[September 4, 1969] Plus ça change (October 1969 IF)


by David Levinson

Silly season

It’s considered a truism in journalism that nothing happens in August, so the papers run filler stories about silly things to make up their page count. Sure, Hurricane Camille killed hundreds as it raged from Mississippi to Virginia, and China and the Soviet Union are on the brink of war, but that doesn’t sell papers. Madison Avenue also has a truism: sex sells. Now, the two have come together.

Newsday columnist Mike McGrady was disgusted by the schlocky, sex-obsessed books that regularly make the best-seller lists, so he recruited a bunch of fellow journalists (19 men and five women, by one count) to write a deliberately bad, oversexed book. The result is Naked Came the Stranger, in which the editors worked hard to remove any literary value from the tale of a New York woman’s sexual escapades.

When the book sold 20,000 copies, McGrady and his co-conspirators decided they’d better come clean. Nineteen of them appeared on The Dick Cavett Show, being introduced as Penelope Ashe (the book’s purported author) and walking out to the strains of A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody. As a result of their confession and discussion of their motives, the book has become even more popular. And as of last Sunday, it’s on the New York Times list of best-sellers. You have to laugh to keep from crying.

Penelope Ashe, in part, with the cover model superimposed.

This puts me in mind of a similar literary hoax with a more sfnal connection. Back in 1956, radio host Jean Shepherd was unhappy with the way best-seller lists were being compiled and urged his listeners to ask their local bookstores to order I, Libertine by Frederick R. Ewing. He offered some vague hints about the plot, and many listeners who were in on the joke created references to the book elsewhere. Demand was so high, publisher Ian Ballantine convinced Theodore Sturgeon to knock out a quick novel based on an outline from Shepherd. Betty Ballantine wrote the last chapter as Sturgeon lay in exhausted sleep on the Ballantines’ couch after trying to write the whole thing in one sitting. The cover by Frank Kelly Freas is full of visual jokes and puns. The book is rumored to have gone to number one, but it doesn’t seem to have been on any lists, probably out of pique on the part of the list makers.


The pub sign features a shepherd’s crook and a sturgeon. Art by Frank Kelly Freas

New and old

I think we’re starting to see some of the influence of new editor Ejler Jakobsson. Editor Emeritus Fred Pohl doesn’t seem have ever had anything nice to say about the New Wave, while there is at least one story in this month’s IF with a nod in that direction. There’s a new printer, with a crisper typeface (though it seems better suited to a news magazine than fiction). No one’s mixed up their e’s and o’s, but instead of lines being printed out of order, some lines are just missing. Hopefully, that will be corrected in future issues.

Supposedly for Seeds of Gonyl. If so, it’s from later in the novel. Art by Gaughan

The Mind Bomb, by Frank Herbert

Frank Herbert appears to have tried to write a Philip K. Dick story. There’s a computer that keeps changing the world in an attempt to carry out its function, an unhappy marriage, and an old man who gets a glimpse of why the world he lives in is the way it is.

Art uncredited, maybe by Gaughan

Unfortunately, none of it works. The lines of reality aren’t blurred; people know the computer is changing things, just not why. And the marriage isn’t as unrelievedly grim as in a Dick story (thank goodness). We’re left with none of the good things that either author brings, and the flaws of both.

Two stars.

By Right of Succession, by Barry Malzberg

A man named Carson shoots the occupant of a motorcade. As he leaves the building he fired from, he’s met by a policeman who escorts him to his next destination on a strict timetable. Eventually, all is explained. Sort of.

Is that Nixon? Art uncredited

Here’s our New Wave—or New Wave-ish—story. It’s fine for what it is, but I don’t quite see the connection between the events and the explanation.

Three stars.

None But I, by Piers Anthony

When last we saw him, interstellar dentist Dr. Dillingham had been accepted as an instructor at the galaxy’s top dental school. Now he’s off to cure the oral ills of a long-buried robot that has vowed to kill the person that frees it from 10,000 years of imprisonment.

Dr. Dillingham meets his patient. Art by Gaughan

Anthony is developing a reputation at the Journey, and not a good one. That’s largely down to the way he writes women. Fortunately, none of that is on display here, possibly because the only female character is a highly efficient secretary who looks like a giant spider. We’re left with an inoffensive and mildly entertaining story, whose only flaw is that it specifically makes note of the old tale it is clearly modeled on of a genie with a similar vow.

Three stars.

Survival, by Steven Guy Oliver

A day in the life of an old man living in the irradiated ruins of a city.

Ignore the blurb. These aren’t the last people on Earth. Art by Gaughan

This month’s new author offers us a grim tale of life after World War Three. It’s very well written, but also very depressing, what I believe kids these days call “a real downer.” I definitely wouldn’t mind seeing more from Oliver. But did I mention that the story is grim?

Three grim stars.

Down on the Farm, by W. Macfarlane

Three agricultural salespeople were brought from Earth to a distant planet. Now their contract is up, and the local autocrat who hired them struggles to find a way to pay what they’re due. Unbeknownst to him, they have ulterior motives.

Erasmus Ballod is having a bad day. Art by Gaughan

A bit old-fashioned, but otherwise an enjoyable enough story. Ask me what it was about a month from now, and I won’t be able to tell you, but it didn’t waste my time. For some reason, Macfarlane’s name was left off the first page; fortunately he was credited in the table of contents.

Three stars.

The Story of Our Earth: 2. The First Traces of Life, by Will Ley

The second part of Willy Ley’s sadly incomplete final book looks at the latest theories as to how life began. He discusses the idea of the “primordial ooze” and how and why it has fallen out of favor. The chapter concludes with a brief discussion of continental drift.

While still very good, this chapter didn’t engage me quite as much as the previous did. I can’t say if that’s down to my interest in the subject matter or the quality of Ley’s treatment of it.

A very high three stars.

The Seeds of Gonyl (Part 1 of 3), by Keith Laumer

Jeff Mallory wakes up to discover that three months are missing, the house shows little sign of cleaning and maintenance, and his wife and two younger children are frightened and worn down. Worst of all, no one remembers his oldest daughter, and her room doesn’t even exist. He soon learns that the town has been taken over by things that are barely human, which force everyone to work on a mysterious project.

Remembering that his daughter was planning to stay with a friend who lives well outside of town, Jeff makes his escape. At the friend’s house, he finds only the friend and several unpleasant occupiers, who tell him that the United States has fallen to Russian forces and that his town is a bombed-out, plague-ridden ruin.

He and Sally, his daughter’s friend, move on and are arrested by Russian military. But the Russians are working together with Americans led by a Colonel Strang, who tells him that the Russians were called in to fight the real occupiers, the Chinese. As the installment ends, Jeff finds himself drafted into Strang’s army. To be continued.

Tonight, the role of Colonel Strang will be played by Ronald Reagan. Art by Gaughan

So far, so Laumer. He may be influenced by some of his work on those books he wrote based on The Invaders, what with people not believing in the invading aliens. Honestly, the main thing that stands out to me in this part is the way young Sally abruptly and quickly throws herself at our hero. Jeff put up at least a token resistance so far, though there is a vague paragraph that suggests things could be otherwise. It plays uncomfortably.

Three stars so far, if you like this sort of Laumer story.

To the Last Rite!, by Perry Chapdelaine

One-Girk-Two is undergoing a field test to see if he will be promoted to One-Girk-One. If he passes, he will become the thinking portion of a composite creature called a Unit.

Our hero. Art by Gaughan

This is probably the Chapdelaine story I’ve enjoyed the most. Unfortunately, like all of Chapdelaine’s work, it’s too long. On the other hand, it didn’t go where I thought it was going. Best of all, it has nothing to do with Spork.

Three stars.

Machines That Teach, by Frederik Pohl

Fred took a trip to Tennessee A. & I. In Nashville, where Perry Chapdelaine is a professor of mathematics and is running a lab researching computer aided instruction. There, through a computer in the lab, a computer at Stanford in California administered a test to measure competence in mathematics. Neat stuff, even if the headline is misleading. Maybe even more interesting is the simple fact that he was able to use a computer in Tennessee to interact with another computer a couple thousand miles away

Three stars.

Summing up

We’re starting to see some of the new editor’s influence, though things aren’t really that different. I’m wondering if Jakobsson is going to continue the IF first program, running a story from a new author every month. The issues he’s been in charge of have had such a story, but he hasn’t called attention to it the way Fred did.

The other thing that stands out to me is that the interior art is all uncredited. Where I’ve indicated it’s by Gaughan, it’s because his signature is visible either on the piece reproduced here or a different piece for the same story. I’m not too keen on all the art coming from just one artist (although if the alternative is “art” by Dan Adkins…). More importantly, they give out Hugos for art. If we don’t know who did it, how do we know who to nominate and vote for?

Tiptree is the only name that means anything to me. A bit of a coin flip as an author, but definitely improving with every story.






[September 2, 1969] People, Machines, and Other Thinking Entities (October 1969 Fantastic)


by Victoria Silverwolf

Machine Language

Two events occurred today that demonstrate how computers can communicate with each other and with people.

At the University of California in Los Angeles, a gizmo called an Interface Message Processor (IMP) allowed two computers on campus to have a conversation, of sorts.  (I assume it was something like beep boop beep.) Plans are underway to set up another IMP at Stanford University, so the two institutes of higher education can share data.  One can imagine computers all over the planet chatting away, plotting to take over the world . . . well, maybe not that.


The thing that lets computers exchange information.  Don't ask me how it works.

The same day, a device replacing your friendly neighborhood teller appeared at a branch of the Chemical Bank in Rockville Centre, New York.  Apparently it can take your money, give you back your money, etc.  Is it just me, or does Chemical Bank seem like a weird name for a financial institution?  Not to mention the fact that the city doesn't know how to spell center


Possibly depositing some of the money his company makes from the robot teller.

Fittingly, the latest issue of Fantastic features machines and other things besides humans who are capable of communicating, and performing other activities that demonstrate intelligence.


Cover art by Johnny Bruck.

As usual these days, the cover image comes from a German publication.  It's not Perry Rhodan for a change.


Translated, this says The Ring Around the Sun.  This seems to be a version of Gallun's 1950 story A Step Further Out, with additional material from German writer Clark Darlton, one of the folks behind Perry Rhodan.

Editorial, by Ted White

The new editor talks about the cancellation of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour because of material CBS considered offensive.  He goes on to discuss the hypocrisy of some members of the older generation, and how science fiction and fantasy might help bridge the gap between young folks and their elders.  Pretty serious stuff.  He also admits that Fantastic is less popular than its sister publication Amazing, and promises to do something about that.

No rating.

It Could Be Anywhere, by Ted White

Maybe printing his own fiction is part of the editor's plan to improve sales of the magazine.


Illustrations by Michael Hinge.

The author spends half a page explaining the provenance of this story.  He was inspired by Keith Laumer's story It Could Be Anything (Amazing, January 1963.) Note the similar title.  My esteemed colleague John Boston gave this work a full five stars.

At first, White's tribute took the form of a novel called The Jewels of Elsewhen a couple of years ago.  The Noble Editor gave that book four stars.  Will this latest variation on a theme reach the same exalted level as its predecessors?


When the familiar becomes unfamiliar.

The narrator is a big guy who works as a private detective.  After a very long day, he tries to ride home on the subway in the wee hours of the morning.  A wino falls out of his seat.  When the gumshoe tries to help the fellow, he finds out that he's not really a genuine human being, but some kind of lifeless simulation.

The only other real person on the subway is a young woman.  (In the tradition of popular fiction, she's always called a girl.) When they get off the subway, they find out that the entire city is fake, just a bunch of empty buildings.

The premise reminds me a bit of Fritz Leiber's short novel You're All Alone, in which almost all people are mindless automatons.  There's an explanation, of sorts, for what's going on.  The characters are interesting, even if they are mostly passive observers of the situation.  The way in which the woman's ring plays a role in the plot struck me as arbitrary.

Three stars.

A Guide to the City, by Lin Carter

This was a big surprise.  I expect Carter to offer very old-fashioned sword-and-sorcery yarns or equally outdated space operas.  Who knew that he could venture into territory explored by Jorge Luis Borges or Franz Kafka?

The story takes the form of an article.  The author lives in a gigantic, possibly infinite, city.  A single neighborhood takes up hundreds of thousands of blocks.  Traveling such a distance is the stuff of legends.  The author explains why mapping the entire city is impossible.

This is not a piece for those who demand much in the way of plot or characters.  It's all concept, an intellectual exploration of an abstract, mathematical premise.  I enjoyed it pretty well; others may find nothing of interest in it.

Three stars.

Ten Percent of Glory, by Verge Foray

In the afterlife, people continue to exist based on how living folks remember them.  George Washington can expect to be part of the collective memory for a very long time; Millard Fillmore, maybe not.

The main character is an agent of sorts, who collects a percentage of the renown of his clients in exchange for promoting them in various ways.  The plot involves the motives of his secretary.

Stuck somewhat between whimsy and satire, this odd little tale winds up with an ending that may raise some eyebrows.  I'm still not quite sure what I thought of it.

Three stars. 

Man Swings SF, by Richard A. Lupoff

This is a broad spoof of New Wave science fiction.  It starts with an introduction by the fictional Blodwen Blenheim, which alternates lyrics from songs performed by Tiny Tim with a rhapsodizing about an exciting new form of speculative fiction coming from the Isle of Man. 

After this, we get a story called In the Kitchen by the imaginary author Ova Hamlet.  Like a lot of New Wave SF, it's hard to describe the plot.  Suffice to say that it's full of outrageous metaphors and features a doomed protagonist.  The piece ends with a mock biography and a ersatz critique of Ova Hamlet.

The (real) author is able to write convincingly in the style of some of the things found in New Worlds, with tongue firmly in cheek.  Amusing enough, even if it goes on a little too long for an extended joke.

Three stars.

A Modest Manifesto, by Terry Carr

This essay, reprinted in the magazine's Fantasy Fandom section, originally appeared in the fanzine Warhoon.  It wanders all over the place, but for the most part it deals with what the author sees as a cultural revolution, both in fantasy and science fiction and in the outside world.  Food for thought.

