Tag Archives: harry harrison

[February 21, 1964] For the fans (March 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

[Due to an oversight (clearly!), Galactic Journey was not included on Locus' Awards Ballot this year.  If you're a fan of the Journey, we be grateful if you'd fill us in under Fanzine!]


by Gideon Marcus

A New Leaf

Today's special birthday (mine!) edition of the Journey is for the fans.  It seems F&SF has been running a three-part series on current (as of 1964) fandom, and it occurred to me it might be fun to spend a little time on the authors who appear in this month's issue.  I also want to take the effort to show the context of each writer's work.  This is in response to the letter of one of our readers who made me realize I can be a bit harsh (even in jest) on a story.  The fact is that writing is hard, and even the worst stories that get printed are usually, though not always, better than most unpublished work. 

Which is not to say that anything like Garrett's Queen Bee will ever get a pass, but I'm going to try to be a bit nicer.  I will, however, never ask John Boston to change his style; when Amazing is bad, well, you'll know…

The Issue at Hand


This picture, by Mel Hunter, is almost worth 40 cents by itself

Automatic Tiger, by Kit Reed

Kit Reed is one of the writers featured on the Journey whom I am honored to call "friend."  She began publishing fiction in 1958, and she is (so far as I know) an F&SF exclusive — and what fortune that is for the magazine!  Her work is "soft" SF, where it is SF at all, but since her rough start, Ms. Reed has been a reliably above-average contributor.  In particular, her To Lift a Ship, almost a Zenna Henderson The People story, got my nomination for the Galactic Star one year.  Sadly, Kit has moved away and left no forwarding address, so our correspondence has come to an end. 

Nevertheless, I can still enjoy her fiction.  Tiger, the lead tale in this issue, is a vivid piece about Benjamin, a nebbishy fellow who acquires a mechanical tiger, which instantly bonds to his master.  Just the knowledge that he is the proud owner of such a creature fills the man with confidence, and he quickly rises in social stature and success.  His downfall is an expensive woman and hubris' inevitable companion, nemesis.

It's not SF at all, nor does it make a great deal of sense, but as a fairy tale, it's worthy reading.  I have only one significant issue with the story, but it's a central one: I was disappointed that Benjamin ends the story roughly the same as how he started, though now aware of what he's lost.  It's a bit like the short story, Flowers for Algernon, except without the inspiring finish.  A strong three stars for this flawed jewel.

Sacheverell, by Avram Davidson

More beard than man, Avram Davidson has been a big name in the field since the mid-50s, charming science fictioneers with his sometimes moody, sometimes effervescent short stories.  Right around 1962, when he took over the editorship of F&SF, his writing became a bit overwrought and self-indulgent.  It's gotten to the point that I generally approach his byline with trepidation (and his editorial blurbs that come before the stories in his mag have gotten bad again, too — thankfully, he's stopped bothering to preface Asimov, at least). 

Sacheverell does nothing to improve his reputation.  It's about a sapient circus monkey who has been kidnapped, rescued in the end by his carny companions.  The story left little impression on me while I read it and none after, such that I had to reread it to remember what it was about.

I suppose forgettable is better than awful?  Two stars.

Survival of the Fittest, by Jack Sharkey

I've been particularly harsh on Jack Sharkey.  No, not the boxer (who could pound me into hamburger), but the prolific author who has been around since 1959.  That's because, while he is capable of quite decent work, much of what he's turned out is pretty bad. 

Survival falls somewhere in-between, I guess.  It's a variation on the, "is my real life really the dream?" shtick mixed with a healthy dose of solipsism.  Not great, but I did remember the piece, at least.  On the low end of three stars.

The Prodigals, by Jean Bridge

The first poem of the issue is by newcomer Jean Bridge, and it suggests that after humanity has matured out of a need for interstellar wanderlust, Earth will be waiting, no matter how long it takes.

Unless the sun eats our planet first, of course, though we may be advanced enough by then to save our home out of nostalgia.  Nice sentiment, nicely framed.  Four stars.

Forget It!, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor probably needs no introduction, having been a titan of sf since his debut in 1938, and a deity of science fact from the 1950s.  However, I will note with pride that he is, like me, a Jewish Atheist of Russian extraction, and of very similar age (we're both the same vintage of 39), spectacle frame, height, and writing style.

