-mesh dish, suspended by three pylons of which the tallest is 111m (365 ft), currently operates at frequencies between 300 Mhz and 10 GHz. This is much higher in frequency than any radio station you or I might tune in to, as the FM radio band caps off at 108 MHz. The dish is spherical in contour, and so focuses along a line rather than a fixed point as a parabolic reflector does. While this requires a complex line-feed system in order to carry out observations, the trade-off is that it enables repositioning of the receiver in order to view different parts of the night sky. This is because a spherical mirror's error is the same in every direction, whereas as with a parabolic reflector moving the receiver away from the focal point would produce uneven astigmatism.

This receiver is suspended 46 m (150 ft) over the reflector on a 900-ton platform, which sits on a rotating track, the 93m (305 ft) azimuth arm, enabling the telescope to observe the heavens in a forty-degree cone of visibility about the local zenith (an imaginary point in the sky directly above the observatory). This unique suspension system was devised by Helias Doundoulakis. The observatory is also equipped with a 430 MHz radar, which has been in operation since October last year, and is capable of taking measurements in Earth's ionosphere (the ionised part of our upper atmosphere), and radar astronomy, in which microwaves are bounced off distant objects so astronomers can analyse the reflections. There is a catch, however: the round-trip of light to objects beyond Saturn is longer than the telescope can actually track them, so it isn’t possible to make radar observations of more distant objects.


The observatory under construction, a year and a day ago. Image courtesy of NAIC

One Eye On The Future

How, precisely, does it work? Let us say, for example, that the telescope was making an observation of Jupiter. As the radio waves from Jupiter reach Earth, they are collected in the dish, which is curved to focus the signal into the receiver, which moves to track the planet's movement through the observatory's cone of visibility. The data are then recorded, and collected by astronomers for interpretation.

With this, it is hoped that the Observatory can give astronomers a greater understanding of our celestial neighbours, with some of the finest observations yet achieved.

Closer to home, it is hoped that the Observatory will give us a greater understanding of our own world. Professor Gordon's initial intention of the Observatory was to study Earth's ionosphere. The dish can take measurements of radio waves in this area, and the on-site radar, as mentioned above, can send and receive signals into and out of the ionosphere. With these, it will be possible to measure electron density, ion and electron temperatures, ion composition and plasma velocity with the new equipment, through a technique of Professor Gordon's devising in which a radar beam is sent into the ionosphere, which then becomes scattered, and this scattering is recorded by the instrument, and can then be interpreted.

In time, the Observatory will be able to peer further and further into the reaches of space, making detailed observations of our solar system and beyond. At any rate, I'm excited to see what secrets of the stars the Observatory may unfold, and eagerly await the many thrilling discoveries that are sure to come. Oh, and should any astronomers happen to hear any outer-space radio shows, be sure to tell me the frequency. I’d love to tune in some time.

Further reading:

For anyone interested in carrying out some amateur radio astronomy, you can contact NASA, who will be happy to share instructional resources for just that.

And if you’re a scientist and you’d like to make use of the Observatory, you can get in contact with the committee to submit your proposal.




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Magazine

[November 1, 1963] Bitter taste (November 1963 Analog)

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by Gideon Marcus

I have a friend, a gentle and curious soul, whose hobby is to procure aged military rations and try them out.  Though they are often long past their expiration date, nevertheless, Steve tucks into this hoary stuff like it's haute cuisine.  C-Rats from the last war, rations from the Great War — why, I once even saw him sample Bully Beef from the Boer War.  He's essentially indulging in culinary Russian Roulette.  Like, crazy right?

This month, I was Steve, and the November 1963 Analog was the bullet in the revolver.

Seagoing "Space" Ships, by Charles Layng

The non-fiction piece this month is about the pair of blue-ocean tracking ships that were custom built for the Air Force.  I'd read about them in Aviation Weekly so I was keen to learn more.  Sadly, Mr. Layng takes a potentially fascinating topic and buries it under dull technical minutiae.  It's not enough that an article tell you how something works; it must tell you why it's important.  Two stars.