Three stars.

So much for the new stuff.  Let's turn to the reprints.

Secret of the Serpent, by Don Wilcox

This wild yarn first appeared in the January 1948 issue of Fantastic Adventures.


Cover art by Robert Gibson Jones.

As I noted at the start of this article, we're going to run into a lot of entities that have as much sentience as human beings.  Would you believe that this one is a gigantic people-eating serpent?


Illustration by Jones also.

Let me back up a little.  The serpent used to be an ordinary guy, until he wound up on what the author calls a space island. If that means something other than a planet, it escapes me.

He encounters a huge two-headed cat (don't look at me, I don't make up this stuff) who used to be a woman.  The place is also inhabited by a bunch of pygmies, who used to be people living on Mars.  Not to mention some Mad Scientists.  Or the guy who is a giant skull on a small body.

Very long and complex story short, the formerly human serpent gets partly changed back, and he becomes a serpent with human arms and legs.  Somebody wants to turn him into a skeleton for a museum.  There's a revolution by the enslaved pygmies against the Mad Scientists.  A lot more stuff happens.

I hope I have managed to convey the fact that this is a crazy story.  Plot logic is thrown out the window in favor of action, action, and more action.  The only explanation for the weird transformations?  The water on the space island does it.

Nutty enough to hold the reader's attention for a while, but at full novella length the novelty soon wears off.  I got the feeling the author was pulling my leg at times, but there's not enough humor to make the story a parody.

Two stars.

All Flesh is Brass, by Milton Lesser

The August 1952 issue of Fantastic Adventures supplies this grim tale.


Cover art by Walter Popp.

The Soviet Union has conquered Western Europe, and is now attacking the United States via Canada.  The story takes the form of the diary of a soldier.  He learns that some dead fighters are being replaced by robotic duplicates, who not only copy their bodies but also their minds.


Illustration by Ed Emshwiller.

The replacements don't even know that they're not human, until that fact becomes obvious in one way or another.  They are also designed to be eliminated within a couple of years after they're activated.  Let's just say that the situation doesn't work out well.

In addition to the plot, the story paints a vivid and realistic portrait of warfare, as seen by an ordinary soldier.  I was particularly impressed by the way the author handles the subplot concerning the female fighter encountered by the main character.  I wasn't expecting that to go in the direction it did.

Four stars.

According to You . . ., by Ted White, etc.

After an extended absence, the letter column returns.  I wouldn't bother to mention it, but it's odd in a couple of ways.  First up is a mock letter from Blodwhen Blenheim and Ova Hamlet (remember them?) thanking the editor for printing Hamlet's story.  A cute extension of the joke.

Next are a couple of letters asking for more sword-and-sorcery stories.  One reader includes a poem about Conan.  I probably shouldn't say anything about the quality of the verse.

Last is a missive attacking just about everything in the April issue.  The writer, if he's real, is in jail.  Hmm.

No rating.

Isolationist, by Mack Reynolds

This ironic yarn comes from the April 1950 issue of Fantastic Adventures.


Cover art by Robert Gibson Jones again.

The narrator is a cynical old farmer, suspicious of technology and of the modern world in general.  When an alien spaceship lands in his field, he thinks it's an American vessel of some sort.


Illustration by Julian S. Krupa.

The accents of the friendly inhabitants convince him they're foreigners, which makes them even less welcome than before.  Not to mention that they ruined part of his crop of corn.

This is a very simple story, with an inevitable conclusion.  The crotchety narrator is a decent creation, but there's not much else to it.

Two stars.

The Unthinking Destroyer, by Rog Phillips

The December 1948 issue of Amazing Stories offers this philosophical tale.


Cover art by Harold W. McCauley.

Two guys talk about the possibility of intelligent life being unrecognizable by human beings.  (Back to the theme with which I started this article.) In alternating sections of text, two beings discuss abstract concepts.


Illustration by Bill Terry.

It took me a while to get the point of this story.  It might be seen as a rather silly joke, or as something a bit more meaningful.

Two stars.

Fantasy Books, by Fritz Leiber and Francis Lanthrop

Leiber offers mixed reviews of a collection and a novel.  Lanthrop praises three books by Leiber about the adventures of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.

No rating.

Worth Talking About?

This was a middle-of-the-road issue, with everything hovering around a three-star rating.  Not a waste of time, but not particularly memorable either.  Maybe someday a computer will be able to read it to you, so you don't have to turn the pages of the magazine.


The Parametric Artificial Talker (PAT), developed by the University of Edinburgh in 1956, was the first machine to synthesize human speech.





[August 31, 1969] Over (and under) the Moon (September 1969 Analog)

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Being #2, they try…harder?

Last October, just after Apollo 7 went up, it looked as if the Soviets still had a chance at beating us to the Moon.  Their Zond 5, really a noseless Soyuz, had been sent around the Moon two months ahead of our Apollo 8 circumlunar flight.  Just a month later, the similar Zond 6 took off on November 16 and zoomed around the Moon before not just landing, but making a pinpoint landing in the Kazakh S.S.R. (near its launch site) with the aid of little wings.  Apparently, the prior Zond 5's splashing down in the Indian Ocean was not according to plan.

Shortly after the flight, the Soviets dropped the bombshell that Zond 6 could have been manned—and the next one might well be.

Well, as we all know, the Communists didn't beat us around the Moon.  Moreover, they didn't beat us to the Moon, either.  Remember all that talk about Luna 15 during the flight of Apollo 11?  That was the probe launched just before Columbia and Eagle, rumored to be a sample-return mission.  Well, it crashed into the aptly named Sea of Crises about 500 miles northeast of Eagle's landing site on July 21.  Had its mission been successful, the Soviets might have had bragging rights about getting the first batch of Moon rocks.

But, as the Ruskies found out after who knows how many unsuccessful Luna flights, only succeeding in 1966 with Luna 9, complicated maneuvers rarely work on the first time out.

That said, even with the clear American victory in the Moon race, the Soviets appear to still be going strong.  Earlier this month, Zond 7 sailed around the Earth's companion, landing on August 14.  Still no people onboard, but perhaps they worked out the communications troubles that reportedly plagued the last two Zond missions.

Whether these Zond flights presage an upcoming attempt with people onboard remains to be seen.  According to former NASA chief Jim Webb, the Soviets are also building a super rocket, which they will use to put cosmonauts on the Moon.  Put two and two together, and perhaps the early 70s will see the USSR catch up to and surpass the US.

Unless we get to Mars first…

Being #1, they've stopped trying

Analog has, for decades now, kept the title of the most-read science fiction magazine on the market.  On the other hand, editor John Campbell has been sitting on his laurels for a long time, producing an unexciting periodical for the past several years.  The latest issue of Analog only adds more fuel to the argument that perhaps it is time for the old don to step down and let someone vigorous take his place—at least to bring the magazine into the 1960s!


by Kelly Freas

Your Haploid Heart, by James Tiptree, Jr.


by Kelly Freas

A two-man team is sent from Earth to the planet of Esthaa.  Their mission: to determine of the humanoid inhabitants are, well, human.  The results may put to bed the two competing theories that explain the ubiquity of the human form in the galaxy: common evolution and random scattering, or independent, convergent evolution.

The Esthaans are a robust, beautiful people, but there is something somehow phony about them.  Meanwhile, they seem to be on the verge of completing a genocide against the primitive Flenns…who also appear to be a type of human.

What is the connection between the two races?  And why have the civilized Esthaans developed such an antipathy for the pathetic Flenns?  And is an earlier Terran expedition somehow the cause of all this?

There's some interesting biology wrapped up in this story (as suggested by the title), and since biology is not my specialty, I can't even begin to speculate how plausible it is.  But it's an interesting story, well-written, and easily the best I've read from newcomer Tiptree.

Four stars.

Starman, by W. Macfarlane


by Leo Summers

The assistant fifth mate on an interstellar tramp freighter decides to jump ship on a backwater world.  The natives have reverted to savagery after once having broadcast power and space travel.

Said starman soon learns that Stone Age living isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Luckily, there are a few relics of the old days left at his disposal.

This is a fun, if inconsequential, story.  The writing is breezy, fun, and tongue-in-cheek, though the casual slurs are somewhat offputting.  I'm also getting very tired of humans, humans everywhere instead of true E-Ts.

Three stars.

The Big Boosters of the U.S.S.R., by G. Harry Stine

Speaking of the Soviet super-booster—amateur rocketeer Stine conjectures as to the configuration and capability of the USSR's rocket stable.  Of course, given how secretive the Russians are, there's a lot of guesswork involved.

I appreciated it, but I have to wonder how accurate he is.  In particular, I'm not sure why he believes that Soyuz 1 was launched on a different rocket from the later Soyuz missions.  I've seen nothing to that effect.  Maybe he's talking about whatever is shooting up Zonds around the Moon.  Those are, after all, just stripped down Soyuzes.

Anyway, four stars.  We'll see how right he is in a decade or so…

Damper, by E. G. Von Wald


by Peter Skirka

A tyro hotshot joins the Weather Control Bureau and is dispatched to a small, Arabian country.  When a Soviet incursion threatens the peace, he shifts the focus of his rain-making efforts from irrigation to interdiction.

Aside from the casual and constant male chauvinism, I have a hard time buying weather control as an SFnal theme, particularly so thinly sketched out as it is in this story.  Orbital lasers (don't those count as space-based weapons?) pumped a lot of heat into the atmosphere to evaporate ocean water and create onshore winds—that heat doesn't go away.  What happens when the Earth warms up by several degrees thanks to all that extra heat?  Beyond that, the technique wouldn't work anyway: it takes more than wet air to make rain; you need some kind of condensate material.  That's why planes seed clouds with silver iodide so the water has something to coalesce around to make droplets.

Two stars.

Stimulus-Response, by Herbert Jacob Bernstein


by Kelly Freas

A trio of scientists are using electrodes and encephalograms to record brain patterns.  The goal is to train a dog to use specific thoughts to trigger its food dish.  In the process, the researchers accidentally teach the beagle how to telekinese.

Not only is this story a turgid bit of pseudo-engineering, but then it abandons science entirely to enter the region of Campbell's beloved psi.  Look, I can sort of enjoy psionics if I treat them like a kind of magic, but when they're mixed in with engineering to get a patina of respectability—and the story is deadly dull to boot—well, there's only one score for it.

One star.

In His Image, by Robert Chilson


by Leo Summers

A biologist synthesizes the first androids—they are human in all respects, save for their satyr-form lower halves.  Bred to be performers, they have been conscious just six months, but have the minds of college professors and the bodies of nubile goddesses.  When the Actors' Guild sues for an injunction against their use in the entertainment business citing unfair competition, a friendly reporter purchases one of them despite the fact that they are sentient and, for all intents and purposes, human. The goal is to force the courts to declare the androids fully human and thus exempt from measures against discrimination.

The question of whether or not androids are people has frequently been explored in science fiction, from the sublime Synth to the less than perfectly successful Trek episode Requiem for Methuselah.  Chilson's tale is… well, it's dull and kind of stupid.  The androids have no personality save for interchangeable sex kitten, the writing is uninspired, and the universe implausible.  It's not even clear what point Chilson is trying to make, so muddied are all the story's elements.  In the end, the plot of the story, such as it is, seems only to exist so we can have a trio of jiggly goat girls mincing around.

One star.

The Visitors, by Jack Wodhams


by Kelly Freas

Terrans land on the first inhabitable world ever found and make first contact with the natives.  Turns out "primitive" doesn't mean "defenseless."

This would be a two-star story, inoffensive but not noteworthy, except for the sheer number of words Wodhams wastes getting to his point.  Twenty pages that could easily have been condensed to, I dunno, five.

One star.

Crashlanding

Well, like the Soviets, Analog is churning issues out that look like winners, but really are just unimpressive retreads.  This one clocks in at 2.4, which is higher than Galaxy (2.2), but lower than Fantasy and Science Fiction (2.7), Visions of Tomorrow (2.8), Amazing (2.9). If (3.0), New Worlds (3.3).

Only one new piece of fiction was written by a woman, and if you took all the decent stuff published this month, you'd only be able to fill two digests—and that's with the extra paperback anthology this month.  Whither short SF?  Whither the Soviet space program?

I guess we'll see what happens next month…






[August 28, 1969] Aussie-British Publishing (Vision of Tomorrow #1)

Join us on August 29 at 7pm Pacific Daylight Time for the first edition of Science Fiction Theater—every week, we'll broadcast an excellent show or two, accompanied by fanzine readings and, of course, with commercials!



By Mx Kris Vyas-Myall

In general, there is a certain patriarchal attitude us Brits have towards the Commonwealth. We assume we will be the mother country that will be investing in and helping out the former colonies. Yet recent evidence suggests the opposite is true. And now we see it in publishing with the plan to rescue The Sun newspaper by 37-year-old Australian entrepreneur Rupert Murdoch.

Rupert Murdoch in 1969 sitting in a chair whilst holding a newspaper
Australian press-magnate, Rupert Murdoch

Back in 1964, the Daily Herald was Britain’s 4th biggest selling newspaper, with a specific interest in advancing the trade union movement. However, it was still losing money as its readership were generally older and of lower income—not the audiences advertisers wanted. The paper was folded and replaced by The Sun, designed to appeal to the “steak-eating weekenders” of the aspirational working class. However, this did not end up reviving its fortunes and International Publishing Corporation was losing £2m a year on the paper. As such they have declared they need to sell or shutter it by January 1970.

Also in 1964, Rupert Murdoch, having inherited News Ltd. from his father in 1954, launched Australia’s first national newspaper, The Australian, to compete with the established state papers. He got the local papers he controlled to move away from “stodgy” local news items, into human interest and television interests. This all led to the company’s profits rising from £30k to £1.2m. But he continues to have ambitious plans for expansion.

Having already beaten out Paul Maxwell to take over the weekly News of the World at the start of the year, the acquisition of The Sun will mean he has a daily publication under his belt. What he will do with it remains to be seen but sensationalism may be the order of the day. His News of the World has already attracted controversy by publishing extracts from Christine Keeler’s memoirs.

