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[August 25, 1960] Accurate Paleontology (Dinosaurus!)

Another weekend, another Jack Harris production.  Harris has made a name for himself cranking out colorful, enjoyable B-movie fare, and his latest contribution to the cinematic universe, Dinosaurus!, is no exception.

Make no mistake: Harris has yet to produce a masterpiece.  But then, I don't think that's his goal.  Rather, he creates fun monsters and cool heroes to fight them.  All while offering up a ear-catching soundtrack.

This time around, Harris has traded in the frenetic jazz for soothing calypso, as befits the setting of Dinosaurus!–the idyllic Caribbean paradise of St. Croix. 

In contrast to his previous movies, The Blob and The 4D Man, Dinosaurus! opens up right quick with the action.  In brief, a test of underwater explosives off the coast of the island uncovers a pair of dinosaurs and a caveman, all of whom have been frozen solid for ages at the bottom of the sea.  They are hauled ashore for investigation, whereupon they thaw and wreak havoc upon the island.  But the real monster of the piece isn't one of the dinosaurs or a prehistoric Neanderthal.  It's a sinister island manager named Hacker, who treats the islanders like his property, and who has designs on seizing the ancient creatures for his own profit.


Beefcake, two for one sale, with a cheesecake dessert–but you have to order a side of slime…

Rather than spoil the plot, for the movie is worth watching (so long as you understand what you'll be getting), I'll just tell you the things I learned during the course of the film:

1) Brontosaurus, Tyrannosaurus, and Neanderthals lived contemporaneously;

2) Creatures can be quick-frozen such that they will return to life, no worse for wear, once exposed to warm sun and rain;

3) Tyrannosaurs are malicious, spiteful creatures; they are motivated by murder and mayhem rather than by hunger;

4) Brontosaurs are adorable and make excellent steeds;

5) Neanderthals are noble, self-sacrificing creatures, but they lack the ability to speak.  They also are best used as comic relief;

6) Stop-motion and puppet dinosaurs are much more satisfying to watch than lizards with taped-on accoutrements;

7) Harris hopes to make a sequel even though there is no way to continue the storyline.

Rest assured that the good guys win in the end, although not without taking casualties–to wit, an Irishman and a Brontosaurus.  I suspect that, if my daughter had been with me, she would have walked out when the sauropod bought the farm.  I know I was tempted.

My magazine subscriptions should be here by tomorrow, so I'll have the first revew of the October 1960 issues next time around!

[August 22, 1960] If every day were a convention (September 1960 IF)

It's been a topsy turvy month!  Not only have I been to Japan, but I've just gone to yet another new science fiction convention taking place virtually next door (pictures appended below).  Yet, despite all the bustle, I've managed to find time for my #1 pasttime: my monthly pile of science fiction/fantasy digests.  And here, at long last, is my review of the September 1960 IF Science Fiction.

As Galaxy's lesser sister, its overall quality tends to be a little lower.  There are a couple of stand-outs in this issue that made it a worthy purchase, however.  Moreover, I'm noticing a trend toward the experimental.  H. Gold (and his right-hand, Fred Pohl) seem more willing to take chances with this mag.  I'm looking forward to seeing where this goes.

I don't want to spoil the stories for you, so I'll keep the synopses brief:

Daniel Galouye has the opening number, a longish novelette called Kangaroo Court.  It's an interesting murder mystery in a world where telepathy has made crime obsolete.  An extra twist is the development of memory copying–a technology that lets one create a full simulacrum of a person's personality up to the date of storage.  I'm given to understand that a writer should only present one revolutionary technology per story, but I think Galouye pulls it off.  Three stars.

Margaret St. Clair is also back with her short story, Parallel Beans, a cute little piece about the dangers of bartering across alternate time streams.  Three stars.

Wedge, by H.B. Fyfe, is about a human prisoner who is the subject of an alien intelligence test.  Is he the testee or the tester?  The first weak piece of the issue: Two stars.

