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

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


by Napoleon Doom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I was Edwin Scott, Will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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




[February 14, 1962] St. Valentine's Update (The Second Sex in SFF, Part V)


by Gideon Marcus

It's not quite time for a funeral, yet!

Nearly a decade ago, the Chicken Littles of our genre scribbled at length in our magazines and buttonholed each other at conventions to voice their fears that science fiction was dying.  Well, it is true that we are down to just six American sff digests per month, off of the 40 magazine peak of 1953.  On the other hand, I'd argue that we're not that much worse off for having lost the lesser monthlies.  Moreover, sff novels still seem to be doing a brisk trade.

In the three years since I started this column, I've seen a cadre of new writers burst onto the scene; clearly, no one told them that their field is dead!  And while sff continues to be something of a man's world, this fact is changing, slowly but surely.  Since just last year, when I wrote 18 mini-biographies of the women authors of science fiction, I've become exposed to a whole new crop of female bylines.  Some of them are just new to me, having been in the biz for a long time.  Others are genuinely fresh onto the scene. 

Without further ado, the supplemental list for early 1962:

Doris Pitkin Buck

Currently an English teacher at Ohio State University, where at least two authors that I know of might have enjoyed her acquaintance: former OSU students John Jakes and Harlan Ellison.  Mrs. Buck is a comparative rarity in our genre.  Not many manage to balance unabashed love for sff and a "respectable" career in academia.  Said career includes an active college writing stint, a cluster of stories written in the early 50s and a couple of recent pieces, of which I was not particularly fond, but that nevertheless suggest a high degree of literacy. 

Mildred Clingerman

Like Buck, Clingerman is a veteran with ten years of professional sff experience under her belt.  Her consistent career has produced 16 stories, most of them published in the pages of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  Sadly for my readers, her last one came out in 1958, just before I started this column.  However, she recently released A Cupful of Space, a collection of all of work to date, so you can enjoy her quirky, often whimsical, occasionally macabre stylings all in a sitting.  Like Buck, she's a teacher, at the University of Arizona.

Kate Wilhelm

The elusive Ms. Wilhelm has enjoyed a prolific career that started in 1956 and yet has rarely crossed my path.  I first encountered her excellent The Mile-Long Spaceship in the April 1957 Astounding.  This tale of a telepathic contact across the stars was impressive despite its extreme shortness; it must have really impressed Astounding editor, John Campbell since his magazine tends to be the most staggish of the digests.  Her latest work, A Time to Keep was not in the same league, but everyone is entitled to periodic variances.  Here's hoping she publishes more works in the magazines I cover – there aren't many that I don't these days…

Otis Kidwell

Otis Kidwell, who acquired the surname Burger some time after her birth, sprang onto the sff scene just last year with the compelling The Zookeeper.  However, it was hardly the first publication of this noteworthy New Yorker (great-grandaughter of famed abolitionist, Sydney Howard Gay) – her short pieces have appeared in The New Yorker since 1957. 

Sydney J. Van Scyoc

"Joyce," as her family and friends know her, took on her mannish first name to help her break into the science fiction market.  It took several years of writing for her work to see print, but her premiere tale Shatter the Wall, which came out just last month, shows real promise. 

Maria Russell

Ms. Russell (real name, Mary R. Standard) is a true newcomer.  Her first (and currently only) story is The Deer Park, a haunting, surreal tale that was a fine addition to the F&SF in which it appeared.  Details on her non-writing career are scarce, but I am given to understand that she is computer systems analyst in Connecticut, a fine career for a science fictioneer. 

Anne Walker


Picture courtesy of the Vassar Chronicle

Ms. Walker (also known as Mrs. Gutterman) is a Vassar graduate and New England resident with but two stories to her name, but boy were they good ones.  She's newish, coming on the scene in 1959, so she has plenty of time ahead of her if she wants to continue.

Joy Leache

I'm afraid I know even less about Joy Leache, whose career started in 1959, and whose latest story, Satisfaction Guaranteed was a good'n.  Does anyone have a clue?

Rosemary Harris

A nurse during World War 2, Ms. Harris is Londoner whose first work, Hamlin, appeared in F&SF last year.  Hamlin is a derivative of the Pied Piper Tale, so it's no surprise that Ms. Harris also writes childrens' books.  Will she keep toes in both genres?

At this rate, we'll soon reach gender parity in scientifiction, which I think will be to its benefit.  After all, that will mean we are finally seeing the best efforts of our entire population, not just one half.  I can' wait to see who will be on the 1963 supplement!

[Nov. 26, 1961] End of the Line (December 1961 Fantasy and Science Fiction)


by Gideon Marcus

It's the end of the year!  "What?" you exclaim, "but it's only November!"  True that, but the date on my latest Fantasy and Science Fiction says December 1961, and that means it is the last science fiction digest of the calendar year that will go through my review grinder.

F&SF has been the best magazine, per my ratings, for the past several years.  Going into this final issue, however, it has lagged consistently behind Galaxy.  Would this final issue be enough to pull it back into 1st place?  Especially given the stellar 3.8 stars rating that Galaxy garnered last month?

Well, no.  I'm afraid the magazine that Bouchier built (and handed over to Mills) must needs merit 8 stars this month to accomplish that feat.  That said, it's still quite a decent issue, especially given the rather lackluster ones of the recent past.  So, with the great fanfare appropriate to the holiday season, I present to you the final sf mag of 1961:

Damon Knight seems have gotten a gig as editor Mills' favored French translator.  Perhaps the job was in compensation for Knight's having been laid off as book editor for his scathing (unpublished) review of Judith Merril's The Tomorrow People.  Claude Veillot's The First Days of May is a grim story of a Parisian survivor after the devastating invasion of the bug people from outer space.  Beautifully told, but there are no happy endings here.  Four stars.