Whatever the fate of these papers, another collaboration has interested me. That between Australian publisher Ronald E. Graham, and British editor Philip Harbottle. United by their love of John Russell Fearn, they have put out a new Science Fiction magazine, Vision of Tomorrow.

Vision of Tomorrow #1
Cover of Vision of Tomorrow #1 with a colour painting of a dead man on an alien planet lying on the ground with his space helmet next to him. To the left another suited spaceman runs out whilst being watched by a floating spherical robot.
Cover by James

In spite of initial reports, this will not contain any John Russell Fearn reprints (a secondary magazine may be produced for that purpose in the future) rather “Vision” is dedicated only to publishing new stories by British and Australian authors, along with new translations of European authors.

In contrast to the semi-professional style of Alien Worlds or the arthouse feel of New Worlds, this feels like a traditional professional magazine. One that could sit in the racks happily beside Analog and Galaxy, albeit a 64 page slick, rather than the advertised 196 page pocket book. But what is inside?

The New Science Fiction by Philip Harbottle

In his editorial for the magazine, Harbottle sets out his stall. He declares that this magazine will deal with humanity trying to adapt to the increasing pace of change. Personally I think this sounds rather similar to what Gold was attempting in Galaxy in the 50s.

Swords for a Guide by Kenneth Bulmer
Black and white ink drawing of people fighting with swords whilst other people descend from the sky in globes
Illustrated by G. Alfo Quinn

As the sole member of the Kenneth Bulmer Fan Club [Not quite true—Jason Sacks likes him, too! (ed.)], I was excited to see he would be leading the magazine. Here Jeffrey Updike Grant is a Captain in the Guides, a kind of Galactic Administration military force, but one trained only to use weapons equivalent to the technological level of the alien planets they are on. When he is stationed on New Bangor, an uprising takes the Guides by surprise.

After a distress call is sent out, it is answered by local freetraders (read smugglers) who have no truck with the rules on technological advances. Whilst they initially push the Bangorians back, they are eventually overpowered and their atomic weaponry ends up in the hands of the natives. With the natives now aware that the Guides are not from this world and in possession of advanced weaponry, the chances of survival for the Terrans are slim. Their only hope is to travel down river to the largest settlement, with the natives hunting them.

Black and white ink drawing of five people sheltering on the raft as others fire at them with bows from the riverbank.
Illustrated by G. Alfo Quinn

Whilst I usually enjoy Bulmer’s work, this is not his standard fare, more a Victorian Boys-Own adventure, with lots of action and heavy descriptions, but not much depth. There is possibly some critique of colonialism at the end, but this work primarily seems designed to appeal to those that lament the loss of a “sense of wonder” in SF today. I am not one of those people.

Two Stars

When in Doubt – Destroy! by William F. Temple
Two spacemen look at a spherical floating robot with mechanical arms and two large eyes
Illustrated by G. Alfo Quinn

Pathfinders Cordell & Marston are surveying the Pluto-esque Scylla-8, awaiting a much-delayed supply ship. Instead, a robot named Mark 1105 appears. It tells them it has captured their ship along with a previous survey mission, and they will be imprisoned, without food or water, until they answer its questions about humanity.

This has a great moody sense of doom penetrating throughout and it has interesting ideas about psychology. Unfortunately, I found it let down a bit by using a very old and silly cliché to battle a robot.

Three Stars

Anchor Man by Jack Wodhams

Tirk and Ken are members of the experimental EPD, where psychic impressions of objects and people are used to investigate police cases. Mary Pantici, a prostitute, is found murdered in a sound proofed flat with no witnesses and the EPD is brought in for the first time on a case like this. Ken is indeed able to get an impression of the murderer. However, his gift leads him to the conclusion that the killer is a police officer, one who has mental abilities of his own.

Given Wodhams’ regular sales to Analog, and the centrality of ESP to the tale, I can’t help but wonder if this was meant for Campbell but was rejected because of the grimmer elements. Whatever its origin this is a reasonable update of the occult detective story, well told but with a bit of a limp denouement for me.

Three stars

The Vault by Damien Broderick

Dr delFord, a logician, is awoken at 3am and taken on a secret flight. His old friend Gellner reveals to him that, under the lunar crater Tycho, an ancient buried computer complex has been discovered.

Much of it seems to have been destroyed in a nuclear attack; however, they are able to deduce from a map the location of two other alien bases. One at the bottom of the Atlantic and one under Ayres Rock. It is to the latter one that delFord is flown. The titular Vault inside Uluru does not allow any electronic equipment in and so far has resulted in the deaths of 173 people trying to enter it.

With a new protective suit, delFord has one hour to try to work a way in, discover all he can and make it out alive.

It has become fashionable of late to claim every piece of mythology or construction project before 1945 is secretly the work of aliens (see, for example, Chariots of the Gods?). This sits within that genre. Not bad per se, but I feel that it could easily be made into an unremarkable episode of Star Trek or Doctor Who.

Three Stars

Sixth Sense by Michael G. Coney
A black and white ink drawing of a man helping a young woman in climbing up rocks
Uncredited illustration

This short story comes from a new writer who recently debuted in the pages of New Writings. Jack Garner is a publican who possesses a sixth sense others don’t. He recalls a summer three years before when a quarrelling family came to stay and how he made use of his unusual ability to help them.

The actual plot is fairly thin, being the kind of tale you would read as the text feature in an adventure comic, padded out with mind-reading sections. In addition, there are leering descriptions of a 14-year-old girl’s body from the point of view of our 37-year-old narrator. Less than this got Mr. Hedges branded a pervert by the local community in an episode of Please, Sir!.

One Star

Consumer Report by Lee Harding
A black and white ink drawing of a fleet of rocket like spaceships against a galactic background
Uncredited illustration

Previously one of Carnell’s crew, he wrote one of my favourite short stories of the decade, The Liberators, but I haven’t seen anything from him in a few years.

Crossing the spaces between galaxies the self-proclaimed Lords of their universe come on a mission of conquest, but they find only dead planets. What could have caused this?

Thankfully, this is not one of those awful John Brunner vignettes we usually see in Galaxy. Instead, Harding gives us a serviceable but unremarkable piece of space horror.

Three stars

Are You There, Mr. Jones? by Stanislaw Lem

This is a work from a leading Polish SF writer (translated by Peter Roberts) representing his first appearance in English. It tells of the legal case of Mr. Jones, a race car driver who has replaced parts of his body with cybernetics following various accidents. He has been unable to pay his debt for them and, indeed, claims they are faulty so he should not have to. However, a previous court ruled he could not have them removed as it would kill him.

As such the Cybernetics Company tries a new tact, arguing that as so much of him is replaced, he is no longer human and they are merely recovering their property.

I have heard from continental friends that Lem is already well liked in Germany and France, and this showed me why. This is only a short vignette but addresses fundamental questions in a concise and amusing manner.

Four Stars

The Impatient Dreamers Part 1: First Encounters by Walter Gillings

The editor of the first British SF magazine begins a history of 20th Century British Science Fiction. A largely auto-biographical piece, this opening section tells of the early days of British fandom in the 20s and 30s, talking of the influence of imported American magazines, short lived fandom, Edgar Rice Burroughs books, BBC Radio dramas and the film Metropolis. An interesting and pleasant introduction to an era before I was born.

Four Stars

The Shape of Things To Come
Text saying:
Don't miss this powerful novelette of one man's incredible fight for freedom across the burning desert of Zen, the Prison Planet...hunted by men and beasts alike!

Quarry by E. C. Tubb

Also
Moonchip by John Rankine
Dancing Gerontius  by Lee Harding
Frozen Assets by Dan Morgan
Minos by Muarice Whitta
Echo by William F. Temple
A Judge of Men by Michael G. Coney
Strictly Legal  by Douglas Fulthorpe
Undercover Weapon by Jack Wodhams

Plus the continuation of Walter Gilings' great series, a special report on SF In Germany, and a new book review section!

Vision of Tomorrow offers you the finest science fiction available - place a firm order with you usual supplier or write direct to the editorial address.
Coming next time

In spite of Harbottle’s introduction discussing the New Science Fiction, this is quite a traditional selection of stories, although generally solid ones. It is certainly no worse than we see from If or Analog and the one weak piece being from a new author I hope we can see more of.

As such, I am excited to see more of this collaborative exercise. Bring on the second issue.

Black and white ink drawing of a one man shooting another from below with the man about to be hit has arms spread wide
One final illustration from G. Alfo Quinn






[August 26, 1969] A Bumper Crop at the Farm (Woodstock Music & Art Fair)


by Victoria Silverwolf

A little more than a week ago, something remarkable happened in a small town in the state of New York.  Depending on your point of view, it was either a gathering of joyful people sharing fun and good music, or a mob of filthy hippies stoned out of their minds and destroying their hearing with loud noise.  Let's go back in time a little bit and try to figure out how this all came together.


Poster designed by Arnold Skolnick.

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair took place in Bethel, New York.  That's about forty miles away from the town of Woodstock.  Why the name?  Thereby hangs a tale.

Early this year, some business folks planned to hold a big concert in Woodstock.  They even called their company Woodstock Ventures.  Long story short, local residents rejected the idea.  The people running the thing tried other communities in the area.  The authorities of the towns of Saugerties and Wallkill nixed the idea as well.  What to do?

Enter a fellow named Max Yasgur.  He owns a six hundred acre dairy farm In Bethel.  He agreed to lease the use of his property for the festival in return for something like ten thousand bucks.


Yasgur's farm.

Some local residents were not pleased at all.  (Rumor has it that Yasgur is himself a conservative Republican.  Apparently that didn't prevent him from accepting money from members of the counterculture.)


A sign posted when the deal was announced.

Despite opposition, the authorities granted the necessary permits.  (By the way, the reason the poster shown above mentions White Lake as the scene of the festival is because White Lake is a hamlet within the town of Bethel, and is about three miles from Yasgur's farm.  Don't ask me; I'm only used to hamlet being the title of a famous play.)

It took so long to find a site for the festival that the folks running the thing didn't have time to put up fences or ticket booths.  Heck, they barely had a chance to put up the stage!  They'd already sold 186,000 tickets in advance (despite expecting only about 50,000 people to show up.)


Full admission price to the entire festival.  Expensive!

The big show was going to start in the early evening on Friday, August 15.  By Wednesday, the expected 50,000 folks had already shown up, with no way to find out if they had purchased tickets or not.  A lot more were on their way.  At its peak, the crowd was estimated at 450,000.

Roads leading to the area were jammed with would-be attendees.  Recent rain turned fields into seas of mud.  Lack of facilities — food and water, first aid stations, sanitation — added to the chaos. 

Three people died at the festival.  Two were from drug overdoses.  One teenager was run over by a tractor while he was in his sleeping bag.  Despite these tragedies, and many hundreds of people needing medical attention, one extraordinary fact stands out.  There was not one reported act of deliberate violence at the festival.

Think about that.  Close to half a million people living in close proximity, and in very stressful situations, without violence.  Makes you wonder if these Flower People are doing something right, doesn't it?

Enough background.  What about the music?  Thirty-two acts performed, from early Friday evening to late Monday morning.  Let's go over some highlights.


This advertisement doesn't list all the performers.  There were also changes in the schedule.  Sha-Na-Na didn't perform until Monday morning, and Iron Butterfly got stuck at the airport and didn't show up at all. Jeff Beck wasn't there, either.

Day One: Indian Summer

The opening speech was delivered Friday evening by Swami Satchidananda Saraswati, an Indian guru.  The first day was heavy on folk music performers, including Arlo Guthrie and Joan Baez (who is six months pregnant, by the way.) For me, the outstanding act was Indian sitarist Ravi Shankar.


Shankar performs Evening Raga.

Day Two: The Big Names

Saturday afternoon until Sunday was when a lot of the most famous rock bands showed up.  Santana, Grateful Dead, The Who, Jefferson Airplane, etc., but the electrifying performance of Janis Joplin and the Kozmic Blues Band, in the wee hours of the morning, was the highlight.


Joplin belts out an hour of her hits.

Day Three: Past and Future

More rock music ended the festival, interrupted for about three hours by a thunderstorm.  Monday morning the concert ended with two strongly contrasting acts, one looking backward and one offering hints as to what tomorrow's popular music might be like.

Nostalgia act Sha Na Na brought a chance of pace by performing doo-wop songs from the 1950's.  (It's amazing how much pop music has changed in fifteen years or so!)


Performing oldie Book of Love in gold suits.

The final act was the amazing Jimi Hendrix, said to be the highest-paid rock musician in the world.  His music is so far out, that it seems to be coming from the 21st century.


And yet he paid tribute to the past, with the wildest version of The Star-Spangled Banner you'll ever hear.

Was it worth all the mud and chaos?  Despite the small number of tragic deaths, and hundreds of bad drug trips, most of the folks who were there would probably say it was.  And here are some other eyewitness reports for you.  Over to you, Walter…


Er… you're not Walter…


photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Woodstock: when it wasn't hot, it was cold.  When you didn't have to pee, you were hungry.  If you were anywhere near the stage (as we were Friday night into Saturday morning), you were elbow to elbow with a hundred thousand other people.  I got less than 10 hours of sleep over the 72 hours of the event, and then I soldiered on to help clean up before crashing in the van.

It was the best weekend of my life.


Aftermath in Paradise

Look—I'm 50 years old.  I've done a lot in my day, but I've never really pushed myself.  I've never done drugs.  I go to sleep by 10pm.  I stay at home, except when I fly to Japan, and then I go first class…planes and hotels

For this adventure, there was none of that.  The biggest concession to comfort is that we drove to the event early, and thereby avoided the worst of the traffic.  And I surrendered my six square feet of ground near the stage to eat and excrete and nap in the comfort of our rented van (though I slogged back during the rainstorm Sunday afternoon and stayed through until the end of the event).  It was a test of physical and emotional fortitude greater than any I'd had before.

What made it all worth it?  The music and the people.  It's all a riot of memories right now, a kaleidoscope that refuses to resolve, probably won't resolve for weeks or months:

  • The sensitive, soulful passion of Richie Havens, strumming powerfully until I felt his fingers must bleed, singing his own songs and those of the Beatles, and finally some sort of ethereal impromptu folks are calling "Freedom".