But it is followed up by To Choke an Ocean by the reliable J.F.Bone.  I like stories without antagonists, and they get bonus points if they involve interesting alien civilizations.  Four stars.

That brings us to Arthur Porges, who turned 45 yesterday (Happy Birthday!) His Words and Music, about a man who can tell a person's future in a decidedly off-beat (or perhaps "on-beat" is more appropriate) fashion, would make a fantastic episode of The Twilight Zone.  Another four star tale.

There is a brief interlude during which Fred Pohl contributes a longish book-review column.  It includes praise for the rather awful The Tomorrow People, by Judy Merril.  It is followed by Robert Shea's unusually written, but rather pointless, Star Performer, involving a Martian aborigine and his effect on the decadent, overripe population of Earth.  Two stars.

Finally, R.A. Lafferty offers up Six Fingers of Time, about a fellow who discovers a talent for living life at an accelerated rate.  The writing is odd, and the subject matter uninspired, and yet…it has a certain charm.  Three stars.

That puts us at exactly three stars for the issue no matter how you slice it, which ranks it above Astounding and below F&SF this month.  No surprises there.  F&SF also wins the prize for best story: George Elliott's The NRACP, though to be fair, it's a reprint.  I might give the nod for best original story to Bone.  Your mileage will almost assuredly vary. 

Finally, of the 22 stories, serial portions, and non-fiction articles appearing in the three magazines, exactly two of them were written by women.  I'll leave this datum here without further observation or opinion.

This weekend, I'm off to the movies to watch Dinosaurus, the new flick from the team that brought us The Blob and 4D-Man.  Sadly, neither of the members of my immediate family will go with me.  Perhaps I'll run into one of you, my beloved fans.

And for those who came here to see the pretty pictures, here are the costumes from our local science fiction convention:

And some attendees, not in costume:

Yes, that's the Traveller, himself (on the left).

That's all for today, and if you're one of the gracious attendees who allowed me to take her/his picture, do drop me a line!

[August 20, 1960] Up and Down (Americans and Soviets recover space capsules)

Talk about a good week for Space news!

There I was, all ready to discuss the latest IF Science Fiction (which is quite good, by the way), and then both the United States and the Soviet Union came out with a couple of bombshells that I couldn't ignore.  And neither should you.

Firstly, right on the heels of last week's Discoverer 13 launch, the Air Force has successfully flown another Discoverer.  For those who don't remember, Discoverer is a "biological-sample-return" capsule designed to send living payloads into orbit and then retrieve them.  Supposedly.

Now, I had reported last week that lucky 13 was the first fully successful mission.  That turned out to be a mistake.  Discoverer capsules are meant to be caught before they land, and #13 had to be fished out of the drink.  By the way, 13's payload, an American flag, was presented to the President amid great fanfare on August 15. 

But #14 was a textbook case from beginning to end, complete with a mid-air snatch that must have been a rather hair-raising endeavor.  According to my newspaper, the Air Force plans to send up apes with the next mission.  We'll see. 

As usual, the Soviets had to trump our success.  Yesterday morning, Sputnik 5 soared to the heavens at the tip of a booster similar to the one that launched the heavy Sputnik 3 and 4 satellites the past two years.  A veritable menagerie was sent into space: two dogs (Belka and Strelka), 40 mice, two rats, and a variety of plants.  Even better, they successfully de-orbited and landed, safe and sound.

Unlike Discoverer, which is at best a proof-of-concept program (and, at least, a spy satellite with a creative cover), Sputnik 5 appears to be a production model of the Soviet manned spacecraft–their version of Mercury.  We haven't even managed a fully successful flight of a boilerplate Mercury (Big Joe).  I'm betting that we see some kind of primate launched in the next few months. 

Whether it will be a human, in time for this year's October Revolution celebration, depends on how fond the Soviets are of taking risks…

[August 17, 1960] Dancing to a new beat (The Twist)

We interrupt this cavalcade of science fact and fiction articles to bring you…some pop culture.

