Tag Archives: book

[Nov. 26, 1960] Damaged Goods (Algis Budry's Rogue Moon)

Sometimes, I just don't get it.

The December 1960 Fantasy and Science Fiction is almost completely devoted to one short novel, Rogue Moon, by Algis Budrys.  I like Budrys, and F&SF is generally my favorite magazine, so I've been looking forward to this book since it was advertised last month.

To all accounts, it is a masterpiece (and by "to all accounts", I mean according to the buzz in the local science fiction circles).  The premise is certainly exciting: there is an alien structure on the moon, an amorphous multi-dimensional thing, that kills all who enter it.  To facilitate its exploration, the navy utilizes a matter transporter that disassembles one's molecules in one place and reconstructs them elsewhere.  Volunteers are sent from Earth to their certain death to push a few more feet into the deadly extraterrestrial maze.

Of course, the transporter doesn't actually send anyone anywhere; it destroys the original and creates a copy that thinks it is the original.  In fact, it's possible to make multiple copies of a person, and that is what is done: one copy goes to the moon to die, while the other stays on Earth to live on.  It turns out that the two copies have a limited degree of telepathic contact for a short time, so the Earthbound copy can report on what his moonbound copy experiences.

The project's main hurdle is that it takes a special kind of person to experience one's own death and not go insane.  How, indeed, to find such a person to unlock the riddles of the maze?

Sounds pretty intriguing, doesn't it?  Sadly, Budrys hardly wrote this story.  Instead, he gave us a florid, comically humorous soap opera with personalities as flat as the pages they are printed on.  Here's the dramatis personae:

Edward Hawks: The project's director.  A detached scientist, coldly resigned to his status as a murderer (both in terms of sending people to their death and the destruction of those who go through the transporter), desperate to understand how a person's existence can survive one's death.

Al Barton: A suicidal thrill-seeker. he's already lost a leg to his obsession for death-defying escapades–racing, mountain-climbing, parachuting.  Setting records isn't enough for him; he's got to risk his life doing something no one else has done before.  He spends most of his time attempting to prove his manliness to Hawks (in vain, as Hawks is too coldly impersonal to be impressed).

Vincent Connington: The project's director of personnel who introduces Hawks and Barton.  A fellow whose brash arrogance is really just a facade that hides his love for…

Claire Parks: Barton's gorgeous girlfriend: She spends her entire "screen time" attempting to seduce Hawks and Connington and enrage Barton; she's afraid of men, you see, so she is always trying to manipulate them so she can keep her interactions in a safe, nonthreatening place. 

Elizabeth Cummings: A wholesomely beautiful random stranger whom Hawks falls in love with.  Her primary story function is to listen to Hawks' morose reflections on life and occasionally offer pithy observations.

Virtually no time is devoted to the actual exploration of the moon structure, and when the reader finally does get to see the jaunt through the maze, Budrys manages to make it the dullest part of the book. 

Budrys does largely succeed at exploring the fascinating ramifications of "soul" duplication.  What happens when there are two of you, when a moment ago, there was just one?  And are the copies really you?  Are you more than the sum of your memories?  If not, is the communication of your memories to others, no matter how imperfectly, a kind of immortality (this is implied in the last line of the book, an admittedly powerful one.)

Which would have been great had it been less mawkishly presented, and the characters at all plausible.  Budrys set out to make an insightful character study in the Sturgeon vein, depicting a disparate brood all struggling to find "The Meaning of Life."  Instead, he ended up writing something more akin to Merril's The Tomorrow People: full of stilted dialogue, expository speeches, and precious little story.  Fully 30 pages go by before we even get into the plot, which is a lot of time to waste in a 90 page novella.

I'm not sure how to rate Rogue Moon.  Despite all the eye-rolling moments (quite literally), I did finish the short book in one sitting, which suggests there must have been something compelling about it.  There were thought-provoking ideas.  It was the execution which was disappointing, particularly for being by the normally excellent Budrys.  I think, in the end, the book's prime failure is the introduction of so many interesting elements which are completely subordinated to the inferior, implausible psychological drama that Budrys, for some reason, was so hot to present. 

Maybe the book, due to be released next month, will be better. 

Two stars.

Stay tuned for the rest of the magazine!

[November 6, 1960] Take Five (Store of Infinity by Robert Sheckley)

There are few folks who have taken greater advantage of the Silver Age of science fiction (i.e. the Post-War boom and bust of the digests) than Robert Sheckley.  As of last month, the fellow had already published four collections of his works.  The beneficiaries of this production are Bob's pocketbook…and every reader who gets hands on his stuff.  Sheckley's mastery of the science fiction short story, whether straight, humorous, cynical, or downright horrific, is legendary.

Now, Notions: Unlimited, Sheckley's fourth collection, just came out in June.  Moreover, I'd had reason to believe that November would be a month of slim pickings for new fiction.  Imagine my surprise (and delight!) at finding yet another Sheckley collection on sale.