Take the Reason Prisoner, by John J. McGuire

Prisons in the future are run by the military, and convicts have short sentences.  Rather than while away their lives for nickels and dimes at Joliet, instead they are hypno-conditioned with drugs and psychotherapy such that they can be released quickly.

At least, I think that's the premise.  The story features one General Bennington on the day of his appointment to warden at Duncannon Processing Prison, where he is eager to address the recidivism rate.  His efforts are immediately stymied when a fresh batch of 35 convicts riots and seizes control of the facility, their conditioning subverted by a guard on the take.  One prisoner, a psychopathic serial killer with a taste for flashy murder, wends a bloody course through Harrisburg, Pennsylvania before being caught.

What's never addressed is why the conditioning is not effective treatment when the process is administered properly, nor even how the whole setup came to be or is supposed to work.  Moreover, there is a glib tone of authoritarianism throughout the piece, with the end degenerating into a paean for the death penalty.  It's a difficult read, to boot, sketchy and confusing.  I think the author was trying for "experimental."

In fact, John J. McGuire is a marginal writer, having published little, and less on his own (most was in collaboration with H. Beam Piper).  This is a common theme with the authors running through this issue, as you'll see. 

One star.

Pleasant Journey, by Richard F. Thieme

What if a simple chair-and-helmet contraption could send you into a private nirvana, a perfectly real simulacrum of a personal paradise?  Imagine the potential for addiction, the detrimental effect on society. 

Thieme, a brand new author, affords us a vivid glimpse at the experience of using a such a machine, though in just two bedsheet pages, he can't expand much upon the consequences.  Three stars.

Interview, by Frank A. Javor

Javor's fourth story, Interview is another vignette, an "if this goes on" piece extrapolating current trends in news reporting in which the crisis is often exaggerated (if not outright manufactured) for dramatic value.  Three stars.

Where I Wasn't Going (Part 2 of 2), by Walt Richmond and Leigh Richmond

I decided to give this serial a second chance.  After all — maybe it just had a rough start.  I nearly fell asleep just during the summary, a technical snooze-fest.  The story, itself, is about the romp that ensues after a couple of space-station based scientists develop a reactionless drive, the test of which accidentally destroys Thule Air Force Base in Greenland. 

Sound like a comedy?  It's not supposed to be.  Unless you find bad dialogue, bigoted caricature characters, and sheer dullness funny.  And yes, this is the first published creation of the Richmonds.  One star.

Problem of Command, by Christopher Anvil

Last up is a piece written to order for Editor Campbell in which an ambitious colonel throws away his chance at Brigadier's star when he argues against a plan, advanced by his boss, to destroy the Soviet Union with a wonder weapon.  Turns out, of course, that his boss and his boss' boss were in collusion to find an officer with the gumption to stand up to their superior.  And for bonus, it appears the brave-hearted General-to-be will win his boss' boss' daughter in the bargain for his daring.

Two stars.  Even if the plot is laughable, the story is written in English.  Anvil, by the way, is the only experienced author in the issue.

That squishy sound you hear is my collecting brain tissue back into my skull.  At 1.8 stars, the November 1963 issue of Analog is the worst issue of the magazine since it changed its name from Astounding.  Worse yet, this has been a lousy month for magazines in general.  Fantastic rated a dismal 2.2 while IF got just 2.3 stars.  Amazing's and World of Tomorrow's 2.8s are no great shakes, and frankly, I'd rate Amazing's "good" stories lower than John Boston did.  As for WoT, the best part of that mag is Dick's All we Marsmen, and that may not appeal to all of you.

Only New Worlds (3.2) and F&SF (3.6) broke the 3-star barrier, the latter also containing my favorite story of the month: Eight O'Clock in the Morning (Fred Saberhagen's Goodlife in WoT was a close second.) Woman authors composed just two out of thirty nine pieces.

So why do I keep doing this?  Why do I tempt fate every month?  I'm starting to wonder that, myself.  Hopefully, it's for your amusement and edification (I suffer so you don't have to).  And there is always the junkie's hope that I'll find a really good fix that lasts.