Seven years ago, The Crows came out with Gee, what is now generally recognized to have been the first "rock 'n' roll" song.  It was a revolution–within months, the crooners and the overripe schmaltzy swing tunes were swept aside in favor of the new mode.  Well, at least on the Black stations.  Then Elvis and Pat Boone came along and made this scary new music safe for everyone else. 

This year, it appears Chubby Checker has sparked a similar, related revolution.  With a simple, catchy rock 'n' roll tune, The Twist, he appears to have single-handedly invented solo dancing. 

Think about it: for centuries, from the Estampie to the Waltz to the Cha Cha Cha, dancing has been something you do with partners.  Now, with The Twist, you can shrug all by your lonesome–or with hundreds of friends.  There's no denying its popularity.  Checker's song is at the top of the charts this week (displacing Elvis' short-lived tenure, thankfully), and if you caught his performance on American Bandstand the other day, you were probably tempted to join in the fun.  There may not be a jukebox in America what doesn't have, at any given hour, several teens around it Twisting the night away.

I only hope that Checker, a promising nightclub player with a talent for mimicry (check out last Christmas' surprise hit, The Class), doesn't get pigeon-holed, doomed to release dance number after dance number to stay afloat. 

I suppose it is better to have one hit than none. 

[August 14, 1960] George Pal's The Time Machine

And sometimes, the cinema astounds me.

Have I got your attention?  My faithful readers know that I am an avid movie-goer.  At least once a month, my daughter and I will trek out to the local drive-in or parlor and take in a science fiction film.  Sometimes we see good A-listers, sometimes we see bad ones.  Occasionally we see good B-listers, usually we see bad ones.  In general, book adaptations are loose, at best.  Journey to the Center of the Earth was one of the better films of 1959, but it bore little resemblance to the source material.

George Pal's The Time Machine knocked my socks off.

Now, I'm not usually given to hyperbole (in fact, I can safely say I'd sooner die than engage in such a hackneyed endeavor), so you can believe me when I report that The Time Machine is easily the best fantasy film of the year.

Note that I say fantasy: time travel stories often get categorized as science fiction, but this movie is a pure flight of fancy, and a delightful one at that.  It is a beautiful, timeless piece of film that, I imagine, will provide entertainment decades from now–perhaps even in the far future depicted in the movie.

But I get ahead of myself.  First, a synopsis:

In broad strokes, the film follows the book, but there are some key differences, in part to be topical to the era in which it was made.

It opens with a dinner party at the house of inventor, H.G. Wells (played by Rod Taylor, a rather hunky and quite capable Australian, who recently starred in The Twilight Zone).  Wells makes a tardy appearance, disheveled, wounded, and smoke-suffused.  The movie is his recounting of his adventures through time.

Just six days before, as the last minutes of the 1800s ticked away, Wells invites the same four guests to witness a demonstration of time travel.  Using a scale model of the device, Wells sends a cigar into the future.  But when his friends display doubt as to the success of the model's flight, our hero resolves to take a trip to the future and return with his findings.

This is, perhaps, the most exciting part of the movie.  I know my daughter enjoyed it the most.  Wells travels 17 years into the future and meets the son of his best friend, Philby.  He sees his house blown up by the Blitz in 1940. 

In 1966, he makes a brief stop just in time to watch the world blown up in a nuclear holocaust.  He is saved only by the speed at which he travels into the future.

Encased in a volcanic mountain, the result of said apocalypse, Wells must journey in the dark until erosion frees him, which it eventually does, far far in the future.

The traveler finds a garden-like world with fruits in abundance.  Its inhabitants, the Eloi, dress simply and frolic with nary a care.  At first, Wells believes he has found paradise.  His first indication that something is amiss is the near-drowning of the lovely girl, Weena, whose friends watch her plight (and her rescue by Wells) with dispassion.  Then, at supper in the ruined remains of a magnificent hall, Wells finds the denizens of the future almost simple in their incuriosity, ignorance, and illiteracy.  In one of the most effective scenes of the movie, Wells is taken to a library only to have the books, long neglected and unread, crumble in his fingers.