    A snap from an 8mm I shot of the concert—we were that close on the first day!

  • The bombed out young group that wandered by our van on Saturday evening.  We shared our chicken and rice with them and pointed them in the direction of the main stage.  Did they ever make it back?  We'll never know.

  • The surreality of feeling the Earth's rotation, watching dusk turn to night then to dawn then to day, and then to night again…marked not by the sweep of wristwatch hands but the endless cavalcade of bands: Santana, John Sebastian, Mountain, the Creedence Clearwater Revival…


    Sunset on Day 3

  • The ethereal beauty and surprising charm of Bert Sommer, who bewitched all who espied him.


    Telephoto shot of Sommer

  • The one-two punch of Janis Joplin and Sly and the Family Stone—easily the high-water mark of the event—the former, a goddess; the latter, the Supreme Being.

  • Marla and Tim and their lovely kids, who were our site neighbors, and as luck would have it, are also practically our hometown neighbors.  You can bet we'll keep in touch.

  • The most hilarious retelling of the Book of Exodus, as told by a quite stoned Arlo Guthrie.


  • The soaring harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash (and occasionally Young), with counterpoint provided by Amber's snoring…the poor girl had lasted through the endless sets of Ten Years After, Johnny Winter, and Blood, Sweat, and Tears, only to founder at the shores of excellence.

  • The couple that broke up at the beginning of the event only to be compelled back together by the end of it.

  • The turgid endlessness of Canned Heat, the Grateful Dead, and (sadly) Jefferson Airplane.

  • The sublimity of Jimi, pinnacling in his fiery, bomb-laden rendition of the National Anthem.

  • The three demons of Woodstock: the blue acid, the mud, and the scaffold creeps who would not abandon the stage towers despite the constant admonitions of the velvet-voiced EMCEE, "Chip" Monck.

  • The three angels of Woodstock: Max Yazgur, the nice mensch who offered up his farm to host the event so as to bridge the generation gap; the ministering angels who provided food when the concession stands ran out; and the good-natured attendees who, for the most part, offered no hassles or bummers and kept things peaceful and brotherly.


    Max Yazgur prepares to speak

It was an event for the ages, squared, cubed, and beyond for being shared with all of my closest friends.  My life is forever punctuated into two eras: before and after Woodstock.

The papers already seem to be forgetting the festival, the city we built that, for a weekend, contained more people than the whole of Anza Highway corridor back home.  But I'll never forget.  We'll never forget.

We were there.



by Janice L. Newman

Even as we watched the opening acts, more and more and more people were pouring in, young and muddy and hungry. While others were focused on the stage, my mind couldn’t help but be consumed by something else: logistics.

How, I worried, were all these people going to get fed?

Fortunately, others had the same thought. By the time the second day was going strong, the Hog Farm commune, founded by Hugh Romney, Jr. (aka “Wavy Gravy”) had gone into action, requesting money from the concert organizers and using it to purchase thousands of pounds of rolled oats, sliced almonds, apricots, currants, bulgur wheat, wheat germ, and truckloads of fresh vegetables. “There’s plenty of food over at the Hog Farm,” a young woman told the audience. I had to see for myself.

So I left my spot near our van (I’d slept there through the first night, unable to stay awake even with Ravi Shankar and Joan Baez performing) and went to see what it was all about.

I spent the next four days going back and forth between Hog Farm and Woodstock, helping mix and serve muesli out of giant trash cans purchased for the purpose, handing out sandwiches, and watching as people patiently lined up and accepted their share, or stepped forward to volunteer to help, or passed food through the audience to their friends who refused to leave their spot near the stage. The food wasn’t hearty, but supplemented with the milk and yogurt from the dairy farm, it was enough.

I missed out on all the night concerts, even my twin-named Janis Joplin, but I was up early enough to catch The Who. The music was great, but more than that, I enjoyed the chance to be a part of something bigger.


Me at our campsite in the woods

The Age of Aquarius, one of brotherhood, peace, and universal love, has always seemed like a beautiful but naive dream. Yet we saw something like it over the course of four days. Not just in the young people who gathered, but the people who came together to help support, feed, and care for them and for each other. Even the US Army helped out!

Woodstock may not end up being a profitable endeavor after all that happened. It’s already being talked about in the papers as a boondoggle. And yet…it was something special. Something different. Something new.

The people in the audience weren’t just spouting words about peace and brotherhood, they believe it. In the face of such sincerity, cynicism melts away and hope can’t help but take its place.  Who knows? Maybe this generation really will be the one to end war for good


.

by Lorelei Marcus

"How was Woodstock?" A friend asked me recently.

I couldn't reply for a long while, because there is no one answer; there is no one holistic Woodstock experience. Woodstock comprises moments, measured in music acts, naps, and meals. It was a lifestyle, a lifetime balled up into four days. How does one reply when asked "how is living?"

"Good," is all I could reply at the time.

Now I've had a bit longer to reflect. I can say that overall, it was worth it. But what was it like?


Me and mom at the campsite

It was the most humanity I'll ever see in my life. Everything from the funny guy teaching me about mushrooms, to the girl crooning out ballads on her tiny guitar between sets, to the practical feeling of wearing nothing along with everybody else. At some times we were a mass, snoring in the sun, lining up for food, eating, clapping, tripping, slipping on mud. Sometimes I was alone, relishing the quiet moment in the woods while I squatted over a hole, dozing through the first hour of Hendrix's concert, leaning over a pot of oats and stirring until it was warm.

There's a through line that connects these disparate flashes: the music. Some was transcendent, some was boring, and on the drive home I realized what made the difference. There were a lot of jams at this concert, not unusual for the live blues and rock scene, but often I found myself wishing for a song to end rather than enjoying its ride. Some would blame that on the sleep deprivation, but really, it's that long jams are flawed in two big ways.

First, a jam interrupts the flow of the song and diminishes the complexity of the experience. I don't mind the band free styling, but usually to keep together, they have to stay on one chord. This leads to a monotonous meandering of guitar notes and drum fields piled on top of a stagnant melody. The sound and the rhythm quickly lose their way, and any meaning built into the flow and structure of the original song are quickly dispersed.

The second problem is that jamming is a private experience. Songs are a story that reach from the musician to the listener. Jams can be like that if played with intention (Hendrix does this well), but otherwise it's a connection with one's band or even their own instrument. An audience can watch and appreciate technique, but cannot join the musician in their reverie without invitation.

Such is the art of performance, and what made both Janis Joplin and Sly and the Family Stone's shows so powerful. Both performers poured out their energy into the audience, giving themselves and their music to foster a bond. You could feel the passion like electricity in your bones. It multiplied, and you poured it out back to them, only making it stronger, looping until the music isn't just heard, but felt, like it's part of both of you. It creates a togetherness that you can't get anywhere else.


Me and Trini near the stage

Really, that's what Woodstock was all about: being together. Sometimes it was overwhelming, sometimes otherworldly, and mostly it was wet and loud.

But I wouldn't trade it for anything.





[August 24, 1969] Flying and dragging (September 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Flying

By the time this makes press, we'll already (hopefully) be on the flight back to San Diego.  As with most publications, though we try to hit the press as fresh as possible, there is a delay between writing and printing.  This is exceptionally unavoidable this time 'round because…

…we're off to Woodstock!

Specifically, the Woodstock Art & Music Fair, an "Aquarian Exposition" in White Lake, New York.  There's an art show and a craft bazaar and hundreds of acres of sprawl, but the main draw is the music: 27 bands, from Jimi Hendrix to Janis Joplin to Glen Beck to Sweetwater to Ritchie Havens, playing in 12-hour swathes, 1pm to 1am, every day (except the first—then, it's 4pm to 4am, apparently).

Well, we couldn't miss a chance to see something like this, so we booked tickets to Idlewild…er… JFK, chartered a bus, and we're headed for Max Yasgur's farm.  This isn't our first rodeo, so we've taken a few precautions:

1) We left early to avoid the rush.  With more than 100,000 expected to show up for this thing, there's going to be traffic jams;

2) We bought supplies in case we can't get what we want to eat;

3) We brought our own toilets!  A handy trick we developed camping up in Sequoia country: take a bucket, fill it a quarter way with Kitty Litter, and stick a toilet seat on top.  It works as well for people as it does for cats, and you don't have to dig latrines!

So, we're hopeful to get good seats and enjoy, as much as anyone can, three days of fun in the open air.  We'll have a full report when we get back!

Dragging


by Chesley Bonestell

Sweet Helen, by Charles W. Runyon

On a distant world, rich with export goods, yet another trader succumbs before his tour is up.  Two deserted.  One went native.  One shot himself.  The company sends a professional troubleshooter to find out what happened.

Somehow, the natives are the culprit.  The amphibian humanoids run twenty males to the female, and the female is in charge.  The men all compete for the honor of breeding with her; the rest die.  The females are humanoid and lovely… for a while.  They swell into enormous toads when it is time to become gravid. 

The troubleshooter is unable to determine the exact problem, until too late.

Of course, none of this would be an issue if they had sent a woman trader (probably).  And apparently women traders do exist in Runyon's universe, though they are rare enough to not be sent except by deliberate assignment.

Also, none of this would be an issue if the aliens weren't so uniquely humanoid and compelling to humans—a cliché I find tiresome these days.  Really, this is just a "women are dangerous" story in SF trappings, something done much better, and more creepily, in Matheson's "Lover When You're Near Me" almost two decades ago.

Two stars.

Bonita Egg, by Julian F. Grow

A riproarer of an adventure involving a middle-aged doctor, a young, East-Coast-educated Apache woman, and a dark-skinned alien named Mwando.  The last wants to abduct the former pair, but he is continually thwarted by his would-be captives' pluck, as well as the woman's outlaw uncle and tribal chief father.  Not to mention a platoon of Union artillerymen led by the bullheaded Winfield Scott Dimwiddie.

It's all rather silly and a bit long-winded, but it's not unreadable.  A low three stars.

Muse, by Dean R. Koontz

Leonard is a famed musician, or rather, he is when he's got Icky the symbiont alien on his back.  But anti-slug/human prejudice runs strong on old Earth, and his father wants Leonard to lose the connection for his own good.  Tragedy ensues.

Koontz is a pretty good writer, generally, but this story smacks of being an early, hitherto unsold work.  It's less artfully written, with repetitive phrasing in places.  The story is threadbare—if it's a metaphor for drugs, it's clumsy; if not, it needs a lot more development to be effective.

Three stars.


by Gahan Wilson

The Patient, by Hoke Norris

This is the story of the first brain transplant, as told from the point of view of the doctors who performed it and the patient.  Much discussion of the ethics involved and the problems ensuing, particularly with regard to the families of the donor and donee.  The patient is unable to reconcile his past with his present and ultimately commits suicide.

Sorry to give things away, but this is really a tedious, stupid piece.  It is pedestrian and repetitive, a stark contrast to, say, Fiztpatrick and Richmond's Half a Loaf series, which covers the same ground.

Also, that the doctors performed their operation on a day's notice, and none of the legal or moral t's were crossed or i's dotted reminds me of how space travel used to be depicted: a guy would build a spaceship in his backyard and fly to the Moon.  You'd think a lot more infrastructure would be needed before such a thing could even be contemplated.

One star.

The Screwiest Job in the World, by Bill Pronzini

Phineas T. Fensterblau has an odd hobby: collecting unusual animals, particularly ones with the power of speech.  To this end, he has employed the resourceful Elroy, who travels the world, proving the veracity of the claims of those who would sell exotic beasts to the millionare eccentric.  In the course of his work, Elroy has uncovered ventriloquists, dwarfs in costumes, hidden transmitters, etc.  But when he is sent to the Alaskan wilderness on the trail of a talking Kodiak bear, Elroy finds something completely new.

This isn't a bad story, but since it is set up as a mystery, it would have been better if the reader had been filled in on the clues before their lumpy exposition near the end.  That could have raised the piece from three stars to higher.

The Man Who Massed the Earth, by Isaac Asimov

Dr. A continues his layman presentation of first semester physics, explaining what weight is and how Cavendish determined the gravitational constant "G".  It's actually pretty interesting, and there is an intuitive explanation as to why the weight of the Earth…is zero.

Four stars.

J-Line to Nowhere, by Zenna Henderson

In this non-The People story, Henderson tells the tale of a teen girl who gets an urge to see the world outside the crammed city-scraper she's lived her whole life in.  She succeeds, but can't figure out how to get back.

There's a lot of gushing thoughts, but not a lot of story to this one.  Three stars.

Finishing the trip

Well, that was dreary!  Remember the days when fiction took you to better places than reality?  Of course, I haven't gotten to Woodstock yet, so maybe it will be equally disappointing…but somehow I doubt it.

Stay tuned!

(and dig on what F&SF has got coming next month…I'm excited for the Niven, of course.)






[August 22, 1969] Peake District: New Worlds September 1969


by Fiona Moore

Hello! I’m taking over the New Worlds reviews from Mark Yon, which is a little intimidating, but I hope I’ll be able to live up to his excellent legacy.

On the UK Star Trek broadcast front, I missed “Mudd’s Women” due to having to take a work trip to Glasgow, but “A Taste of Armageddon” was decent anti-war satire if a bit heavy-handed. Having seen a few episodes in colour on trips to North America, I have to say it works less well in black and white, but at least we do get the idea.

Cover for New Worlds, September 1969Cover for New Worlds, September 1969

Lead-In (New Worlds 194) by The Publishers

This is brief, without the edge of hysteria from last month, which leads me to hope that they’ve got the financial issues under control. It’s also good to know that JG Ballard has a collection coming out, The Atrocity Exhibition. The lineup this month features regular contributors and well-known people on the New Wave scene, but perhaps it’s a little too conservative as a result. Three stars.

A Place and a Time to Die by JG Ballard

Picture from A Place and Time to Die by JG BallardArt by Mal dean

This story is about an implied Chinese Communist takeover of an implied USA, though with a degree of vagueness as to time and place. It follows two men attempting to hold the line as the invaders, or maybe exponents of an internal coup, come into town. This is a bleak description of warfare; no one is heroic and everyone is ugly. It also highlights how ideological takeovers can be more powerful than armed ones. Four stars.