This one, Store of Infinity, may be my favorite of them all.

All of the stories are reprints of magazine stories, and there are no clunkers in the bunch.  Going through in order, we have:

The Prize of Peril (May 1958 Fantasy and Science Fiction): In the near future, the most popular gameshow on television is a live manhunt.  At every turn, the fugitive is pursued not just by would-be killers, but also a camera crew and a vapidly excited host.  Can a contestant survive?  And what price victory?  The theme was recycled for a part of Sheckley's recent novel, The Status Civilization.

The Humours (originally Join Now in December 1958 Galaxy): This rewrite is substantively similar to the original, but the premises are completely different.  In the future, it is possible to transfer parts of one's personality to a perfectly realistic android.  In the original story, this was done to address a labor shortage on Mars and Venus; individuals would split their personalities in three to work on all of the solar system's inhabited planets simultaneously.  In The Humours, the split is therapeutic, a remedy for Multiple Personality Disorder.  Both tales feature the journey of the "original" (at least, the personality piece inhabiting the human body) to reintegrate his brother personas.  A fun ride.

Triplication (May 1959 Playboy): A set of three humorous vignettes, the kind that are usually droll and forgettable.  Sheckley does it better.

The Minimum Man (June 1958 Galaxy): Who is best equipped to investigate a wild planet for colonization?  Not trained mercenaries, not seasoned jungle trekkers, not veteran explorers–for though they may survive the ordeal, their experience will not tell you if your average, civilization-softened settler can handle the place.  No, you want to send the least qualified pioneer possible.  If he can survive, anyone can.  Sounds like a silly premise, but it's really a beautiful story of a clod, his robot, and an untamed world.  Probably my favorite piece of the book.

If the Red Slayer (July 1959 Amazing): When resurrection technology is perfected, what's to keep a soldier from fighting forever in an endless war?  Nothing, apparently.  A bitter story with an ironically light touch; contrast with the jingoistic Dorsai! and Starship Troopers

The Store of the Worlds (September 1959 Playboy): Would you give up ten years of your life and your worldly possessions for a jaunt to an alternate Earth where all of your dreams have come true?  And just what kind of world would you have to have come from to make this trade appealing.  I tell you, Bob Sheckley is reason enough to get a subscription to Heffner's magazine…you read it for the articles, don't you?

The Gun without a Bang (June 1958 Galaxy): A silent weapon may be great for an assassin or a spy, but not so great against dumb animals.  After all, it is the loud report of a rifle as much as anything that scatters the wolfpack.  Still, a bangless gun can have some utility…  The weakest story of the collection, which is to say it gets three stars rather than four or five like the others.

The Deaths of Ben Baxter (July 1957 Galaxy): An excellent multiple-timeline story in which folks from a doomed future attempt to thwart their fate by adjusting the past.  The critical juncture involves the meeting of the same two men in three disparate settings (British, Hindu, and familiar New York).  My second favorite piece. 

4.5 stars.  Pick it up while you can!

[November 3, 1960] With a little help from a friend (Murray Leinster's Men into Space)

Keeping up with all the science fiction releases is virtually impossible for one person.  Luckily, I'm not making this Journey alone.  When it turned out I could only review one of October's books, long-time fan TRX offered his services as a guest contributor.  He chose to cover Murray Leinster's Men into Space, a collection based on the recently completed television show which had garnered a strong fan base (alas, I was not one of them).  Let's see what he's got for us…

Our Gracious Host asked if I might do a guest post about the new Leinster book.  I naturally leapt at the chance.

While it's officially an October release, the book hasn't completely propagated through the publishing supply chains yet.  After a fruitless search through the local stores, I had an idea and called the lady at Big River Books (my favorite store) and gave her the title and author and asked if she could special order it for me.  Sure, not only that, she'd have it drop-shipped to my house to save me a trip to pick it up.  And she'd let me pay for it next time I was in.  I was delighted, but I'm not sure of the wisdom of being able to buy books over the phone with credit…

A plain brown envelope (well, buff is close enough to brown) showed up in due course, containing one (1) newly-printed book.

From the description on the back cover, "Men Into Space" sounds like it might be a "media tie-in", like the novel released after Forbidden Planet hit the theaters a few years ago.  If so, neither of my local stations has picked up the show.  I can only tell you about the book.

"Men Into Space" consists of short stories following the career of Space Force officer Ed McCauley:

As a lieutenant, McCauley makes the first manned rocket flight.

As a captain, McCauley deals with an injured crewman while piloting the first space-plane.

As a major, McCauley deals with a potentially-fatal construction accident while in charge the building of the first space station.

As a colonel, McCauley deals with a murderous personnel problem while overseeing the establishment of a series of radio relays to the moon's far side, then deals with a technical problem aboard a rocket to Venus, and another personnel problem on a Mars mission.