My friend, Herbert Gold, returns with The Mirror and Mr. Sneeves.  Well, I shouldn't say returns given that this rather unremarkable story, about a frigid husband who swaps bodies with more vivacious men, was first published in 1953.  Notable mainly for its literary gimmicks and copious sexual teases, I was first inclined to give it just two stars.  However, I found myself remembering the story long after I'd finished it, and that's usually a sign of quality.  Three stars.

You'll definitely remember Anne Walker's The Oversight of Dirty-Jets Ryan for its almost impenetrable future slang (which reads a lot like current slang with a few space-related words thrown in).  Well, it's also a good story, this tale of a none-too-legal trading expedition from Callisto to an alien world.  I'd expect nothing less from the lady who brought us the high point of the August 1959 Astounding.  Three stars.

On the other hand, Will Stanton's You Are with It! is pretty lousy.  Something about a game show in which persons become thoroughly absorbed in the role they play.  Two stars.

The Fiesta at Managuay is an excellent piece by John Anthony West, a metaphor for the destruction of native culture by more "civilized" societies.  If you find yourself in the tourists of Managuay, be justifiably concerned.  And if you do not, look harder.  Four stars.

Isaac Asimov's science fact piece this month, The Trojan Hearse, is an interesting article on Lagrange Points, those points of relative gravitational stability one finds between a big world and an orbiting companion.  For instance, the Sun and Jupiter, or the Earth and the Moon.  The timing is fortunate given that I plan to write about Jupiter (and its "Trojan Points") next month!  Four stars.

I can't quite tell you why I loved Hal Draper's Ms Fnd in a Lbry: or, the Day Civilization Collapsed so much.  Perhaps for its frightening, if satirical, plausibility.  Or maybe because I'm an archivist as well as someone who went through a graduate program where the professors were more interested in the cataloging of knowledge than knowledge itself.  Read it and tell me if it strikes you as it struck me.  Five stars.

Last up is the conclusion to Brian Aldiss' "Hothouse" series (soon to be a fix-up book), Evergreen.  Sadly, what started out so imaginative and interesting has degenerated to near unreadability.  The more said about this future, sun-blasted Earth, the less plausible it gets, and the strained dialogue makes this apocalyptic travelogue a slog(ue).  Two stars. 

And so ends the year for F&SF, and with that, the magazines for all of 1961.  At last, I can dig out my graph paper and copious notes and start compiling data for this year's Galactic Stars awards!  I hope you'll look forward to them as much as I do!

Flawed jewel(s) (August 1959 Astounding, last part; 7-21-1959)

Before I finish my review of the August 1959 Astounding, let’s look at the issue’s “Analytical Laboratory” and what the readers thought of the May 1959 ish (and compare it to my findings).

Interestingly enough, no story got higher than a 3.00, which means the readers had trouble picking a favorite.  That indicates a good issue or a bad one.  Garrett’s mediocre Cum Grano Salis got top ratings followed by the first installment of Dorsai!, then the charming Hex and Project Haystack.  I suppose that’s as good an order as any.  One might as well throw a dart at the wall.

The August issue, on the other hand, has clear strong and weak points.  Newcomer Anne Walker’s A Matter of Proportion is one of the strong points.  Her tale about a super-competent commando, who was once a paraplegic is gripping.  Anyone who can write about the ascent of a flight of stairs with the same tension and excitement of a daring assault on an enemy base has done an excellent job.  An interesting, sensitive story.

The following tale, Familiar Pattern, is so obviously a Chandler piece under a pseudonym (George Whitely), that one wonders why the ruse was even attempted.  To wit, it involves an Australian coast guard ship (Chandler is a former Australian naval officer), and one of the characters shares a name with a character in The Outsiders, which came out in the same issue!

Now, I like Chandler, but this story is only decent.  Aliens come to Earth to set up a trading mission, manufacture a diplomatic incident, and use said event as a pretext to invade.  It’s a metaphor for what the Europeans did to the Polynesians; I appreciate the sentiment, and I am amazed it could appear in the xenophobic pages of Astounding, but the allegory is a bit too precise and heavy-handed to be effective. 

Lastly, there is Theodore L. Thomas, whose Day of Succession is, as Orwell might say, rather un-good.  Aliens land on Earth, and their ships are dispatched with cold-blooded efficiency by an American general.  The officer is recalled to Washington and chastised for his bloodthirstiness, but is soon proven right when more aliens appear and wreak havoc (I wonder why they would be hostile after such a warm welcome!) The general advises a nuclear strike on the entire Eastern seaboard to defeat the incursion.  When the President and Vice President disagree, the general shoots them and requests that the Speaker of the House adopt the officer’s plan.
I didn’t really understand it either. 

The book finishes off with P. Schuyler Miller (a self-professed Conservative from North-Eastern United States) lamenting the death of science fiction, again.  We’ll see.  This seems to happen every five years.

So where does this issue end up in the ratings?  Well, I’d had high hopes.  Aliens was a five-star story, and Outsiders and Proportion were both quite good.  But Pattern was average fare, Succession was sub-par, and the Garrett was soporific.  The non-fiction “article” was also pretty bad.

All told, the issue clocks in at a “3,” which is actually admirable for Astounding.  Read it for the good stories, eschew the rest, and you won’t be disappointed!

In two days, the Explorer that wasn’t.

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