Pictures from an Exhibition 9 and 10 by Giles Gordon

Illustration from Pictures from an Exhibition by Giles GordonArtist unknown

Two vignettes, inspired by pictures in a Sunday colour supplement, and part of a longer work. The two pictures have little in common apart from featuring in the same publication, and the point seems to be both to draw narratives out of the images and to highlight how newspapers juxtapose unrelated imagery, causing the reader to look for meaning. Three stars.

Transplant by Langdon Jones

Transplant by Langdon JonesThe text of Transplant, with concrete effects

A concrete poem about a heart transplant. It’s dramatic and evocative, making one think about how horrific even a life-saving surgical procedure really is. Cutting open humans and sticking new hearts in them is a horrifiying idea, and yet lives are saved. Four stars.

The Incomplete Science by B.J. Bayley

This is a non-fiction piece on economics, a concept SFF writers ignore far too often. The author presents two sets of economic dynamics, one relating to production and the other to land values, and concludes without reconciling them. The subject is very interesting but unfortunately it’s also very dry. Two stars.

The Capitol by George MacBeth

This is a series of sonnets that appear to be found poetry, a set of lines from newspaper stories all thrown together out of context. Like “Pictures at an Exhibition”, the only real meaning I could discern was to point out the absurdity of capitalism and journalism. I’m afraid it left me cold. Two stars.

The Party at Lady Cusp-Canine’s by Mervyn Peake

Illustration by Mervyn PeakeArt by, of course, Mervyn Peake

This is one of the issue’s highlights, including an essay by Langdon Jones. It seems that the original edition of Peake’s posthumous novel Titus Alone excluded a lot of good material and was poorly edited, and Jones has done a lot of work trying to develop a new edition which is closer to what Peake intended. As a Peake fan I’m thrilled by the news, and hoping that the revived Titus Alone will be something more in the style of the first two Gormenghast novels. The excerpt is certainly in line with Peake’s ascerbic wit, capturing the brittle nastiness of cocktail parties with a plethora of evocative animal names and similies. There is also brief news about another posthumous novel by Peake coming out, Mr Pye, which should be worth comparing to his earlier fiction.  Five stars.

Lines of White on a Sullen Sea by Maxim Jakubowski

Illustration for Lines of White on a Sullen SeaArt by Mal Dean

This is the latest in the ongoing shared-author story featuring Jerry Cornelius. It doesn’t make any more sense than the other ones, but making sense is less of a priority than evoking a mood. Jerry is preoccupied with a Chinese rival; a female Cornelius turns up; there are lovely descriptions of clothes, and characters with absurd names like Treblinka Durand. If you liked the previous entries you'll probably like this. Three stars.

Books (New Worlds 194)

This issue contains no less than five full pages of book reviews, making the reviews section longer than any of the stories. This is a bit much, particularly given the magazine’s current reduced page count.

Slum Clearance by John Clute

John Clute's book reviewsJohn Clute's book reviews

Clute reviews Omnivore by Piers Anthony, Let the Fire Fall by Kate Wilhelm, Retief: Ambassador to Space by Keith Laumer, Brother Assassin by Fred Saberhagen, The Mezentian Gate, an unfinished novel by by E.R. Eddison, and The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin. He quite likes the Le Guin, is scathing about the Anthony, Laumer and Saberhagen, and mixed on everything else. Three stars.

Come Alive—You’re in the William Sanson Generation by Joyce Churchill

Churchill reviews Death Goes Better with Coca Cola by Dave Godfrey, Cape Breton is the Thought Control Centre of Canada by Ray Smith, Galactic Pot-Healer by Philip K. Dick, The Island Under The Earth by Avram Davidson, and Penguin Modern Stories. She doesn’t seem too happy with any of them, and her comments didn’t leave me wanting to read any of them other than out of morbid curiosity. Two and a half stars.

Getting it Out by Norman Spinrad

Spinrad’s book review article, unlike the other two actually has a theme: he focuses on the output of Essex House, a paperback line whose agenda is to be for pornography what the New Wave has been to SF, leading to a subgenre of “speculative erotic fiction”. He reviews Season of the Witch by Hank Stine, Biker by Jane Gallion, the Agency trilogy by David Melzer, Evil Companions by Michael Perkins and A Feast Unknown by Philip Jose Farmer. Spinrad makes some of them, at least, sound intriguing. I’m going to keep an eye out for the Stine, a gender-bending body horror that sounds up my street. Four stars.

While at first glance it looks like the magazine is back on an even keel after last month’s financial woes, I’m still a bit worried. The writers are all White men with one exception (who I suspect is also White). Meanwhile, a recent trip to see Yoko Ono’s latest show has reminded me that London’s art and film and literature scene is simply exploding with talented people from all over the world. If NW wants to survive, simply writing about sex isn’t original enough any more; it needs to bring in some of the new voices on the scene.






[August 20, 1969] Hail Columbia! (Apollo-11, Part 3)


by Kaye Dee

Columbia photographed over the Bay of Success in the Sea of Fertility by the LM crew before their descent to the Moon. They did not photograph the CM on their return to orbit

It’s hard to believe that it’s already a month since Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin became the first human beings to land on the Moon – and what an eventful month it’s been for the crew of Apollo-11! It feels like this is the right time for the final part of my Apollo-11 coverage, wrapping up the final phases of the historic mission and its aftermath.

Another Giant Leap
I concluded my previous Apollo-11 article with the Lunar Module (LM) Eagle on its way to lunar orbit after a successful lift-off from the Moon’s surface. This was one of the critical stages of the mission, because if the LM’s ascent engine had failed to fire, its crew would have been stranded on the Moon – there was no back-up system. (It is rumoured that President Nixon had a suitably sombre speech prepared had the worst occurred).

The astronauts have since reported that, as they took off, they heard no sounds in the Moon’s airless environment, but they felt the acceleration and a high frequency vibration through their feet. Seconds after liftoff, the LM pitched forward about 45 degrees, so Mr. Armstrong and Col. Aldrin could see the Moon’s surface scrolling past and receding as they leapt towards rendezvous with the Command Module (CM) Columbia in lunar orbit. As they had during the landing, Aldrin worked the computer while Armstrong flew and navigated the LM. “We’re going right down US-1,” Commander Armstrong informed Mission Control about three minutes into the flight.

All Quiet on the Orbital Front

While orbiting the Moon alone, CM Pilot Collins had a comparatively quiet time. He generally performed maintenance and “housekeeping” tasks, although on his third solo orbit a problem arose with the temperature of the environmental coolant, which might have caused parts of Columbia to freeze. Fortunately, this was soon resolved and there were no other major issues.

When the LM crew slept after their exhausting Moonwalk, so too did Col. Collins. He wanted to be well-rested for the rendezvous with Eagle , on which the next step in Apollo-11’s success would rest.

Crucial Rendezvous

Just as the separation from the CM to begin the descent to the lunar surface had occurred behind the Moon, with the astronauts out of contact with Mission Control, so to would the crucial return rendezvous between the two spacecraft.

While Columbia orbited 60 miles above the lunar surface, Mike Collins prepared for the rendezvous. Slung around his neck, he carried a book he had prepared containing 18 different rendezvous procedures – he was taking no chances at this stage of the mission! Although the flight plan called for Eagle to fly up to Columbia, if necessary Col. Collins could descend to meet the LM.

Collins' favourite photo of the images he snapped of this scene. It shows the Earth, Moon, LM and the CM window frame, thus capturing all four players in the mission in one image

Eagle fortunately encountered no problems during its ascent to orbit. As the two spacecraft came around the Moon and back into contact with Mission Control, Col. Collins captured yet another magnificent sight: the Moon, Earth, and returning Ascent Stage of the LM approaching him, all in one picture.

Duelling Vehicles

Mr. Armstrong took up a station-keeping position just 50 ft from the CM. Then the three astronauts prepared for the critical re-docking. At 128:03:00 Ground Elapsed Time (GET), the two spacecraft gently connected, so smoothly that Col. Collins said he did not even feel the docking latches snap together.


However, moments later, the astronauts were jolted as the joined vehicles began to jerk around, with both the LM and CM firing their thrusters! What was happening? It seems that the automatic attitude systems on both spacecraft were competing with each other to control the attitude of the docked vessels! Fortunately, when the Eagle’s automatic pilot was switched off the problem disappeared.

Together Again

Despite that unexpected incident, the Apollo-11 crew were safely back together again, just three minutes behind the time specified by the original Flight Plan! Col. Aldrin was the first through the hatch into the CM, followed by mission commander Armstrong, and an excited reunion took place.

The precious 47lbs of lunar samples were transferred to Columbia, along with the still and movie camera film magazines and some other equipment. Two hours after the docking, the Eagle was jettisoned into lunar orbit in preparation for the return to Earth. Mr. Armstrong commented, “The separation was slow and majestic; we were able to follow it visually for a long time” (although Col. Collins forgot to film it as had been intended).

On Their Way Home

One orbit later, behind the Moon, at 135:23:42 GET, Apollo-11 fired the Service Module’s motor for 2 minutes 31.41 seconds to set them on a safe course for home at an initial speed of 5856 miles per hour. The Command Service Module (CSM) had completed 30 orbits of the Moon in 59 hours 30 minutes 26 seconds.

View of Lomonosov and Joliot craters, taken after Apollo-11 was en-route for Earth

As the Moon quickly receded behind them, the Apollo-11 crew snapped many pictures of it to use up some of their film, and then took the time for some much-needed rest, sleeping for about ten hours. Waking at 147:37:00 GET, they passed through the gravity hump between the moon and Earth about 30 minutes later, as they ate their breakfast 200,000 miles from the Earth and 39,000 miles from the Moon.
View of the receding Moon 1922 miles behind Apollo-11

Pinpointing the Landing Site

I mentioned in Part 2 that, because Commander Armstrong had to overfly the originally planned landing site to find safer terrain on which to put the LM down, the exact site of Tranquillity Base was uncertain. As they were returning to Earth, Mr. Armstrong made a casual remark during a debriefing that finally helped to pinpoint the exact location.

“I took a stroll back to a crater behind us that was maybe seventy or eighty feet in diameter and fifteen or twenty feet deep and took some pictures of it. It had rocks in the bottom….”


While that might not sound like much to those of us who are not geologists, it was just the description NASA’s lunar mapping team needed to identify the landing spot on their maps – an identification later confirmed by the 16mm film of the landing. We now know that Tranquillity Base is located at 0° 41'15" North latitude, 23° 25'45" East longitude. If only Armstrong had mentioned that crater before!

The Apollo-11 Show

At 155:36:00 GET the Apollo-11 crew presented an 18 minute television broadcast. The show began with views of the Moon, and Capcom Duke in Mission Control generated some amused banter when he misidentified the image of the Moon on his monitor as the Earth!

Would you mistake this Moon for the Earth? The image quality of the monitor Charles Duke was looking at was apparently very poor!

Mr. Armstrong showed the boxes of lunar samples and explained that they were vacuum packed on the lunar surface. Col. Aldrin provided a quick history of space food, showed how to make a weightless ham-spread sandwich, and then demonstrated the physics of gyroscopes (a lot more fascinating than reading it in a textbook).


For “all you kids” on Earth, Col. Collins showed how water clings to a spoon in zero-g, before demonstrating how the crew actually drank water using a water gun. The broadcast finished with a view of the approaching Earth.

Greg Saves the Day

As Apollo-11 sped towards the Earth, the Manned Space Flight Network tracking station in Guam, due to play an important role in the final stages of the mission, had a problem. A bearing seized from lack of grease had immobilised the antenna. A normal repair would take too long, and only a narrow hole could provide access for a quick fix—too small for the staff to reach the bearing through it.

View of the Guam Manned Space Flight Network Station

Eventually, Station Director Charles Force drafted his ten-year-old son, Greg, to help. The boy was able to slip his hand into the small opening and pack the bearing with grease, enabling the antenna to move again so that the station could continue its tracking support. I’m told that Neil Armstrong intends to thank Greg personally when the Apollo-11 crew visits the Guam station to thank the team for their mission support work. I'm sure it will be a wonderful surprise for the lad.

A Thoughtful Final Broadcast

Commencing at 177:32:00 GET, 105,150 miles from Earth, the Apollo-11 astronauts gave the final television broadcast of their mission, which began by referencing Jules Verne's "Del la Terre a la Lune" (From the Earth to the Moon) and included thoughtful commentaries on the contribution of the hundreds of thousands behind the scenes whose work had helped to make the mission a success. This was very much in keeping with the spirit in which the crew decided not to include their names on their mission patch, so that it could symbolise everyone involved.


Col. Collins pointed out the number of components involved in the Apollo spacecraft and expressed the crew’s confidence in their reliability. He likened the mission to the periscope of a submarine. “All you see is the three of us, but beneath the surface are thousands and thousands of others, and to all those, I would like to say thank you very much.”

During his talk, Col. Aldrin expanded on this idea: “We have come to the conclusion that this has been far more than three men on a voyage to the Moon. More still than the efforts of one nation. We feel that this stands as a symbol of the insatiable curiosity of all Mankind to explore the unknown.”


Finally, Mr. Armstrong concluded the broadcast with this tribute: “The responsibility for this flight lies first with history and with the giants of science who have preceded this effort. Next with the American people, who have through their will, indicated their desire. Next to four administrations and their Congresses for implementing that will. And then to the agency and industry teams that built our spacecraft […]. We would like to give a special thanks to all those Americans who built those spacecraft, who did the construction, design, the tests and put their their hearts and all their abilities into those craft.

"To those people tonight, we give a special thank you, and to all those people that are listening and watching tonight, God bless you. Good night from Apollo 11.”