Lots of nuts and bolts details about ballistics, rocket fuels, radiation, the van Allen belts, and so forth.  And with each story, McCauley deals with progressively more complex human problems as he moves up in rank.

If you're starting to smell something odd… yes, this is a juvenile.

It's a *good* juvenile, however.  I was a rocket-head from the time I learned about the Army's missile program after the war, and if I was thirteen years old again I'd be all over this book.  I would have been entertained and instructed at the same time.

The problem is, judging from the cover, it appears to be marketed as a normal science fiction novel, not as a collection of stories appropriate for "Boy's Life."  I think most of the readers here at Galactic Journeys would be quite disappointed… and then they'd find their kids under the blanket reading it by flashlight after bed time.

Men into Space author Murray Leinster made his first sale in 1916.  In the last 44 years he has written a huge number of novels, short stories, and both radio and television scripts.  He has written westerns, mysteries, romance… and lots of science fiction.  He's an old hand who knows his craft back to front, and I expect he wrote exactly what he intended to.  Or what he was contracted for.

I don't know how the book will be marketed to schools and libraries, but the mass-market paperback edition is almost certainly going to be shelved with the rest of the science fiction instead of with the juveniles, and I expect that most purchasers will be in for a shock.  And that's doubly sad, since many of the the youth Leinster wrote for may never come across the book.

In short, Men into Space probably aims too low for the average Galactic Journeyer…but Christmas is coming, and if there are any ten-to-fifteen-year-old readers on your shopping list, they might find the book very enjoyable.

The nicely typewritten review was accompanied by the following note scrawled on a half-sheet of legal pad.

"Reading a book for review" is a very odd thing.  Book reports in school were mostly done to prove I'd actually read the book.  Here, I've tried to describe what the book *is*, not just what happened in it, and to make a guess as to what others here might think of it.  And I only made it a few pages in before I thought "what is this trash and how did it get printed?", and I started composing a scathing review in the back of my mind as I was reading.  I would have put the book down before finishing the first story had I not committed to writing a review.  About halfway through I realized what kind of book I was reading, and then had to stop and reconsider everything I'd read up to that point.  And when I finished and wrote the review, I looked at it again the next day and realized it was ridiculously long and crossed out most of it before retyping it and going to the Post Office.  Murray Leinster might be an old hand, but this sort of thing is new to me!

Experts make the challenging look easy, I guess.  But practice makes perfect, and I'm happy to say that we will likely see TRX again someday!

[Oct. 17, 1960] Aiming Low (Robert Buckner's Starfire)

Is dumbed-down science fiction a gateway or an embarrassment?

I commonly hear the complaint that our genre, namely science fiction and fantasy, is not taken seriously.  Despite the contributions of such luminaries as Ted Sturgeon, Zenna Henderson, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, etc., our field is generally considered to comprise purely low-brow fare.

Is it really a surprise?  When is the last time you watched an accurate science fiction movie?  How often do lurid pictures of steel-brassiere clad women grace the covers of our magazines, regardless of the content therein?  How distinguishable are these covers from those of the comic books?

Things are getting better, I think.  The number of science fiction magazines has dwindled to a manageable half-dozen or so, and in a sort of literary Darwinism, their stories are of superior caliber (generally).  Every month, several genre books are published; some of them really push the envelope both in writing and subject matter.

Which is why it's disappointing when I come across a throwback like Robert Buckner's Starfire, published this month by "Permabook."

The cover should have been warning enough.  The blurb advertises, "The Hilarious Exploits of a Bashful Scientist and a Creature Gorgeous Enough to Send any Man into Orbit," and the mostly naked redhead in the astronaut's arms is classic pulp cheesecake.  Still, there isn't much coming out this month, and I needed something to read on the flight to Seattle last week. 

At a bare 139 pages of big print, it didn't last half the journey.  Apparently, the book originally appeared as a serial for the Saturday Evening Post, which explains its vapid, layman-friendly style.

Giving credit where credit is due, the first forty pages are actually pretty good.  We are acquainted with a spaceman, Charlie, his orbital mission in progress.  He's in some kind of capsule, and this is a test flight for a trip around the moon.  There is a good deal of exposition explaining the basics of spacecraft mechanics and recovery, no doubt to catch up the uninitiated general reader.  Only after the mission is complete do we learn that Charlie is a chimpanzee, and that the ape was "man-rating" the spacecraft.  It was a nice touch, and had the story ended there, it would have made a fine novella for a science fiction digest… oh, about ten years ago.

But then the story continues.  The protagonist is Captain Richmond Talbot, the chimp's handler.  A pleasant, unprepossesing type, he is shanghaied into piloting the next flight of the spaceship: a Moon mission scheduled just five days hence!  Talbot is to be given no training.  He has trouble with airsickness.  He doesn't want to go.  Hilarious, right?