Disgusted, Wells returns to his point of origin, but the time machine has been stolen, dragged into a nearby locked building topped with a sculpture of an inhuman head.  Weena braves the darkness to warn Wells that the night belongs to the Morlocks, another people who produce the food and clothes for the Eloi.  Indeed, one tries to kidnap Weena, but Wells saves her, further winning her trust and loyalty.

The next morning, Weena takes Wells to a musuem of sorts.  There, Wells learns that the twofold split in humanity resulted from a terrible biological war.  One group elected to stay in the relative safety of their underground complex of shelters, while others attempted to survive on the barren surface. 

Wells decides to investigate the Morlocks, who inhabit a vast subterranean factory complex.  But before he gets far, he hears the wailing of air raid sirens (with which he had become acqauinted during his sojourn through the 20th Century), and Weena abandons him.  In fact, all of the Eloi are marching in an uncomprehending daze toward the strange "Sphinx" building.  Several dozen, including Weena, wander inside, before the sirens cease and the building's doors close.

"What happens to them?" Wells wants to know.  "They never come back," he is told. 

Wells encounters an acute lack of interest when he proposes that a rescue be launched, so he strikes out underground on his own.  There, he finds that the Morlocks are cannibals, feeding off the captured Eloi.  Such is the arrangement of this new world: the Eloi may live a carefree, short life, but in the end, they must pay dearly for their bliss.

But that order is about to change.  Wells rallies the captured Eloi to defend themselves against the Morlocks.  With their help, and a lot of matches, Wells frees the prisoners.  They then feed the conflagration Wells started underground with heaps of dead wood, and the factory complex collapses.

Afterward, a wistful Wells laments the loss of his machine, but delights in the romantic bond growing between him and Weena. 

As the two settle into an embrace, one of the Eloi arrives with news.  The Sphinx is open, and his machine is inside! 

But it turns out that this is just a baited trap.  Once inside the building, the doors close, and Wells is beset by Morlocks.  He barely manages to escape into the past.

His story (and dinner) complete, Wells is once again met with incredulity.  His guests all leave, save for Philby, who has been convinced.  But he is too late to stop Wells, who has already departed again for the future.  This time, he isn't going empty-handed: missing from Wells' library are three books, their contents unknown.

We are left with the lingering question, "Which three books would you take?"

I am gratified with the respect George Pal has shown Wells' original material.  It would have been nice if we could have seen an adaptation of the latter part of the book, where Wells journeys into the far future to witness the frozen death of the Earth, but I can see why this section, while lovely, was discarded as superfluous. 

But the essence of the story, this cautionary parable, is intact, and Wells' indomitable idealism is well-portrayed by Taylor, who essentially performs a one-man show throughout most of the film.  I expect this will be his breakthrough role.  Alan Young also deserves praise for his double role as Wells' friend, Philby, and as Philby's son.  His Scottish accent was certainly better than Pat Boone's!  As for Yvette Mimieux, who plays Weena, hers is a role that does not require much range, nor does Ms. Mimieux strain herself.  One wonders what Wells sees in her, but perhaps it is her tabula rasa nature, unblemished by modern sentiment, that appeals.  Or maybe's it's the short skirt.

The cinematography, sets, and models are just lovely.  This is a lush production with some truly impressive stop-motion work.  Due to its setting in the Victorian past (lovely costumes!) and the far future, and thanks to the highly professional film and effects work, I suspect The Time Machine will never seem dated.

Highly recommended.  5 stars of 5.

[August 12, 1960] Two for two! (Space News Round-up)

I promised an exciting week in space flight, and I'm here to deliver.  Both the Air Force and NASA are all smiles this week thanks to two completely successful missions that mean a great deal for our future above the Earth.