View of the Earth from around 100,000 miles taken about an hour after the final television broadcast

Returning to Earth

As I’ve noted before, the entry corridor into the Earth’s atmosphere when returning from the Moon is extremely critical: too steep an entry would cause the spacecraft to burn up, while too shallow an entry would make it skip off the atmosphere and out into solar orbit, to be lost forever. Apollo-11’s re-entry corridor was 40 miles wide, and they would be coming in at 24,680mph! Consequently, before re-entry, the Apollo-11 crew jettisoned the Service Module at 189:28:35 GET, to re-enter and burn up separately. The 4.8 (imperial) ton Command Module would be the only part of the original 3,148-ton Apollo-Saturn vehicle that made this historic lunar voyage that returned to Earth.

Apollo-11's Service Module disintegrates and burns up on re-entry. This photo was captured by a NASA ARIA tracking aircraft

Re-entry commenced at 400,000ft, with the CM becoming engulfed in a fireball as it hit the denser air. The effects of gravity and deceleration subjected the Apollo-11 crew to stresses of up to 6.5g.

Skipping Home

Prior to re-entry, the astronauts had been informed that their splashdown point was being shifted 215 nautical miles due to a dangerous thunderstorm in the planned recovery area. This required the CM to make one final manoeuvre during re-entry to target the new splashdown site, about 1,000 miles south-west of Honolulu.

The gumdrop-shaped Command Module has a slight aerodynamic lift capability, and this was used to "fly" the extra distance downrange, by generating two short atmospheric “skips” (ones that would not cause the CM to fly off into space again!) during the re-entry.

Diagram showing how the CM's offset centre of mass results in a lift vector during entry, which provides the CM with some manoeuvrability

Then, right on time at 195:12:06 GET, the small drogue parachutes deployed, hauling out the three main orange-and-white striped parachutes and allowing Columbia to float gently down towards the Pacific Ocean.

Splashdown!

Dawn was just breaking as Columbia descended towards the recovery area, where 9,000 men in nine ships and fifty-four aircraft, spearheaded by the aircraft carrier USS Hornet, were waiting. 11 miles away from the Hornet, the spacecraft splashed down in the inverted position known as the Stable 2. In this position, the heavy side of the spacecraft goes downward leaving the hatch facing upwards, while the crew are upright but hanging forward in their harnesses at about 45°.

A low-resolution night vision camera image of the Apollo-11 splashdown, captured by a recovery helicopter. It is the only known image of this event

The historic first lunar landing mission came to an end at 195 hours, 18 minutes 35 seconds GET, 7.50am local Hawaii time on Thursday 24 July (2.50am 25 July for us here in Australia). Amazingly, and a tribute to the mission planners, this was just 24 seconds ahead of the time specified in the original flight plan! The return voyage from the Moon had taken 59 hours 36 minutes 52 seconds.

Taken some minutes later, when the daylight has increased, this photo shows the CM still in the inverted Stable 2 position

It took the floatation bags almost 8 minutes to flip the CM the right way up (Stable 1 position), which allowed the frogmen recovery crews to access to the spacecraft hatch. Although the waves were only about three or four feet, rumour has it that the astronauts were glad they had taken the precaution of swallowing seasickness tablets before re-entry commenced!

Returning Heroes – and Biological Hazards!

Although it has been generally accepted for some time that the Moon is likely a dead and sterile world, an overabundance of caution encouraged the treatment of the returning astronauts, their spacecraft and the lunar samples, as potential biological hazards – just in case there is some unknown form of microbial life on the Moon that might be pathogenic to Earthly lifeforms.

So while the Apollo-11 crew may have returned to Earth as heroes for accomplishing the first successful lunar landing, they were initially treated in a most unheroic way – as potential carriers of contagion! Biological Isolation Garment (BIGs) were tossed through the CM hatch to the astronauts by one of the recovery frogmen. Then, looking like aliens themselves in their masked isolation garments, the astronauts exited the hatch and climbed into a rubber dinghy, spraying each other down with Sodium Hypochlorite.

A recovery helicopter then transferred Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins to the Hornet, where they were immediately installed in the Mobile Quarantine Facility (MQF), a converted Airstream caravan in which they would spend the next three weeks in isolation, supported by volunteer medical personnel. As they set foot on the deck of the Hornet, its band – at President Nixon's request, in honour of the crew and their spacecraft – played "Columbia, Gem of the Ocean".


It was here that President Nixon, who had travelled to the recovery zone to greet the returning astronauts, welcomed the historic crew back to Earth standing outside the MQF’s viewing window.

President Nixon and the Apollo-11 crew in quarantine bow their heads as the USS Hornet's chaplain offers a prayer of thanksgiving for their safe return

Mission Control Celebrates

As the big screens in Mission Control displayed televised images of Columbia floating safely in the Pacific swell, the room erupted in celebration! Excited flight controllers and NASA officials waved flags and smoked the traditional splashdown cigars. When the news came that the astronauts were safely on board the USS Hornet and Mission Control’s responsibility was over the euphoria became even more fervent. It was especially satisfying for them to have met President Kennedy’s deadline and a new image flashed up on the big screen, saying “Task accomplished July, 1969”. 


Congratulatory messages were also sent to the tracking stations around the word that had supported the Apollo-11 mission. Their personnel, too, felt a deep pride in the accomplishment, and their part in it.

The Last Leg of Columbia’s Journey

With its crew whisked away to quarantine, Columbia, bobbing in the ocean, was scrubbed down with Betadyne by the recovery crew, to kill any external contamination it might be carrying. It was then winched aboard the USS Hornet and positioned next to the MQF, so that the two could be connected by a flexible tunnel. This allowed the retrieval of the Moon rocks and other items into the MQF without contaminating the surrounding environment. Like the crew, the interior of the CM was ‘in quarantine’ for 21 days.


After the Hornet docked at Pearl Harbor on 26 July, NASA engineers saved the spacecraft at Ford Island in Honolulu, removing any residual thruster propellants and other hazardous materials before it was transferred by cargo plane to Houston for quarantine in the Lunar Receiving Laboratory (LRL) in Building 37 of the Manned Spacecraft Centre (MSC).


Columbia finally left the confines of the LRL on 14 August, to be sent back to its manufacturer, North American Rockwell, in Downey, California. Engineers are currently giving her a thorough inspection. Once this is completed, Columbia will be sent to the Smithsonian Institution where this historic spacecraft will eventually be displayed.

Moon Rock Movements

Apollo-11’s lunar samples, literally priceless in both scientific and monetary terms, have made their own separate journey to the LRL in Houston.

After being retrieved from Columbia into the MQF, the sealed boxes were released to NASA officials via the MQF’s transfer lock. Within a few hours of splashdown, the first box of Moon rocks was flown from the USS Hornet to the US Air Force base at Johnston Island in the Pacific, where it was transferred to a cargo plane and sent on to Houston. Just eight hours later it arrived at Ellington Air Force Base near the Manned Spacecraft Centre, from which the container was ferried by two NASA officials to the LRL.


Less than 48 hours after splashdown, the first box of precious lunar samples was opened inside a glovebox at the LRL, and its contents began to be documented. I’m delighted to note that New Zealand-born Australian National University geochemist, my friend Prof. Ross Taylor, has played a significant role in setting up the chemical analysis section of the LRL and is right now carrying out the first emission spectroscopy analysis of Apollo-11’s samples.

Prof. Ross Taylor (left) carrying out an analysis of an Apollo-11 sample at the LRL using an emission spectrograph

While his results are not yet available, the initial findings from other parts of the lab indicate that the lunar rocks are igneous in origin and point to past, if not current, volcanic activity on the Moon. Coupled with some early detections from the seismograph that was left on the Moon as part of the EASEP instruments, some geologists are suggesting that this provides evidence for the Earth and the Moon having a common origin.

Other initial findings are that there is very little evidence of water, and no indications of life in the lunar rocks and regolith, and that the regolith itself contains unusual microscopic spherical glass particles. Dating of some of the samples suggests they could be around 3.6 billion years old, which is the estimated age of the Solar System and the discovery of such ancient rocks has surprised many geologists.

Mice and other animals and plants exposed to lunar materials have so far shown no signs of infection or disease, and neither have the Apollo-11 crew, who were released from quarantine on August 11, leading NASA to indicate that it will generously distribute samples of lunar materials to researchers around the world in September.

A Long Journey Home for the Astronauts

With the Apollo-11 crew confined in the MQF, once the USS Hornet arrived at Pearl Harbour a crane carefully lifted the quarantine facility and its human occupants from the aircraft carrier onto a flat-bed trailer. After a brief welcoming ceremony, the MQF was transported to Hickam Air Force Base, from where it was flown to Houston.


Despite the 2am arrival on July 27, the astronauts’ wives and children were there to welcome them home, along with a large crowd of well-wishers. From inside the MQF, the astronauts could talk with their families by telephone and see them through the window, but a more affectionate homecoming was still weeks away. The MQF was then transferred to the LRL, where the sealed Crew Reception Area (CRA) provided more expansive living and working quarters for the Apollo-11 astronauts for the duration of their quarantine.


Although confined to the CRA, Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins were not idle, writing their mission reports, and conducting press conferences and mission debriefings from a glass-enclosed conference room. Their health was monitored on a daily basis, without the astronauts ever showing any signs of illness or ill-effects from their sojourn on the lunar surface. They even celebrated Armstrong’s 39th birthday with a surprise party!


On the evening of 10 August, Mr. Armstrong, Col. Aldrin and Col. Collins were finally released from quarantine, stepping out of the CRA to be welcomed by NASA officials and large number of reporters before they were whisked away home by car for long-awaited reunions with their families.

Instant Celebrities

After a day of relaxation at home, the Apollo-11 crew faced a packed press conference on 12 August, where they were greeted with a standing ovation. Referring to the Apollo programme as a “great adventure”, the astronauts spent 45 minutes describing their historic mission in great detail and illustrating it with photographs and film clips taken during the flight. Among the questions they then received from the reporters, Armstrong was asked whether he believed that one day women could become astronauts, to which he promptly replied, “Gosh, I hope so!”

The next day, at the invitation of President Nixon, the astronauts and their families embarked on a day-long whirlwind celebratory tour across the United States, travelling on the presidential jet for the occasion.


From Ellington Air Force Base they flew to New York City, where they were treated to the “largest, longest, and loudest” tickertape parade in the city’s history, with an estimated four million people lining the parade route. After being awarded the gold medal of New York City, the astronauts continued to the United Nations, where UN Secretary General U Thant welcomed them, and they made a brief speech.


Whisked from New York to Chicago, this time around two million people turned out to see the Apollo-11 crew in a tickertape parade through Chicago’s downtown. At the Civic Centre Plaza, a crowd estimated at 100,000 saw the astronauts made honorary citizens of the city, before a final stop on the way back to the airport, at which they addressed a crowd of 15,000 young people.

The final leg of this exhausting day was a visit to Los Angeles, to attend a state dinner hosted by President Nixon, the first ever to be held outside of Washington, DC. 1,440 guests assembled for the event, including the President and Vice President and their families, 14 members of the President’s Cabinet, 44 Governors, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, 50 members of Congress, NASA Administrator Thomas Paine and 48 astronauts, ambassadors from 83 countries and numerous Hollywood celebrities – it seems that everyone wants to meet the Apollo-11 astronauts!

Apollo-11 crew and their wives with Vice-President Agnew, President Nixon, and their wives at the Los Angeles gala

Those of you in the US were, I understand, able to see this dinner televised live, which must have been an interesting show. Fittingly, Guidance Controller Steve Bales, who had given the Moon landing the “Go” to proceed despite the guidance computer’s programme alarms, accepted a NASA Group Achievement Award on behalf of the entire flight operations team. President Nixon also presented Mr. Armstrong, Col. Aldrin, and Col. Collins with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the United States’ highest civilian honour.

The Price of Fame

The following day, accompanied by NASA Administrator Paine, the astronauts and their families flew back to Houston aboard the presidential jet, but it seems their post-flight celebrity is only ramping up. On 15 August the Apollo-11 crew taped a major television interview, during which Col. Collins announced his decision that he would remain with NASA but make no more space flights. The next day, Houston turned on its own welcome for the astronauts with another tickertape parade, attended by about 250,000, followed by a barbecue for an estimated 50,000 invited guests, MC’d by Frank Sinatra.

Neil Armstrong and his wife Jan buried in tickertape during the Houston parade

The Apollo-11 astronauts are not only American heroes, they are also heroes to the world, and the United States intends to use that fame by sending the crew and their families on a global goodwill tour next month. I just hope that they can cope with the hectic pace of their new-found celebrity – I know I wouldn’t have the stamina for such an intense schedule of public appearances – and that the price of this fame will not be too high for the astronauts' families and their marriages.

During the state dinner in Los Angeles, Col. Aldrin summed up the significance of Apollo-11 saying, “The footprints on the Moon are a true symbol of the human spirit… they show we can do what we want to do, what we must do, and what we will do…”

I think those words make a fitting conclusion to my series of articles on Apollo-11, so I’ll sign off here and leave you all to reflect on this momentous and historic mission.

First day cover celebrating the suggestion that the day of the Moon landing becomes Day One of a new universal calendar!






[August 18, 1969] Tarnished Silver (August Galactoscope Part 2!)

by Brian Collins

The market has been changing violently over the past few years—perhaps for the better, perhaps not. As someone who came to love science fiction through the magazines little over a decade ago, it pains me to see those magazines either discontinued or struggling to adapt with the times. There are, of course, one or two exceptions. For those who see fresh potential in original anthologies, though, it's hard to argue with the results—even if, say, Damon Knight's Orbit series has offered mixed results.

The latest one-off anthology, Three for Tomorrow (the editor is uncredited, but I've heard rumors that Robert Silverberg is the mastermind behind this volume), features three new novellas from Robert Silverberg, Roger Zelazny, and James Blish, plus a foreword from Arthur C. Clarke explaining the anthology's intriguing premise.

Three for Tomorrow

Cover art by Barry Martin.[/caption]

Foreword, by Arthur C. Clarke

In just a couple pages, the venerated Arthur C. Clarke sums up what the ‘60s will probably be remembered for: a historical text written in blood. Clarke cites, among other things, the Charles Whitman shooting back in ‘63, that massive blackout in the northeast back in ‘65, and of course, Lee Harvey Oswald.