Talbot does manage to secure a few days leave to visit his family.  On the way there, he encounters Lyrae, a beautiful young redhead with truly alien manners: she doesn't wear make-up, pluck her eyebrows, or wear a bra (steel or otherwise)!  Oh, and she does speak with a slight accent.  She attempts to warn Talbot that his flight will be fatal unless he wears a special helmet and coats the rocket with rubidium alloy.  This is corroborated externally; after returning from space, it turns out that Charlie's exposure to "proton radiation" has driven him insane.  Hijinks ensue when Talbot assumes Lyrae is a Russian spy and the FBI gets involved.  For a while, Talbot becomes a virtual prisoner of the G-Men during their investigation.

Of course, it turns out Lyrae really is an alien (and all those flying saucers and cigars?  Those are real aliens, too).  The FBI agents are no match for the girl, who turns out to be telepathic and something of a teleport.  She frees Talbot, and they run away together in a race against time to fix the rocket before liftoff.  Along the way, Talbot falls in love with Lyrae, of course.  This turns out to be a bit of a foregone conclusion; prescience is also one of Lyrae's many talents, and she's known since the start that Talbot is her future husband.  Hence why she is so keen on seeing him make his Moon trip successfully.

Everything ends well.  Talbot gets his helmet and his fixed-up rocket.  On his way to the Moon, he is intercepted by Lyrae and whisked off to interstellar parts unknown.  Finis.

Now, I don't want you to get the impression that the book is unmitigatedly awful.  It's not.  It's a bit brainless, and it aims quite a bit lower than those of us in the F&SF crowd (or even the Analog crowd) prefer.  But I like the satirical brush with which Buckner paints the book's politicians and officers, and the beginning was solid.  All in all, Starfire is rather well-written and diverting, even if it doesn't do our genre much credit.  Could it be a gateway book?  Perhaps.  I'd certainly classify it as a juvenile if it hadn't been written for a general adult audience. 

What does that tell you about the general adult audience?

2.5 stars out of 5 (mediocre).

[Sep. 21, 1960] If you can't beat em… (Theodore Sturgeon's Venus Plus X)

Ted Sturgeon wrote a book about sex.

It appears that Sturgeon has always wanted to write "a decent book about sex,"–how it affects our society, not the act itself.  At least, that's what Sturgeon says in the post-script of his strange new novel, Venus Plus X.  Well, it is a decent book (pun intended), and Sturgeon has a lot to say about sex and the relations of the genders in its 160 pages.  Some of it is told, some of it is shown; the end result is a fiction-buffered sermon not unlike the kind Heinlein likes to concoct. 

First, a Cook's tour of the plot.  Venus is really two concurrent stories.  The "A plot" involves Charlie Johns, a bit of a lover, a bit of a loser, snatched from present-day America by a band of futuristic hermaphrodites called Ledom.  These are not aliens, mind you–just a new variety of genderless humanity.  His kidnappers ostensibly have the most benign of intentions for Johns.  They simply want him to observe their society and give his opinions; whereupon, he can return whence he came.

Ledom (the place and the people share a name) is a technological wonderland.  The Ledom obtain limitless power from the "A-field," which generates energy from a matter-antimatter reaction, the antimatter being (tautologically) generated by the A-field.  This makes possible structures built in the shape of cornucopias balanced on their points.  Food is abundant, delicious, and perfectly tailored.  Transportation is as instant as one would like.  Most importantly, the lands of the Ledom are completely shielded from the outside world.  It is always sunny in Ledom, and no harmful elements can intrude.

This seeming paradise is also sociologically perfect.  There is no War between the Sexes.  Indeed, there is no violence at all.  Mating is completely consensual and pleasurable, but it is not the driving force nor the pinnacle expression of love for the Ledom.  Children are raised in common, and all are taught to eke a living from the soil, even in the presence of the bounty made possible by the A-field.  Thanks to the other great Ledom invention, the "cerebrostyle," education can be implanted directly in a Ledom's mind.  This frees people to pursue the careers for which they feel most suited.

Sturgeon gives each episode of Johns' journey loving, perhaps overindulgent, attention.  The clothes, the food, the buildings, the pottery, the incessant singing of the children, the worship of the children by the adults (the only kind of religion in which the Ledom indulge), all get pages of description.  The impression one is left with, that one is supposed to be left with, is that through the elimination of gender and by learning from humanity's mistakes, the Ledom have created Heaven on Earth.

As counterpoint, Sturgeon gives us the "B plot," which appears in vignettes alternating regularly with the pieces of Johns' story.  Told in the present tense to further stress its otherness, it is a slice-of-life portrayal of two families living next door to each other in near-future suburbia.  In this thread, Sturgeon points out two concurrent trends: the increasing convergence of male and female roles, and the reactionary reinforcement of "traditional" gender identities.  In the former, we see the genesis of the Ledom; in the latter, we see the strife the Ledom have apparently avoided.

Also highlighted are our (1960s American) hang-ups regarding the physical act of sex.  Again, the Ledom have avoided them, but at a price you and I might be unwilling to pay. 