Here's hoping…

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Book

[Oct. 30, 1963] Jim Knopf and Lukas the Train Engine Driver by Michael Ende: A Classic in the Making

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by Cora Buhlert

Today, I'm going to talk about a children's fantasy series that may well be a future classic. But first, I want to talk about politics. For since October 16, 1963, West Germany has a new chancellor.

Now West Germany does have a president, currently Heinrich Lübke, but he is a figurehead with little political power. The real power rests with the chancellor. And since 1949, there has only been one chancellor, Konrad Adenauer. However, his final term was beset by scandals and so Mr. Adenauer finally resigned at the ripe old age of 87.

I have to admit that I'm not a big fan of Konrad Adenauer. He did a good job rebuilding the country after WWII and his place in history is assured. But after fourteen years, it is time to let someone else have a go. The new chancellor, Ludwig Ehrhard, was secretary of economics in Adenauer's cabinet and is largely responsible for West Germany's so-called economic miracle. Therefore, I don't expect many changes, but maybe a somewhat younger government.

But now let's leave politics behind, because today I want to introduce you to a wonderful fantasy duology by up and coming author Michael Ende. Though marketed as children's books, these are books all ages can enjoy.

A most unusual visitor

 

Michael Ende, who will turn 34 in two weeks, burst onto the scene three years ago with his novel Jim Knopf und Lukas der Lokomotivführer (Jim Knopf and Lukas the Train Engine Driver) followed last year by the sequel Jim Knopf und die Wilde 13 (Jim Knopf and the Wild 13). The first book has just come out in English as Jim Button and Luke the Train Engine Driver. I hope the sequel will follow soon.

The book opens in Lummerland (Morrowland in English), a small island kingdom with two mountains in the middle of the ocean. Lummerland is ruled by King Alfons, the Quarter-to-Twelfth, and has only three inhabitants, Herr Ärmel (Mr. Sleeve), a bowler-hatted gentleman whose profession is being a loyal subject, Frau Waas (Mrs. Whaat) who runs the general store, and Lukas who drives the steam locomotive Emma around Lummerland.

This balance is upset when the mail boat delivers a parcel with a barely legible address and the number 13 as the sender. The inhabitants of Lummerland decide to open the parcel, hoping to find a clue about the recipient inside. Instead, they find a black baby boy. The new arrival, christened Jim Knopf (Jim Button) is quickly accepted. Frau Waas adopts Jim, Herr Ärmel becomes his teacher and Lukas makes him his apprentice, train engine driver being a dream job for many German children.

Lummerland may seem absurd to adult readers, but it recalls the vanished world of pre-WWI Germany with its micro-states, complete with pompous rulers, where every small town had its own post office and train station. Lummerland also seems to owe more than a little to the 1958 painting Die Angst der Berge (The Fear of the Mountains) by Michael Ende's father, surrealist painter Edgar Ende. And indeed, Ende has confirmed that the painting was one of the inspirations for the story.

The fact that Jim Knopf is black may surprise many readers. There have always been black Germans, even during the Third Reich. And after World War II, their number grew as romance blossomed between black American GIs and German women and resulted in mixed race children. About five thousand so-called "occupation babies" were born in West Germany since 1945. They were subject to discrimination, both from the US Army, which discourages fraternisation, and from West German society, where the racism of the Nazi regime still festers. Some mixed race couples married and went to the US. But in many cases, the fathers were sent off to fight in Korea, Vietnam or elsewhere, leaving the mothers alone with their children. Many women were pressured to give their children up for adoption. Some of the children were adopted by black American families, others were sent to Denmark, Sweden and the Netherlands.

The plight of mixed race children has been tackled before, e.g. in the 1952 movie Toxi about an abandoned little girl who is reunited with her American father. Nonetheless, Michael Ende's choice to make Jim Knopf black is remarkable, because his situation mirrors that of many mixed race German children. His biological parents are nowhere in sight; Jim is an orphan found in a box. However, unlike his real life counterparts, Jim is accepted by the people of Lummerland and his race is never an issue. He is one of them from the moment he arrives.