Clarke then asks a rather curious question: “When will some Lee Harvey Oswald attempt to assassinate a city—or a world?” Thus the following stories will presumably share a theme of sorts, although as we’re told in the editor’s introduction, Silverberg, Zelazny, and Blish wrote totally independently of each other.

No rating for the foreword.

How It Was When the Past Went Away, by Robert Silverberg

The first novella is also the longest, at a solid eighty pages. More of a tapestry than a focused narrative, we follow a number of characters in San Francisco after a disgruntled man taints the city’s water supply with an experimental drug—said drug causing selective amnesia. The year is 2003, where robots handle much of the manual labor and people get their news through the “data-net,” the problem now being that not everyone remembers it’s 2003. We follow, among others, a famous sculptor who has sunk into a hilarious amount of debt with several corporations, a magician or “mnemonist” who has an existential crisis after part of his memory has been wiped, a doctor who has been guilt-ridden for the past decade because of a family tragedy he holds himself responsible for, a decorated war veteran who only drinks bottled water out of paranoia (I suspect this is a deliberate reference to Dr. Strangelove’s General Ripper), and I could go on a bit more. None of these characters could be considered “the hero,” but while the story is short on anyone individually sympathetic, we do get a rather colorful ensemble cast as compensation.

Silveberg has been writing at a furious pace for the past few years, apparently having come to maturity since he started writing fiction again back in—was it ‘63? I was impressed with The Man in the Maze when it ran in If last year, and “How It Was When the Past Went Away” further hints at a growing maturity, although it has a few issues that weigh on it.

The most immediate problem is that it is overstuffed for a novella, with more characters than the reader could reasonably keep track of, most of them one-note. The women (the wives and secretaries, as nobody else of the female persuasion seems to exist here) get it the worst. Silverberg is able to conceive a believable future San Francisco in which technology has largely been computerized and creditors come in the form of robots with automated messaging, but for some reason he struggles to conceive female characters who do not exist simply to be stared at. There is a curious subplot in which a husband and wife have forgotten getting divorced, because of the drug, and so work to reform their relationship; but again it feels undercooked, because the wife is written less like a person and more like something to be gained. Overall this story would not win awards for character psychology.

I’m prefacing my complaints just to get them out of the way, because what Silverberg does right is certainly commendable. Between this and some other recent stories (especially the novels), Silverberg has been hunting intellectual big game. The San Francisco of 2003 is vividly and believably realized, sort of coming off as like a Stand on Zanzibar in miniature, but the thematic implications of the drug at the story’s center are ultimately what give it a certain heft and a sense of foreboding. Silverberg seems to posit that if we really value our own happiness that we would choose to forget our past trauma, or at least some of it; yet the fact that characters struggle to come to terms with forgetting part of their pasts implies that we do value something more about ourselves than our happiness. If only we could articulate what that is. Alienation has been a recurring theme for Silverberg since at least “To See the Invisible Man,” but here he tethers it to our sense of memory and how our memories can connect us with other people. The shared amnesia for the people in this story becomes its own moment of collective memory for them, which I have to admit is a lovely idea. If we were able to forget then we would be happier, but then would we also become slightly less human? And would the inverse be true, that by remembering we become more human?

A high three stars, but I feel Silverberg could have very feasibly tweaked it to bring it up to four. I also would not be surprised if we see a novel expansion in the future.

The Eve of RUMOKO, by Roger Zelazny

He’s only been around half a dozen years or so at this point, but Zelazny has quickly become one of my favorite writers to have coincided with the New Wavers. I do fear, however, that despite still being quite young he has already taken to repeating himself. To make a long story short, “The Eve of RUMOKO” (so named “after the Maori god of volcanoes and earthquakes”) is about Project RUMOKO, in which nuclear explosives are used deep underwater to raise up volcanic islands. In “How It Was When the Past Went Away” society’s stability is threatened by a tainted water supply, but with Zelazny’s story the underlying problem is overpopulation. Project RUMOKO may provide additional land for human habitation, but the ecological consequences of these new islands could be severe—never mind the effect on societies that already live in undersea domes. Our narrator/protagonist, “Albert Scwheitzer” (he makes it clear that this is not his real name, which we never learn), has been brought on ostensibly as an engineer, but his real job is as a private detective—in the case of Project RUMOKO, to find the culprit behind what seem to be attempts at sabotage.

To give credit where credit’s due, we don’t often see SF and detective fiction cross-pollinating, for reasons that have mostly to do with the fact that you have to provide both suspense and plausibility when writing a mystery in an SF setting. Or to put it another way, how would you provide a plausible mystery in a setting where presumably developments in technology would make it harder to get away with a crime? Zelazny sidesteps this by having the setting be mostly grounded, as in not too different from what we now recognize, other than that humanity has become overcrowded enough that even the aforementioned undersea domes have proven to not be enough. Given how islands are naturally formed, it isn’t too far a stretch to imagine man-made islands as a possible solution to overpopulation. Whatever other problems this story has, at least it remains internally consistent. Zelazny, when he tries, has an imagination that can be disarming.

Unfortunately, while the bones of the story are arguably new territory, the meat and organs are not. “The Eve of RUMOKO” is a Frankenstein monster comprised of at least three previous Zelazny stories, namely “The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth,” “This Moment of the Storm,” and “The Keys to December,” each of these a very good story in its own right. The problem is that when you throw these three stories into a stew to form a fourth, the result reads like Zelazny is coasting for the most part. It doesn’t help that “Schweitzer” might be the moodiest and most insufferable protagonist in what is becoming a rather long line of moody and insufferable Zelazny protagonists, all men, all interchangeable: He smokes like a chimney, is cool with the ladies, and is even able to outsmart a couple of goons in a drawn-out interrogation sequence. I’m also becoming tired of Zelazny’s penchant for using mythological symbolism as a crutch, especially (such as here) when he cribs from non-European cultures for his material. Overall I found the experience concerning—not in a vacuum but rather in conjunction with Zelazny’s previous work.

Taken simply on its own it’s a perfectly fine story, perhaps three stars; but with Zelazny I expected a lot more.

We All Die Naked, by James Blish

Blish’s story is the shortest and darkest of the bunch, both in its premise and implications. It’s also the best. This is the only story of the three which follows through on Clarke’s foreword, in the sense that technology has actually contributed to apocalyptic conditions. Blish speculates here that if humanity is doomed, it’s because of the sheer amount of waste we produce, and how much of that waste can’t be destroyed. We’re told that by the end of the 1980s sea levels will have risen enough to submerge the world’s coasts, including Manhattan, which aside from the crunched timetable (I seriously doubt people will be traveling via canoe in the city in thirty years’ time) sounds plausible enough. The problem is twofold: how much waste we produce and how we might (or might not) be able to dispose of said waste. For example, nuclear power is perhaps more efficient when it comes to producing waste than burning coal, but nuclear waste is hazardous long-term, and there isn’t a foolproof way to dispose of it. Thus, Blish posits, we (or at least Earth) will be doomed in the end.

The protagonist is a union leader who has been called on to pick three men and six women to board a shuttle for the moon—no children allowed. The idea is that while Earth may be doomed, tiny colonies of humanity can be saved. People are chosen based on fertility and each group leader’s personal preference, children and presumably the elderly being left behind. The situation is bleak. I do have a few quibbles first, none of which I could consider a major issue at least by itself. Aside from the crunched timetable there are some odd asides made via the third-person narrator, such as a certain bureaucrat being singled out as “an obvious homosexual,” along with the few female characters at times being described in unflattering terms. Characters are also fluent in what we would call Expositionese, and a fair portion of the wordage is spent on monologues detailing how the world got to this sorry state. I also have to warn the reader that this story stops abruptly, quite literally in the middle of a sentence such that I was unsure at first if this was deliberate or a misprint; but I’ve since come to think the abrupt (and hopeless) ending is quite deliberate.

Something SF and horror have in common is the capacity to ask disturbing questions, in that these questions dislodge the reader’s complacency. Blish asks a simple but brutal one: “Would mankind be able to survive without our possessions, and even our waste?” Would we be able to bury Shakespeare, or even personal items which possess only sentimental value, for the sake of the race’s survival? Blush supposes we wouldn’t. While there is a tangible irony to the plot, along with stylistic flourishes (there’s a cat named Splat!, with the exclamation point as part of the name) that suggest Blish is trying to fit in with the New Wave crowd, the impending doom of “We All Die Naked” evokes the God of Abraham rather than a comedy act. This is Blish at his most merciless, even if his shortcomings as a writer (his inelegant dialogue, his uncharitable attitude towards his female characters) work to form cracks in the armor.

It’s imperfect, but it still has a haunting power. Four stars.

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

Up the Line, by Robert Silverberg

[We received this review of the novel version of "Up the Line" at almost the same time as we received John Boston's commentary on the serialized version. We considered both articles to be worth reading, even if "Up the Line" might not be… -ED]

But we're not done with Silverberg! He's said recently that he refuses to write anything purely for money now, which implies artistic integrity, but that hasn't slowed down his output much. His latest novel, Up the Line, started its serial run in Amazing Stories a couple months ago, but you can now read the full novel, uncensored (it's a very dirty novel) and in paperback. Unfortunately this might be the worst novel Silveberg has written since he returned to writing half a dozen years ago. It's such a misshapen creature of a book that I honestly have to wonder what Silverberg meant by it.

Cover art by Ron Walotsky.

Ever since the invention of time travel, one's notion of objective time has broken down, with only "now-time" being taken into account—in this case now-time is 2059. Judson Elliott III is a new recruit as a Time Courier, whose job basically involves being a guide and babysitter for a bunch of rich tourists. Time travel has been commercialized such that notable events in history are industries unto themselves, especially the deaths of famous people. The crucifixion of Jesus Christ and the assassination of Huey Long are just two examples, in which the crowds gathering around the slain historical figures are at least partly comprised of time travelers.

Silverberg goes to great lengths to rationalize how such a business would work, so much in fact that for about the first seventy pages of this 250-page novel the plot is all but nonexistent. This isn't necessarily a negative, or at least it didn't have to be. We grow accustomed to Jud's new profession, the rules he is expected to follow, and the few friends he makes among the fellow Couriers, including Sam, a white man's idea of a black man, and Capistrano, a melancholy fellow who fantasizes about committing suicide in a rather odd fashion—by going back in time and murdering one of his own ancestors, thereby preventing his own birth.

Up the Line works on the presumption that you, the reader, are already thoroughly familiar with the time travel genre. The Time Patrol, a police faction whose job specifically calls for making sure the Couriers and their clients don't destroy mankind through some paradox, could be a hat tip to Poul Anderson's own Time Patrol, or even the late H. Beam Piper's Paratime Police. And why not? Any time travel story written in the past five years or so would have to draw comparisons with, among other things, Robert Heinlein's masterful "'—All You Zombies—'," which similarly concerns sex and how it might act as a catalyst for time paradoxes. However, while the sex in Heinlein's little jewel of a story is kept offscreen, there are quite a few scenes in Silverberg's novel that could be considered pornographic. Something Jud quickly learns about the Time Service is that the Couriers are almost too busy chasing tail to look after their clients, and the women they chase after are (somehow) always willing. The biggest hedonist of them all has to be Themistoklis Metaxas, a senior Courier who, quite opposite from Capistrano, goes out of his way to bed the female members of his own ancestry. Incest ends up playing such a prominent role in the novel that it's basically responsible for the plot even starting in earnest, as Metaxas's roguish behavior inspires Jud to think about the incest taboo with regards to his own ancestry.

The problem with Up the Line is that it's quite a bad novel, to my mind, and yet it's easy to see how other readers might think it's another victory for Silverberg. Who doesn't love a good time paradox? Not to mention the rampant sex, which will draw in younger readers and those who are predisposed to think about sex regularly (and I admittedly fall into both of those groups), while at the same time reminding us that the New Wave is here to stay. The locations are exotic, especially the fulcrum of the action, that being Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul across the centuries, the city which Metaxas frequents so often as to have residency there. There are constipated passages in which the action ceases so that Jud (read: Silverberg) can educate us on, for example, what rural life was like in 12th century Byzantium. The amateur historian's passion for his subject can be infectious, which I think was what Silverberg was counting on, so that he might distract us from how uneventful this book really is. If I were to keep only the necessary background information and Jud's quest to trace his family lineage backwards, I would have cut the novel in half, to have it squeezed nicely into one half of an Ace Double. Remove most of the sex scenes and historical tangents, and you would have maybe a long novella. It doesn't help that by lingering so long on the mechanics of his time travel business, Silverberg invites us to poke holes in it. Indeed, why are the Time Service and Time Patrol separate organizations? Why is it so easy to abuse such a fragile system? How have we not been devolved to the state of primordial ooze thanks to some tourist stepping on a butterfly?

So there isn't enough action to sustain this 250-page novel. So what? The ideas are ambitious, and deliberately headache-inducing. What about the characters? Indeed, what about them. As I was reading Up the Line, I was intrigued but also at times disgusted—intrigued by the precarious relationship between the Couriers and the fabric of time they play with, and disgusted by the Couriers themselves. Jud starts out as sex-starved and only becomes more preoccupied with the notion of bedding a distant ancestor of his, namely the 17-year-old Pulcheria Dulca, in Byzantium. "It was lust at first sight," as Jud tells us; and of course Pulcheria, despite being married, is perfectly eager to go to bed with him. Truth be told, I've become concerned that Silverberg does not see women as fully autonomous beings, with their own interior lives and ambitions. The women in this book are granted even less personality than Sam, who himself is a caricature, with even Pulcheria barely qualifying as a character. There are also some comments Jud makes about a few female characters younger than Pulcheria (including a disturbing episode in which he encounters his own mother as a five-year-old) that I found revolting. I do mean this with the intention of giving some offense when I say Up the Line reads almost more like a Piers Anthony novel than Silverberg.

Pains me to say this, but I must give it two stars.






[August 16, 1969] Soaring high and low (August 1969 Galactoscope)


by Victoria Silverwolf

Ladies of Darkness

Two very different novels by women fell into my hands this month. Just about the only thing they have in common is a downbeat mood. Even that, however, is treated in highly dissimilar ways by the authors. Let's take a look.