In presenting the book as I have, theme-first, if you will, it must sound frightfully dull.  Well, it is, in some parts.  Even Sturgeon's unquestioned gift for the written word cannot completely sugar-coat this horse pill of sociology.  The great mystery driving the story (and one is mostly aware of it thanks to the dramatic blurb on the back of the book) is only revealed and then quickly resolved near the end.  As a result, there isn't a lot of a plot to the story, nor much build-up. 

That said, the questions posed are fascinating, and if the reader doesn't leave with profound insights on gender relations, s/he will at least come away with profound insights on Ted Sturgeon. 

Three and a half stars. 

Note: The title of the story is derived from a passage in the book.  At one point, Johns wonders how to represent the gender of the androgynous Ledom: "They used to use the astronomical symbols for Mars and Venus for male and female…What in hell would they use for these?  Mars plus y?  Venus plus x?"

This pedant thinks it makes more sense to say "Mars plus x, Venus plus y" (after the sex-determining chromosome).  Perhaps "Venus Plus Y" was a less appealing title.

Note 2: The book can also be purchased here

[September 4, 1960] Flawed jewel (The Status Civilization, by Robert Sheckley)

Readers of my column know of my affection for Bob Sheckley's work.  A fellow landsman, he has turned out a regular stream of excellent short stories over the past decade.  He's already published four collections, and they are all worth getting.

But though Sheckley gets an A for his shorter works, his novel-writing talents earn him, at best, a B-.  He's written two thus far, both of them novelizations of serials.  One was the tepid adventure, Timekiller.  The other, The Status Civilization, was serialized in Amazing earlier this year.  It just came out in book form; I'll let my readers tell me if it's been substantially changed.

The novel has a great hook: Will Barrent, age 27, wakes up from the deepest of sleeps to find he has no memories of his former existence, not even his name.  Then he is informed that he is guilty of a murder he can't remember, and is sentenced, along with several hundred other mind-wiped criminals, to spend the rest of his days on the prison planet, Omega.

Like Devil's Island and Australia, this convict-ruled place of exile is a society completely apart.  New arrivals start with the rank of peon, and only through a long period of virtual slavery can they rise in status.  Or they can get away with murder, literally, and take the fast elevator. 

Omega is a paradoxical hell world where evil is lauded, even canonized.  There is law, and it is strictly enforced.  And yet, status only comes when one successfully evades the law.  Usually, this involves surviving the punishments for transgression–generally some kind of public gladiatorial spectacle.  Of course Barrent (without much explanation) is able to survive these trials by combat and do quite well for himself.

Despite this, Barrent becomes increasingly confident that he is not a murderer, and this eventually lands him in the hands of an underground group of non-violent political criminals, whose goal is to somehow return to an Earth they know nearly nothing of.  Barrent is sent on a lone mission of reconnaissance to his forgotten homeworld, which turns out to be the mirror image of Omega, or perhaps just the other side of the same coin. 

The Status Civilization is an entertaining but unsatisfying read.  Stylistically, it feels unpolished, even rushed.  I see less of Bob Sheckley here and more of Murray Leinster on a bad day.  Whole episodes of the story are glossed over, particularly some potentially exciting action bits. 

Sheckley introduces us to a pair of fascinating worlds: Omega, where evil is lauded, and status is gained by murder; and Earth, where society is static, and status fixed.  Neither society is stable.  Both will fail at some point, though there is the suggestion that in their violent union, salvation might be found. 

These are topics worthy of significant elaboration, but Sheckley gives them rather minimal treatment.  Upon further reflection, I determined that he gave them the minimum treatment possible to effectively convey them.  I admire his economy of words (The Status Civilization is quite a short novel), but I was left feeling hungry for more.

Which brings us to an interesting literary question: need a story be further written if it accomplishes what it was made to do?  In this case, I'm going to say yes.  I think Sheckley could have had a masterpiece to his name with this one if he'd just put it through the ringer one more time.  It needs to either be longer or better-written. 

As it is, however, The Status Civilization is worth reading.  The questions it raises are compelling, even if they are incompletely answered by the author, and the writing, while workmanlike, is engaging.

3.5 stars.

[By the way, the World Science Fiction Convention is going on as we speak in Pittsburgh.  I'll have a report on the con and the 1960 Hugo Awards in a few days.  If you are an attendee, please feel free to add your anecdotes!]

[August 1, 1960] Saving the Day (Poul Anderson's The High Crusade)

Analog (formerly Astounding) has tended to be the weak sister of the Big Three science fiction digests.  This can be attributed largely to Editor John Campbell's rather outdated and quirky preferences when it comes to story selection.  There seem to be about five or six authors in Analog's stable, and they are not the most inspiring lot.

On the other hand, at least since last year, Analog has reliably produced a number of good serial novels that have elevated the overall quality of the magazine.  This month's issue, the September 1960 Analog, contains the conclusion to Poul Anderson's The High Crusade, and it continues this winning streak.