First off, the military side.  13 had proven to be a lucky number for the Air Force with Discoverer 13 performing perfectly: from launch, to orbit, to capsule re-entry, to recovery.  This is a big deal–for the past year and a half, the Air Force has been struggling with its dud of a program. 

Ostensibly, the aim of Discoverer is to test a biological capsule return system as a prelude to manned space travel.  I suppose this is more plausible now that the "Dynasoar" spaceplane, a successor to the X-15 rocketplane, is in the first stages of development. 

On the other hand, none of the Discoverer capsules since the early ones have carried live animals, and I find it hard to believe the Air Force would try thirteen times to test a capsule return system that has no direct connection with any upcoming Air Force project.

What is more likely is that the biological mission is a cover, or at the very least, incidental, just like when mice were launched on nosecone test shots of the Thor missile.  So what do you do with a recoverable capsule that circles the Earth in a polar orbit, overflying every inch of the Earth as it goes?  The same thing you can do with a U2 spyplane, but with no worry about being shot down–at least for now.  Given the strain that the incident back in May had on international relations (and you've probably all read yesterday's headline about downed pilot Gary Powers' "confession"), I think this is a positive development.

On to the civilian side.  Let's talk telephones: currently, to make a telephone call to another continent, one has to use undersea cables.  Not only does this pose a bottleneck to transmission, but one can only place a call to a place cable has been extended.

In the United States, Ma Bell got around the phone line bottleneck by using microwave transmitters to relay calls.  That's why you've seen phone towers popping up all over the country, and nearly a quarter of all calls now go through this system.  But microwaves work in a straight line… and the Earth is round.  To send a microwave message around the planet, one needs a signal tower hundreds of miles tall!

12 years ago, science fact and fiction author, Arthur C. Clarke, wrote about such a tower: the orbital communications satellite.  This morning, NASA brought us one step closer to building this virtual tower.

On the face of it, Echo 1, launched this morning on the new Thor Delta booster, is not that impressive. It's actually just a giant balloon with a couple of radio beacons on it.  But it's a balloon you can bounce messages off of… to anywhere.  It's the first generation of a class of satellites that one day will allow you to pick up the phone and make a call to anywhere in the world.  Or allow you to receive television channels from across the globe. 

Echo will also be a scientific satellite.  NASA has tried several times to launch a big balloon into orbit to measure atmospheric density at high altitudes.  Now we've got one.  As a bonus, it makes a pretty, easily seen addition to the evening sky.

Thus concludes the latest Space News wrap-up, one that makes up for July's dry spell.  I'll be back in a couple of days with an update from the world of science fiction.

Stay tuned!

[August 9, 1960] Destructive Pages (the September 1960 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

I've said before that I like my reading to be light and pleasant.  Not exclusively, mind you, but I find the current trend toward the depressing to be… well… depressing.  This month's F&SF is the bleakest I've yet encountered, and under normal circumstances, it would not have been to my taste.  On the other hand, being near Hiroshima on August 6 and then near Nagasaki on August 9, fifteen years after they became testing grounds for a terrible new weapon, is enough to put even the cheeriest of persons into a somber mood, and my choice of reading material proved to be quite complementary.

As usual, I lack the rights to distribute F&SF stories, so you'll just have to buy the mag if you want the full scoop, but I'll do my best to describe the stories in detail.

Poul Anderson starts things off with the The Word to Space.  In this novelette, Project OZMA, humanity's first concerted effort to scan the stars for communications broadcasts, bears almost immediate fruit, discovering a star with intelligent life just 25 light years away.  Unfortunately, the focus of these aliens is proselytizing their strange religion, and with dialogue between planets essentially impossible, a century goes by with Earth learning frustratingly little about its cosmic neighbor.  In the end, the alien theocracy is toppled when humanity requests clarification on some of the finer points of their creed; they just aren't equipped to handle religious debate.  It's too bad none of the aliens were Jewish–we love quibbling over religious details.