Shadows of Tomorrow, by Dorothy Daniels


Anonymous cover art. Woman running away from a mansion that has a light in one window? Must be a Gothic Romance.

The setting is Connecticut in 1895. The narrator is a nineteen-year-old woman named Cassandra whose mother has just died. Her father died soon after her birth, and she spent almost of all of her life in boarding school. Returning for her mother's funeral, she is dismayed by the fact that the only other mourners are her mother's second husband, who left her some years ago, and her mother's faithful Gypsy companion.

Her mother had the ability to predict the future. The villagers thought of her as a witch. Adding to their superstitious fear was a mysterious light that appeared in the sky at the time of her death.

Cassandra (an appropriate name, as we'll see) settles into the family home with the Gypsy and her stepfather. In true Gothic fashion, she wanders into the cellar in order to investigate a noise, only to barely escape being strangled by an unknown assailant. It soon turns out that Cassandra also has precognition, which she considers to be a curse rather than a gift.

Other Gothic elements include a séance conducted by the Gypsy, a secret room in the mansion, and a murder. Since this is also a Romance, we have a handsome young stranger show up.

The novel definitely follows the pattern of a Gothic Romance. Fans of that genre, or of the Gothic soap opera Dark Shadows will find it satisfactory, if less than original. It's a quick, easy read, suitable for light entertainment of an enjoyable spooky nature.

Three stars.

A Sweet Sweet Summer, by Jane Gaskell


More anonymous cover art.

The narrator is a young man named Pelham, known as Pel. He is also called Rat. In a dystopian near future, he and his father run their home as a combination boarding house and brothel. His cousin Frijja shows up, having barely survived a brutal attack. You see, the aliens told him to take her in.

The aliens? Yes, it seems that gigantic extraterrestrial spaceships hover over the British Isles. A force field isolates the inhabitants from the rest of the world, leading to a breakdown in society. The aliens send messages to people in the form of small talking spheres, something like ball bearings. Failure to obey their orders leads to disintegration.

The aliens put various parts of London under the control of gangs, some Communist and some Fascist. Early in the book, Frijja defends the home from an invasion by the Fascists in a violent way. That doesn't prevent them from taking over pretty soon anyway.

The other major character is Connor, one of the Fascists. Pel is obsessed by him, although he tells the reader that it's not in a sexual or romantic way. (Frankly, methinks the fellow doth protest too much.) In turn, Connor is obsessed by Frijja. This triple relationship is complicated, blending love and hate in strange ways. It's also the heart of the book.

Without going into the myriad plot complications, let's just say that this unlikely trio goes on an odyssey through a transformed England. Along the way we get more violence, rape, sexual blackmail, and cannibalism.

This is a very grim book, as you can tell, although it's also got moments of bitter humor. Despite the aliens, who never show up in person, it's much more like A Clockwork Orange than Childhood's End. The narrative style is dense and eccentric, so this is a book that requires careful reading.

Five stars.


The Older Generation and the Newer Generation


by Jason Sacks

The Three Faces of Time, by Frank Belknap Long

I usually love writing for this column. I have tremendous fun exploring the work of promising new writers, or obscure works to which I can provide some attention, or even to celebrate the work of an acknowledged science fiction master.

But it provides me no joy to discuss The Three Faces of Time by Frank Belknap Long.

Mr. Long, born in 1901, has a long and distinguished career in science fiction and horror. He's published dozens of books which often sit in the uneasy and unsettling boundary between science fiction and horror. His many short stories were foundational in the golden years of the classic Weird Tales pulp, often sitting side by side in a given issue next to his close friend H.P.  Lovecraft and exploring similar mythos and settings.

I frankly love the classic work of Messers. Long and Lovecraft for their gothic, creeping horrors and their inescapable dark energy.

But that work was released 30 plus years ago, and I'm sad to say that Mr. Long, now well into his Social Security years, is no longer the writer he used to be. Or, more accurately, he's too much like the writer he used to be.

The Three Faces of Time is, frankly, a bore. The writing is turgid, characters are wafer thin, and the plot simply refuses to become interesting.

A flying saucer has landed in a small suburban town. When people go to investigate the thunderous sound the spaceship makes, they become lost in a maze of incomprehensible pathways and confusing signposts, which all serve to alienate all the people from their environments.

We follow Susan Wentworth as she tries to find her husband and her children in such a space, where she does eventually catch up with the family – and some mysterious aliens. The strange creatures then transport the humans thousands of years into the future in search of some sort of truth about human immortality – or something like that. I think that's what happened; my attention kept wandering as I tried to make my way through endless thickets of run-on sentences, inhuman dialogue and exhausting conceptual obtuseness.

This would be a fun book in the hands of a more modern writer like Ellison or Brunner, who would highlight the confusion or the characters' existential doubt. Dick would have made the leads more full of angst, and LeGuin would have chonicled the beauty of the aliens' worldview. But Long is not of the newer generation. He reads like a man who's 68 years old and who time, sadly, has left behind.

I regret I have to give this book 1 star.

The Wizards of Senchuria, by Kenneth Bulmer

After my frustrating experience with Mr. Long's book, I was anxious for something that felt fresh, breezy and contemporary.

The Wizards of Senchuria by Kenneth Bulmer was just what I needed.

I've had mixed experiences in the past in reading Mr. Bulmer's fiction. But this book was pure joy for me.

Senchuria is a breezy and bright story. It's a kind of updated version of the high-adventure stories which accompanied work by Lovecraft and Long in the old pulps, but updated for a more modern audience.


Scobie Redfern is a guy in his 20s on the way home from a game of tennis at a Lower Mahattan gym on a cold and snowy night. Scobie calls a cab, but at the same moment another man jumps into the taxi with him. The cabbie talks them both into sharing the vehicle, but quickly odd things start happening. Scobie catches a glimpse of a strange creature who seems to attack the car, and when his fellow passenger persuades Scobie to stop for a drink, a burger, and an explanation, so begins the wildest experience of Scobie's life.

Scobie soon finds himself in an adventure he hardly could have imagined, involving strange portals, terrifying creatures, love, hate, fear, battles on a grand scale, and the kind of nonstop adventurous life that would make a Robert E. Howard character feel exhausted.

This is one of those books where each chapter ends in a cliffhanger before the tension and silliness of the story rachets up even further, a wild, high-tension ride which gets much of its power from the reader wondering how much longer Bulmer can sustain his high-wire act.

Rest assured that everything in Kelly Freas's delightful cover actually happens in the book!

Maybe this book hit me so hard because I was so disappointed in the F.K. Long book above, but this was a thorough delight. The Wizards of Senchuria won't contend for a Hugo, but it's a nearly perfect half of an Ace Double.

4 stars.



by Victoria Lucas

The Edible Woman

Author Margaret Atwood and I are nearly the same age (she has a couple years on me). But she has published 5 books of poetry, and written a libretto–so far–and I'm sure she'll keep ahead of me. She has also just published this, her first novel. I've been wanting to read her work, especially since it (a) smacks of feminism at first glance, and (b) was written by a native of Canada, a country to which my husband and I aspire, and which we may yet reach as we slowly move north.


by John Schoenherr

I am a proud Stanford University alumna thanks to that university’s help finding me the money to go to school (student loan, job). As I understand it, the faculty have always believed that the school is not just there to teach about what students are going to do in life, but also help them discover what kind of person they will become. Clearly, as far as Atwood’s fictional alumna, Marian, is concerned, the school she attended (University of Toronto by the geographical and environmental clues) failed on both counts.

She is lost and feels formless, trying to understand what is required of her and fit into the molds offered. Every now and then she attempts to escape, finding some ease from the pressure of becoming a woman in today's society by running off the rails.

People in her life are mostly in a similar state of becoming and are extremely puzzled when she tries to run away–with one exception, a man she seeks without realizing she is looking for him. Clearly he has run off the rails himself and is possibly dangerous. But for Marian, sometimes danger is preferable to the destination of the tracks, perceived by her as motherhood (of which she is frightened) within marriage (although her roommate is at first set on motherhood alone), a job that is boring and expected to disappear with marriage, a life as a consumer of products such as girdles (worn by "vulcanized" women), and meals of real-life, killed animals.

Starting with strong reactions to types and cuts of meat reminiscent of the living beast, she begins crossing foods off her list of possible edibles as she tries to stay the course to the arms of her fiancé and their upcoming wedding. In a supermarket she “resents” the music because she knows it is only there to lull consumers like her into a euphoric state in which they will buy anything; her own fingers twitch to reach away from the market basket and pick up something–anything–with a "bright label." (I particularly identify with this: not only do I dislike the music itself, but I wish they would leave my mind alone, and I start talking to the speakers and gloomily thinking about bringing wire cutters and stair steps to the store.) After awhile, most foods are eliminated from her diet until she makes something she can eat.

Atwood’s book is funny with a dark humor, growing darker and funnier as Marian’s story unfolds. I give it 5 stars. Beautifully done.


photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Out of the Mouth of the Dragon, by Mark S. Geston


by John Schoenherr

The Biblical book of Revelations foretells of the final battle between Good and Evil.  In this second book by Mark S. Geston (author of Lords of the Starship, which seems to be something of a prequel), Armageddon was just the first of climactic battles, subsequent ones being told of in the Book of Survivors, the Book of Eric, the Dialogues of Moreth.  Thousands of years later, the diminishing forces of Earth, spurred on by crusading fury, continue to clash.  The last ships, the remaining aircraft, the pitiful remnants of humanity are all drawn, sooner or later, to fight what will hopefully be the last fight at "The Meadows."

Born into this world is Amon VanRoarke, an aimless naif who finds motivation when the prophet Timonias comes to town on an ancient, motor-powered merchantman.  The holy man's words fill VanRoarke with the urge to sail to The Meadows, not necessarily to fight, but simply to discover what has happened to the battered Earth, what consumes men to combat to the end.

So he sails on the Garnet, along with the drunken and dying veteran, Tapp, the religion-crazed Yarrow, and the half-sane ex-librarian Smythe, the last of whom has some borrowed knowledge of what the world was, though not why it's become what it has.  Eventually, they arrive at The Burn that borders The Meadows, where a mighty army is encamped and ready to fight.  There too is the "rim army", a force of strangers, origin (as yet) unknown.  The stage is set for…something, but not what you expect.

Dragon is very much a mood piece, a commentary on the futility of war, and perhaps even of humanity (or at least, this cast of humanity).  If Ballard were to write a catastrophe book, where the catastrophe is the red-steeded Horseman of the Apocalypse, this might well be the result.  It's downbeat, descriptive, brooding, and more than a little surreal.  It reminds me a little of the endlessly warring tankers of the Great Plains in John M. Foucette's post-apocalyptic The Age of Ruin, but more compelling, more deliberately written.

It's not a happy book, but it is an interesting one, and I had no trouble tearing through most of it in a single reading.

3.5 stars—others might rate it higher.



by George Pritchard

Rip-Roaring and Rollicking

As I have heard mixed reports about Lin Carter, it gives me great joy to report that his newest collection, Beyond the Gates of Dream, is simply delightful. The collection is written as a deliberate throwback to serial fiction and the heyday of Weird Tales, and in that sector, Carter (what a suitable name!) thrives. In this era of the New, Carter's writing can often seem antediluvian, so it is a joy to see those fins and gills be used as they were meant to be.


by Jeff Jones

My favorite story was actually the first, “Masters of the Metropolis”. Written with Randall Garrett, it describes the main character going from New Jersey to New York City in the modern day, except that he has “Wonder-sense” — the ability to see the incredible wonder that exists all around us.
Four stars.

“Keru” is one of the shortest stories in the collection, a Floridian horror story right out of Weird Tales. It has one of two female characters in the book, which is both accurate to the era Carter is recreating, and to Carter's sensibility as an author. Its racial politics are somewhat muddled, but it is leagues ahead of what Campbell is putting out.
Four stars.

The closest to New Wave that Carter gets is in “Owlstone”, but it's firmly in the slow, thoughtful realm of New Wave, rather than anything close to sexuality and gender. I enjoyed it, particularly the ending. The story is from the perspective of a slave creature, who is used by the leader of Earth to fly through space and meet with the leaders of other planets. Called to communicate with the computer who commands the universe, the leaders discover they are being replaced by computers. But what will happen to the slave creatures?
Four stars.

“Harvey Hodges, Veebelfetzer” is an attempt at a SFF comedy epic short story. There is potential in it, but it is all so tangled up with early-author nonsense that should have been trimmed back long ago that even said author apologizes for its existence. It is not bad in a way that makes me angry, but it needed considerably more work, that it did not necessarily justify. It’s definitely the weakest of the lot.
Two stars.

There are two sections of unfinished stories, which I am not rating. The stories are not finished, so it does not seem fair to judge them just yet.

Admittedly, this collection is best taken in slowly, as Carter's joy coming through the pages can often be overwhelming if read for long periods. I was reminded of interacting with a particularly exuberant horse, or a large puppy, in book form. If frequent fannish winks, nods, and asides fill you with annoyance and dread, I do recommend avoiding this book. He writes such notes at the beginning and end of each story, and at the beginning and end of the book, like a joyful Rod Serling, from Worldcon rather than the Twilight Zone, and hopped up on PDQ chocolate powder.
3.5 stars if you like this sort of thing, one star if you don't.

But why shouldn't Carter be excited? He was allowed to finish a posthumous Conan story, and that tale, “The Hand of Nergal”, takes up the majority of the book. I enjoyed it as a Conan story, and was glad to see Carter avoid the numerous potential pitfalls that Howard set up in his world and writing style. This is a place where Carter’s weaknesses in the New Wave become strengths in the old. Lucky for the reader, despite Conan’s supposedly barbarous nature, he has little interest in the beautiful servant girl who briefly crosses his path, before going to destroy the demonic vampires threatening the world! I wonder if this is related to Conan’s mighty thews in any way, after the revelations in Sports Illustrated back in June regarding the significant use of steroids in professional sports.
3.5 stars.

”So close your waking eyes/And picture endless skies” — and wonder!

Four stars overall.






55 years ago: Science Fact and Fiction