Anderson is an author with whom I've had a rather stormy relationship… a one-sided one, of course.  I was captivated by his early novel, Brain Wave, and generally disappointed by most of his output since.  And then, about a year ago, he started writing good stuff again.  His latest novel is excellent, far better than it has any right to be.

The set-up is ridiculous, and smacks of Cambellian Earth-First-ism: a crew of alien invaders visit 14th Century England, bent on adding Earth to the sprawling galactic imperium of the Wersgorix, only to be defeated by the retainers of the canny Baron, Sir Roger de Tourneville.  Sir Roger, realizing that the repelled spacers represented only a scouting contingent, seizes their vessel and takes his entire barony on a trip to the nearby Wersgorix colony, Tharixan.  His goal is to take the fight to the enemy before more come to Earth.  Thus ends Part 1.

The fight for Tharixan comprises the whole of Part 2.  Using a combination of medieval and captured weaponry, and aided by the aliens being somewhat out of fighting trim, their empire having lacked serious conflicts with which to blood their soldiers (while the feudal warriors of Europe spend most of their time fighting or planning for war), Sir Roger's forces are triumphant. 

Nevertheless, a single world would hardly stand a chance against the fleets and armies of the aliens.  Thus, Sir Roger unites the subjugated races of the empire together in a Crusade against the Wersgorix (Part 3).  The success of this venture, and the individual machinations of his strong-willed wife, Catherine, and his wily subordinate, Sir Owain, I shall leave for the reader to enjoy.

And enjoy you will!  Anderson clearly knows his medieval history and, more importantly, he adopts an authentic archaic writing tone which is, at once, evocative and yet perfectly readable.  Using the clever artifice of telling the story through a chronicler, Brother Parvis, Anderson captures nicely the attitudes of medieval persons thrust into a futuristic universe.  One technique I particularly admired (and, again, which I think could easily have been botched), is the narrator's recounting of scenes that he, personally, could not have witnessed, but rather reconstructed after the fact.  It is a clever way of transitioning from 1st to 3rd person without jarring the reader.

Anderson's biggest coup, though, is that he can make such a silly story at once plausible and seriously executed.  Strongly recommended — 4.5 stars out of 5.

(and for those following along as the Journey zips across Japan, I am now on the train from Nagoya to Osaka, this country's third and second cities, respectively.  Osaka is one of my favorite cities, and I look forward to relaxing pool-side and typing my next article on the rest of the September 1960 issue.  Stay tuned!

[July 7, 1960] Frankenstein's Timeline (Brian Aldiss' Galaxies like Grains of Sand)

Themed collections, a book containing stories by the same author in a common universe, are interesting things.  Isaac Asimov's Foundation is one of the more famous examples, and when a collection of Zenna Henderson's The People stories comes out, that will be one of the best ever.

Sometimes, an author is tempted to shoehorn a number of unrelated stories into a single timeline.  Then the stories can be re-released as a "novel" rather than as just a compiled group of shorts (of the type Sheckley releases). 

It can work, but not always.  Every story is written with a set of assumptions in mind, and it is often difficult to do a polished rewrite such that the original assumptions can be masked.

Galaxies Like Grains of Sand is a new book from seasoned young British writer Brian Aldiss.  It contains eight previously published stories stitched together in timeline chronological order with italicized linking text.  The book ostensibly covers some forty million years of future history.  It's a cute conceit, but does it really hold up under scrutiny?  Let's look at each of the parts and see if the whole is greater than their sum (it should be noted that I hadn't read most of these stories before since they came out primarily in British mags):

The War Millenia was originally published as Out of Reach in Authentic Science Fiction.  In this first story, humanity is in the midst of atomic destruction and has burrowed into shelters deep beneath the Earth where they convalesce in a narcotic dream haze most of the time.  On the eve of the global war, Earth is visited by a race of advanced humanoids called "Solites", who take a keen interest in salvaging as much of Earth's creatures and cultures as possible.  One Solite even marries a human and transports him to the Solite world, a futuristic but bleak place.  Tired of being kept in the dark as to the true nature of the secretive Solites, he hijacks a matter-transmitter and beams himself back to Earth, where he ends up in a dream house for therapeutic treatment.  The kicker to the story (and it's easily predicted) is that the Solites are not aliens–they are simply evolved humans from thousands of years in the future. 

In The Sterile Millenia, (All the World's Tears, published in Nebula Science Fiction), it is four thousand years after the war described in the first tale.  The "color war" is over, and the "Blacks" have won.  But only just.  The Earth is largely a wasteland, and breeding is strictly, coldly controlled by committee.  Emotionless logic (with the occasional stimulated bout of hatred to promote vigor) characterizes human personality.  One prominent politician has a daughter who is a throwback: not only does she feel, but she's an albino to boot.  Her abortive affair with another throwback ends abruptly and fatally, genetic freaks being equipped with bombs to preclude their breeding.