Then we have A Day in the Suburbs, a delightfully barbed tale by Evelyn Smith about what housewives really have to deal with when their husbands go to work.  The feuds between the "flat-roofs" and the "peaked-roofs" make the squabbles of the Jets and the Sharks seem like a square dance.  It's a wonder any of them come out alive.

Burton Raffel's Goodbye is the first of the truly dark stories, in which a young ad exec is waylaid, imprisoned, and tortured, all to prove the efficacy of a five-day identity-removal process.  The tale is disturbingly personal, and there is never any explanation as to why this is being done or why the protagonist was chosen (he is apparently not the first, and he surely won't be the last).  Awful stuff… but then, it was meant to be.

Button, Button, by Gordon Dickson, seems almost out of place in this issue.  It's a straightforward story about a crude-mouthed boss of a space freight union, and the beautiful, fiery opera singer he rescues halfway between Earth and Venus.  Enjoyable, but it won't stay with you.

Reginald Bretnor offers up The Man on Top, about a stubborn mountaineer who, through sheer determination, makes it to the summit of one of the world's tallest mountains… only to find that someone has beaten him to the punch.  Mysticism: 1; British pluck: 0.

Isaac Asimov has a sequel, of sorts, to his article on pi.  This one is on the impossibility of "squaring the circle," which is the creation of a square with the same area of a given circle using only a straight-edge and a compass.  I'm glad the good doctor wrote this piece since it's a topic about which I've always been interested. 

On to Damon Knight's acerbic review of Walden Two.  It is, apparently, the last F&SF will see from Mr. Knight–per the editor, he will no longer be reviewing books for the magazine.  I hear, through the grapevine, that it is because Editor Robert Mills disapproved of Knight's justifiably savage critique of Judy Merril's latest book, The Tomorrow People.

Returning to fiction, we have George Elliot's The NRACP (The National Relocation Authority: Colored Persons).  If you find Goodbye to be dark, NRACP is midnight coated in pitch.  It is the portrayal of the systematic extermination of a people, from the point of view of one who has an indirect role in its execution.  I was not surprised to find that this story was originally written in 1949, when the Holocaust was still a fresh wound on the human psyche, and the existence of Israel, a refuge for those who escaped the gas chambers, was still in doubt.  For anyone who wonders how such a tragedy could occur in a civilized country, I suggest giving this tale a read. 

That brings us to Kit Reed's somehow unfinished-feeling Two in Homage, about an evil, human-sacrifice demanding God , upon whom the tables are ultimately turned.  I really should try to meet Ms. Reed someday.  We do live in the same town, after all.

Wrapping up the issue is Joseph Whitehill's Doctor Royker's Experiment.  How best to dissuade an idealist who feels science and scientists can do no wrong?  Why, make him the butt of a scientist's prank, of course.  Resentment cools even the strongest ardor.

Editor Mills saves his column for last.  In it, he asks of if we readers prefer magazines to include stories all of a type or if we prefer a greater variegation of themes.  Regardless of what we think, I gather from reading between Mills' lines that he prints what he gets, and the wave of unhappy tales is largely out of his (and our) control.  I was able to take it this time.  Here's hoping it doesn't become F&SF's signature trait.

And for those following my travels, I am currently at Tokyo's busy international airport awaiting my turn to board a sleek new Japan Air Lines DC-8 bound for home.  It's been a great trip, but I'm ready to return to familiar surroundings.  I imagine I've a huge pile of mail from my fans accumulated (and by fans, I mean advertisers and bill-collectors).

Stay tuned!

[August 7, 1960] Coming soon…

Just to let my faithful readers know, the next update will come day-after-tomorrow.  Things are just too busy in beautiful Japan, but I will have plenty of time as I wait at the airport.  After that, I will be back to my usual every-other-day (for the most part) schedule.  I understand several space launches are due next week, and I'll have the F&SF and other items on which to report.

Stay tuned, and thanks for bearing with me during this time of extraordinary travel!