Trouble is brewing in Lummerland, however, because the small island is becoming overcrowded. King Alfons decrees that one of Lummerland's inhabitants has to leave. The unlucky inhabitant chosen is – no, not Jim – but Emma, Lukas' beloved locomotive. With Emma banished, Lukas decides to leave as well. Jim tags along, because he doesn't want to leave either Lukas or Emma. Lukas and Jim set out to sea aboard Emma, who is surprisingly seagoing for a locomotive.

Eventually, Jim, Lukas and Emma reach China, where they befriend Ping Pong, grandson of the Emperor's personal chef. Ping Pong tells Jim and Lukas that the Emperor is grieving because his daughter Princess Li Si has been kidnapped and is held prisoner in the dragon city of Kummerland (Sorrowland). Of course, Jim and Lukas immediately offer to rescue the princess.

But in order to see the Emperor, they first have to brave the labyrinthine Imperial bureaucracy, which is a parody of bureaucracies everywhere. Jim and Lukas also incur the wrath of prime minister Pi Pa Po, who is about to have them executed. Luckily, Ping Pong fetches the Emperor who saves Jim and Lukas, fires the villainous Pi Pa Po and makes Ping Pong prime minister instead.

Ende's China feels as fallen out of time as Lummerland. It's a land of bonzes and emperors, pigtail braids and rijstafeln (actually a Dutch Indonesian dish) that has more in common with Franz Lehar's operetta The Land of Smiles than with Chairman Mao's People's Republic of China. However, while Lummerland feels nostalgic, the orientalist clichés of Ende's China are problematic. A fictional country would have been a better choice.

Jim and Lukas learn that Princess Li Si called for help via a message in a bottle, which includes the address where she is being held prisoner, Old Street 133 in Kummerland. Jim recognises the address, because the same address was written on the parcel which brought him to Lummerland. Maybe rescuing the princess can also shed some light on Jim's origin.

Our heroes travel through fantastic landscapes, brave untold dangers and eventually, reach the Land of the Thousand Volcanoes. Here, they make another friend, half-dragon Nepomuk, who knows the way to Kummerland but cannot travel there himself because only pure-blooded dragons are allowed to enter Kummerland. Nepomuk, however, is half dragon and half hippopotamus. Adult readers will see parallels between the dragons' obsession with racial purity and Nazi race theory. And indeed, the Ende family was at odds with the Nazi regime, which branded the paintings of Michael's father Edgar Ende as degenerate art.

Jim and Lukas enter Kummerland by disguising Emma as a dragon. They locate Old Street 133 and find a school, where several children, including Li Si, are chained to desks, with the dragon Frau Mahlzahn (Mrs. Grindtooth), whose idea of pedagogics is barking orders at her pupils, as their teacher. Author Michael Ende is a supporter of Waldorf education and has said that Frau Mahlzahn's school was inspired by his experiences with the Nazi education system.

Our heroes overpower Frau Mahlzahn and free the children. Li Si explains that the children have been kidnapped by a pirate gang called the Wild 13 and sold to Frau Mahlzahn. The same fate was intended for Jim, only that he was mailed to Lummerland instead.

Jim, Lukas, Emma and Li Si return to China with a reformed Frau Mahlzahn in tow. The Emperor promises Li Si's hand to Jim, though both of them are a little young to get married. Frau Mahlzahn announces that she will hibernate to become a golden dragon of wisdom. Frau Mahlzahn also comes up with a solution to Lummerland's space problems, for she knows the location of a floating island that would make a good extension for Lummerland.

The novel ends with Lukas, Jim. Li Si and Emma returning home, the floating island in tow, which is dubbed Neu-Lummerland. And not a moment too soon, for Lukas reveals that Emma is pregnant. I don't even want to imagine the mechanics of this, but luckily the young target audience is more accepting. Emma gives birth to a baby locomotive named Molly and Jim now has a locomotive of his own.

Jim Knopf's adventures continue!