Flash forward countless thousands of years to The Robot Millenia (Who Can Replace a Man from Infinity Science Fiction), my favorite story of the book.  Humanity has been on a continuous decline since the war, increasingly supported by vast networks of more-or-less sentient robots.  When it is rumored that the last human has died (at least on Earth–the stitching text describes an exodus to the stars) the robots attempt to strike out on their own.  They make something of a hash of it.  Aldiss captures the conniving relationships of an emotionless race quite nicely.

This is followed by The Dark Millenia (Oh Ishrail! in New Worlds Science Fiction).  It is not specified when this takes place, but it is some time after the Solite period of ascendancy described in the first story.  The tale revolves around Ishrail, a fellow banished to Earth by the interstellar confederation of galactic colonies.  At least, we're led to believe it is Earth, recolonized by one of the diasporic groups. 

Close on this story's heels, chronologically, is The Star Millenia (Incentive in New Worlds Science Fiction), in which an emissary of the aforementioned confederation visits the Earth, on a whim changes its name to "Yinnisfar", and teaches us "Galingua", a universal language that not only allows mutual intelligibility throughout the galaxy, but also instant interstellar travel.

This proves problematic, however, in The Mutant Millenia (Gene-Hive or Journey to the Interior in Nebula Science Fiction) when it turns out that too much facility with Galingua leaves one vulnerable to assimilation into a cancerous mutation of humanity that tries to absorb everyone it touches.  Per the subsequent interstitial explanation, baseline humans win by giving up Galingua.

That takes us to The Megalopolis Millenia (Secret of a Mighty City in Fantasy and Science Fiction, which I do remember reading).  This story is really a satire of the modern television industry, in which the work of a visionary filmmaker/anthropologist, who exposes the seamy underside of a sprawling megacity, becomes the subject of a new show twenty years later–with all the meaningful bits removed.  Of all of the stories that make up the book, this one's inclusion feels the most contrived, and it is probably not a coincidence that it is preceded by the most new linking material.

Finally, we have The Ultimate Millenia (Visiting Amoeba or What Triumphs from Authentic Science Fiction).  It turns out that the energy of our galaxy is slowly dwindling toward heat death, though its inhabitants are unaware of this decay.  It also develops that the human diaspora went beyond our galaxy, and humanity's children exist in other island collections of stars.  One of them contrives to assemble a large fleet on the edge of the Milky Way, blast his way spectacularly to old Earth, and deliver the message that humanity, at least all of us in our home galaxy, are doomed.  Thanks.  So ends forty million years of history.

Does it work?  I have my reservations.  The style is inconsistent throughout.  Sometimes Aldiss takes care to create alien lexicons and names.  Others, he seems to fall on 20th Century convention.  There is no chronological rhyme or reason to his choices.  Also, I feel as if baseline humanity stays awfully human throughout–except when we evolve into unbelievably different creatures as described in the Mutant and Ultimate Milennia. 

So, as a whole, it isn't a complete success.  As for the pieces, with the exception of story #3 (and perhaps #7), I found the book to be something of a difficult bore to plow through.  And while I find it admirable that Aldiss includes non-Whites as protagonists in some of his stories (a thread that disappears by story #4), women are virtually absent. 

2.5 stars.  As always, your mileage may vary, and I welcome your thoughts.

I'm off to another convention this week, but I am taking my trusty typewriter with me.  Expect pictures and more fiction reviews in a few days!

[June 16, 1960] Skimming the Cream (Robert Sheckley's Notions: Unlimited)

As a rule, I don't review anthologies.  By definition, they are composed of stories already published elsewhere, and since I cover the magazines regularly, chances are I've already seen most of an anthology's contents.

I make an exception for Bob Sheckley.

Sheckley is the master of the science fiction short story.  They are sometimes humorous, sometimes terrifying, never bad.  And since the novel I'd planned on reading, Mark Clifton's Eight Keys to Eden bored me right out of the gate, I gratefully picked up a copy of Sheckley's new anthology Notions: Unlimited.

Here's what I found:

Gray Flannel Armor features a young man within whom, behind his drab gray exterior, beats a heart yearning for romance.  This cute little story gives a sneak preview into the world of commercially arranged dating.  It's a cynical story, but not so much as his earlier works dealing with romance.  This makes sense: it was published in 1957, after his marriage to his second wife.

The Leech, and Watchbird are of a kind, though their plots differ widely.  In each, a problem is presented, a solution is found, and it then turns out that the solution makes everything worse.  Both are older stories.  The former is better than the latter.

A Wind is Rising is a good, evocative piece about a colonist who gets stuck out of shelter during one of its frequent super-hurricanes.  As someone who used to live in the windy desert, where sandstorms would turn the landscape into something from Mars, I can empathize with his situation.