[August 4, 1960] Phoning it in (September 1960 Analog)

If you hail from California, particularly the southern end of the state, you might find foreign the concept of seasons.  I know I expect mild, sunny days every time I step outside.  We have a joke around here that the weather report is updated once a week, and that's just to give it a fresh coat of paint.

Japan, on the other hand, is a country rooted in seasonality.  Every month brings a new package of delights to the denizens of this Far Eastern land.  Now, usually I'm a smart fellow, and I only travel here in the Spring for the cherry blossoms, or the Fall to see the fiery colors of the wizened leaves.  Only a madman would visit in the Summer, when the heat and humidity are ferocious, and when neither is mitigated by the constant rain that characterizes the immediately prior Typhoon season.

This year, I joined the crazy persons' club.

Thankfully, the new set of trains seems to be consistently equipped with air conditioning, and in any event, one can often get a nice breeze from the frantic hand-fannings of one's neighbors.  And this country is lovely enough, and its people such good company, that one can tolerate a little physical discomfort.  For a while, anyway.

Osaka has always been a particular favorite of mine with its regional delicacies and colorful local dialect (virtually unintelligible if all you know is schoolbook Japanese).  This city has an independent streak, refereshing after the aggressive servility that characterizes Tokyo, and, perhaps not coincidentally, we have a great number of friends in this area.

Of course, social obligations keep my leisure time to a minimum, but I've managed to steal a few hours between shopping, taking tea, and visiting landmarks to finish the September 1960 Analog.  Here is my report:

I've already told you about the fantastic The High Crusade, penned by Poul Anderson.  This is not his only contribution to this issue.  In addition to the conclusion of his serial novel, there is also (under the pen-name, Winston Sanders), Anderson's short story, Barnacle Bull, in which a Norwegian four-man spaceship sails on an eccentric orbit through the asteroid belt on a mission of reconnaissance.  Their aim is to lay the foundation for a nationalized asteroid mining concern.  There are two snags–one is the density of micrometeoroids between Mars and Jupiter.  The other is the existence of a space-borne life form that grows magnificently on the hulls of spaceships, fouling radars and antennas, not to mention spoiling the clean lines of a vessel.  It turns out that the two problems nicely cancel each other out.

It's well-written, and no one portrays Scandinavians like Viking Poul, but the story is a slight one.  I give it bonus points for its realistic portrayal of near-future spaceflight, however.

Easily the worst story in this issue is Randall Garret's By Proxy, in which a young, brash scientist announces his intention to launch a ship powered by some sort of intertia-less drive, but is oppressed, by turns, by the government, the military, and a cynical press.  Of course, the thing works.  I'm not sure if Campbell specifically asked young Randy for a bespoke story on this, one of Campbell's favorite subjects, or if Randy chose this topic because it ensured him a sale.  Either way, it is not only a bad story, but the quality of writing is at the low end of the author's range.  About the only good thing about the story is it features no women.  Given Randy's reputation, that's a blessing.

H.B. Fyfe, a grizzled veteran of the pulp era, comes out of retirement to offer up A Transmutation of Muddles, a sort of sub-par Sheckley story about the four-cornered negotiations between a marooned space merchant, his insurance adjustor, the aliens on whose sacred land he crashed, and the government.  It's inoffensive, unremarkable.

The last fiction entry is Everett Cole's Alarm Clock, about the pressure cooker of a situation a canny military drop-out is thrust into in order to awaken his peculiar talents so that he can join the legendary Special Corps.  It's the sort of thing I like seeing from Harry Harrison.  Cole isn't as good as Harrison.

Last up is Asimov's fine article on the extent of the solar atmosphere, and how it interacts with the tenuous outer regions of the various planetary atmospheres, producing brilliant auroras and the deadly Van Allen Belts.  It's amazing how much we have learned about the subject in the last two years, a revolutionary period for interplanetary physics. 

All told, we've got a just-under 3-star issue.  Once again, the great serial and non-fiction pieces balance out the mediocre short entries.  And the less we speak of Campbell's editorials, the better…

See you in a few, likely from sleepy Fukuoka!

[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!