 

The adventures of Jim, Lukas and their friends continue in Jim Knopf und die Wilde 13 (Jim Knopf and the Wild 13). As the title indicates, the second book focuses on Frau Mahlzahn's partners in crime, the pirate gang known as the Wild 13, who remain unseen in the first book. Though Wild 13 is a misnomer, for there are only twelve pirates, all identical brothers, but they counted the leader twice. What is more, each pirate can only write a single letter of the alphabet, which explains their spelling problems and why their mailings keep ending up at the wrong address.

When the Wild 13 kidnap Molly, Jim, Lukas, Emma and stowaway Li Si go after them. Everybody except Jim is taken prisoner. Jim uses the fact that the pirates aren't particularly bright against them and gets them to accept him as their leader. One thing I like about the Jim Knopf books is that the villains are reformed rather than vanquished. This solution might seem a little too neat for adults, but learning that enemies can become friends is an important lesson for kids.

Jim also learns the truth about his origin. He is Prince Myrrhen of the sunken land of Jamballa who was kidnapped and sold to Frau Mahlzahn, but ended up in Lummerland instead. And because a prince needs a kingdom, Frau Mahlzahn and the Wild 13 help Jim raise Jamballa from the ocean (after sinking it in the first place). Jim takes the throne, marries Li Si and everybody lives happily ever after.

The parallels between Jamballa and Atlantis are obvious. Ende subverts the Nazi take on the Atlantis myth here, according to which Atlantis is the original homeland of the Aryan race. One example is the 1930s Heftroman series Sun Koh – Heir of Atlantis by Paul Alfred Müller a.k.a. Freder van Holk, which has several parallels to Jim Knopf's story. Like Sun Koh, Jim is the prince of a sunken kingdom, which he raises from the ocean. Only that in Ende's version, the original inhabitants of Atlantis – ahem, Jamballa – were not Über-Aryans, but descendants of the Biblical Wise Man Caspar and therefore black.

Michael Ende does his best to create a diverse and inclusive world, where yesterday's enemies can become today's friends and little black boys can become both kings and train engine drivers and marry the princess, too. Li Si is not just a damsel in distress, but a smart and resourceful person in her own right. Future generations may find issues with the books, but for now Michael Ende has created a remarkably progressive fantasy series.
 

A hard but certain sell

 
The reaction to the books was mixed. It took Michael Ende three years to find a publisher. Furthermore, contemporary German literature is focussed on realism and fantasy novels are dismissed as escapism. This is unfair, for the Jim Knopf novels are so much more. The jury of the Deutscher Jugendbuchpreis agreed and named Jim Knopf and Lukas the Train Engine Driver the best children's book of 1960. The popularity of the Jim Knopf books inspired the Augsburger Puppenkiste marionette theatre to adapt them into puppet plays, which were also filmed for television. And children everywhere love the adventures of Jim, Lukas and friends.

Jim's story came to a neat ending in Jim Knopf and the Wild 13, but will adventurers like Jim and Lukas really retire or does Michael Ende have yet more stories up his sleeve? But whether Ende revisits Lummerland or not, he is a great emerging voice of German fantasy and I for one can't wait to see what he will do next.

A lovely story about a boy, his friends and his locomotive. Four and a half stars.




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Magazine

[October 28, 1963] … Beatles, Spies and Spacecraft (New Worlds, November 1963)

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by Mark Yon

Hello again.

Since we spoke last time, the dominance of British popular music by the so-called “Fab Four” has become complete. According to The Daily Mirror newspaper we are now in the grip of “Beatlemania”. This seems to be groups of screaming teenagers which are increasingly commonplace wherever they appear, such as onstage at the prestigious London Palladium:

By comparison, a quiet month here as I hunker down in front of the coal fire and catch up with some reading — in this case, the November 1963 New Worlds.

Perhaps to reflect the sombre blue cover of this copy, this month’s guest editorial begins the issue with a sobering description of the real Space Race.

satellite hunters, by Mr. John Ashton

With all of the constant reporting and news-film footage I see of NASA’s journey into space, it is easy to forget that across the Iron Curtain similar events are happening but obscured with a dark veil of secrecy. Mr. Ashton, a reporter from the much-respected London daily newspaper, The Evening Standard , reports that for every successful Russian flight there may be a number of them less reported that ended in failure and death. His sombre, no-nonsense tone gives the article a feeling of quiet authenticity, which is horrifying if even part of it is true. For all of our stories of bravery and derring-do here, the reality shows us that truth can be as strange as fiction. 