Morning After deals with one of my favorite subjects of science fiction: just what will we all do for a living once everything has been mechanized?  In this case, we all become freelance voters, tossing our ballot for the candidate who schmoozes us the most.  And when that ceases to be of sufficient interest, we go elsewhere…

Native Problem is a fun story in the classic silly Sheckley mold.  A social misfit decides to colonize his own planet on the frontier.  His life is a lonely paradise until a new bunch of colonists, arriving via generation ship sent out decades before, makes planetfall. 

Feeding Time is another older story, a very short piece about a young, inexperienced bibliophile who takes up gryphon-rearing.  As is well known, the gryphon feeds only on young virgins.  The results are… predictable.

I'd never read Paradise II before, about a pair of space explorers who come across a planet rendered lifeless by biological warfare, such destruction being triggered by intense resource competition, particularly squabbling over limited food stocks.  Upon investigating a station orbiting around the planet, one of them is absorbed by the structure's brain, and the other finds himself a linchpin solving the planet's food problem.  It's a dark story, and rather ridiculous, a little bit like what Ellison has written late last decade.

Back to the fun ones, Double Indemnity involves an unscrupulous time traveller attempting to collect on a particular clause of his insurance that pays out when one finds oneself duplicated in the course of a chronological excursion.  It doesn't make a lick of sense, but it is a pleasure to read.

Almost all of these stories came out in Galaxy, Sheckley's prefered home, so I was surprised to discover that the next one, Holdout was published in F&SF.  It involves a dramatically multi-racial crew, and the one intolerant fellow who refuses to work with a person of a particular ethnic background.  Of course, the mystery of the story, not revealed until the end, is the identity of that ethnicity. 

Dawn Invader, another F&SF story, pits a human and an alien against each other in symbolic mental combat.  It's a bit like Ellison's The Silver Corridor, which had been published in Infinity the year before, but with a happier ending.  I like happy endings–they are harder to write.

Finally, we have the excellent The Language of Love, in which a young suitor refuses to marry his sweetheart until he can find the exact words to express his feelings toward her.  The punchline is hilarious, and it has been much bandied about my household ever since my wife and I read it.

Of the four collections Sheckley has published to date, Notions may be my least favorite.  That is not to say it is bad; it's just his least good.  It's still well worth reading, and I zoomed through it quite quickly and enjoyably.

[May 25, 1960] Getting there is half the problem (Judith Merril's The Tomorrow People)

Every novel is a kind of contract with the reader, a promise that ideas, events, and characters will be presented in the beginning such that, by the end, they will have facilitated a satisfying story.  A corollary to this is that a writer must ensure that all of a story's scenes are interesting to the reader.  Lesser authors pound their keys trying to get "to the good parts," stringing together pearls of interest with thread of mediocre space-filler. 

Judith Merril has managed to break the above-described contract in spectacular fashion, by publishing a story solely of the thread between the pearls. 

Let me explain.  The Tomorrow People, released this month, promises to be quite a book.  Not only is it by Merril, who has proven that she can write on prior occasions, but within the first 30 pages, we get a set up that includes: humanity's first Mars mission, on which one of the crew commits suicide for reasons unknown; the suggestion that life was found on Mars; the possibility of telepathy and/or clairvoyance; the suggestion of an active espionage ring on the American moonbase.  Merril also tempts us with the veneer of a mature piece with discussion of adult topics like closeted homosexuality, menstruation, polyamory. 

The problem is that Merril never delivers on any of these threads (except for a few perfunctory pages at the end).  Instead, we get hundreds of pages of the sort of stuff one hammers out for the sake of hammering out.  Most of the book is presented in quotation marks and italic print.  Pointless dialogues between men done in an overly breezy, almost caricature style.  Endless angsty conversations between characters punctuated by italicized internal monologues (that's right!  You tell 'em!) Dysfunctional relationships between the one female character, the lovely dancer, Lisa, and… virtually every male character in the book (the astronaut who returns from Mars, his psychiatrist, the Moon's chief psychiatrist, random lunar laborers).  Endless depictions of drinking, drunkenness, romantic quarrells.

I don't know if Merril is trying to be avante garde, or if she simply doesn't know how to make a book out of a trilogy's worth of ideas but a novella's worth of action.  The result is an uphill slog.  It's too bad as there is stuff to like.  There is a thoroughly modern feeling about the portrayed universe, a feeling that Merril really does try to convey the world of the mid 1970s, technologically and socially.  I enjoyed the bits about the adaptation of classical dancing to the lunar setting.  And I appreciate a story that doesn't just present the bones of a plot, with the characters playing second fiddle, as is often the case in science fiction. 

Merril's The Tomorrow People, however, is an invertebrate.  Its characters meander about with no plot bracing them into an enthralling narrative.  Maybe that's the point.  Maybe life is like that, and Merril is just trying to capture that feeling of naturalistic randomness.

Or maybe she had a deadline, a page quota, and insufficient inspiration.

Two stars.