To the lower-cased-titled stories! (Yes, it’s still annoying.)

the dark mind (Part 1 of 3), by Mr. Colin Kapp

After the completion of the Brunner novel last month, we begin the fiction in November with the return of the much-loved Mr. Kapp. This first part’s great – a fast paced, relentless tale of detective Ivan Dalroi being hunted down because he’s taken on a case against mega-business Failway. At one point it seems that everyone is after him: Failway, the police, the elite Black Knights government security agents, even members of the committee he’s been hired to help. In terms of tone and style, the dark mind reminded me of the Lan Wright serial a few months ago, but this is so much better (provided you don’t stop to think about the implausibilities). It has a cliffhanger ending that makes me want to read the next issue – a sign of a job well done. 4 out of 5.

crux, by Mr. John Rackham

Another issue, another Rackham “X-men” story.  After this series’ rather wobbly start, to my surprise I find I’m starting to actually like the more recent stories. This time around, the X-person is Arthur Sixsmith, whose skills as a doctor are required by a gangster who has been shot. This gangster holds Sixsmith’s girlfriend to ransom, and Arthur discovers that the predicament forced on him leads to the unleashing of his X-powers, which up to now have been a mystery to himself and others. The plot is an interesting conundrum, but the eventual solution also leads to a conveniently straightforward resolution. 3 out of 5.

the postlethwaite effect, by B. N. Ball

Does the surname ‘Postlethwaite’ translate across the Atlantic? Not sure…but the story is plain enough. It is a tale of academics and administrational ineptitude. The Postlethwaite Effect is how something which started as a joke – some made-up honorary titles on letters – is mistaken for something much more serious. The result is that the scientist who receives the letters climbs academically and socially, to the point where his continued incompetence leads to a revolutionary invention.

I guess that the key point of the story is that sometimes mistakes make right. The irony is that Postlethwaite (who is given the honour of having the invention named after him) is not the inventor, but the junior scientist who sent the strangely titled letters. It reads well enough, but it is one of those stories that may have been funnier in the writing than the reading. 3 out of 5.

interlude, by Mr. John Baxter

This is Mr. Baxter’s irregular return to New Worlds, his first story since Eviction in New Worlds in March 1963. interlude is about a retired combatant saving the life of a space pilot injured on a distant planet. The medic who helps is surprised to find that the patient is an enemy soldier – and a girl. It’s told well enough, but is nothing particularly original. The downbeat ending is typically British. 3 out of 5.

return visit, by Mr. P. F. Woods

This is the story of an alien invasion with a twist in the tale – or even the tail, once you discover what the invader looks like. Mr Wood’s story is a mildly-humorous story of skepticism that hinges on one aspect at the end, that boils down to the point that insects have been around on this earth longer than humans. A slight story, nothing particularly bad about it, but rather unmemorable once read. 3 out of 5.

no ending, by Mr. David Busby.

Mr. Busby’s story is set in a far future from the point a view of a person who believes himself to be God. The result is much pontificating and bluster from a character who feels that he has the power of a religious deity. There is a rational explanation for the delusion, but we don't learn it until the man has murdered others and undergone psychological analysis and a trial. The ending is as open-ended as the title would suggest. I can’t help but feel that the story is attempting to be controversial in its use of religion, but to me the whole thing feels like introspective navel-gazing of a rather dull nature. I struggled to finish it. 3 out of 5.

In summary, this month’s New Worlds is another mixed bag, with a slight turn towards the lighter side of things. On the whole, the best that I can say about it is that with the exception of the story serial, the issue is unmemorable. Even the new serial, which treads familiar ground, albeit well, has the potential to easily turn sour. I guess we will see over the coming months.

And with that I will wish you a Happy Halloween, or a great Bonfire Night here in the UK. 

Until next month.




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55 years ago: Science Fact and Fiction