This particular non-fiction piece, on the superfluous weights and measures we'd be better off chucking, kept me company while I watched my daughter compete (victoriously) at an inter-school academic competition.  It's an interesting article, noting that just as the English language has regularized itself almost to the point of sense, but with lingering spelling issues that confound any new learner, so have pecks and bushels and furlongs and fortnights overstayed their welcome.  It's time that they went the way of florins and chaldrons and ells.  Let's all adopt the metric system like sensible people!

Who can argue with that?  Four stars.

Lord Arthur Savile's Crime, by Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde is, of course, a fixture of the Victorian age whose wit still finds currency today.  This piece, which I read on a long walk one fine morning, is a pleasant tale about Lord Arthur, a young aristocrat with love, money, and not a care in the world — until a cheiromancer informs him he will commit a murder in the near future.  Convinced of his fate, the young Lord undertakes to perform the deed in as personally nondisruptive manner as possible. 

It reads well, but the ending is just a bit too pat and inconsequential.  And while I am appreciative of the opportunity to rediscover lost classics, I am not certain why Davidson chose to devote half an issue to one.  I should think that a modern magazine could do with less 1887 and more 1987.

Three stars.

Pure Water from Salt, by Theodore L. Thomas

Theodore Thomas oscillates between mildly engaging and somewhat dreary.  A lawyer by profession, he is best with fiction that explores interesting aspects of patent law.  This particular piece is about the value of adapting people to process salt water as opposed to pursuing desalination.  It feels like an incomplete story outline that Davidson bought to fill a vignette-sized hole.

Two stars — one for each page.

Incident in the IND, by Harry Harrison

After his debut novel-sized effort, the superlative Deathworld, Harrison seemed to be in a bit of a rut with none of his stuff cracking the three-star mark.  But Incident, about the evil that lurks in the shadows of the subway tunnels, is a nice piece, indeed.  It's got a sharp, atmospheric style that is a big shift from the author's usual Laumer-esque breeziness.  If I have any complaint, it's just that I wish it had been the fellow and not the lady who gets et in the end.

Four stars.

Humanoid Sacrifice, by J. T. McIntosh

Scotsman James Murdoch MacGregor, who goes by J. T. McIntosh, has been around since 1951.  He hit it out of the park early on with one of my favorites, Hallucination Orbit, and his One in Three Hundred series of stories was good, too.  He's another author who has been in kind of a slump lately, but I always hold out hope for his work, given his prior glories.

Humanoid Sacrifice is an engaging-enough tale with two parallel plot threads involving the same protagonist.  A human troubleshooter is employed by an advanced alien race to fix their rebelling weather control machine.  At the same time, the aliens inform the repairman that they have a human female in suspended animation, a specimen snatched from Earth for study back in 1850.  She is thawed and a written correspondence between the two humans ensues.

It's cute and readable and that's about all I can say.  Three stars.

The Shortest Science Fiction Love Story Ever Written, by Jeffrey Renner

I don't know Jeff Renner, but I think the magazine would have been better served filling these two inches with one of those little EMSH drawings they used to have.  One star.

The Conventional Approach, by Robert Bloch

Bob Bloch has been a pro author for a couple of decades now, creating enduring classics of horror and science fiction.  Like Wilson Tucker, he's also kept one foot firmly in the fan world that spawned him.  He took over Imagination's "Fandora's Box" column from Mari Wolf in '56 (I still miss her) for instance.  Now he has an excellent article on the history of Worldcon, which was so good and witty that I had to read it aloud to my wife on a walk this morning.

I suspect it will be as relevant amd rewarding 55 years from now as it is today.  Five stars.

The Lost Leonardo, by J. G. Ballard

Last up is a novelette by a UK author who has made a big splash on both sides of the Pond.  His Drowned World garnered a Galactic Star from us, and many of his stories have gotten four or more stars.  There's a somber, almost ethereal quality to his work that works or doesn't depending on your mood, I suppose.  I liked this one, in which a certain wanderer of Biblical fame becomes an art thief to do penance for his sins.

It's pretty neat, straightforward but well-executed.  Four stars.

Summing Up

Goodness, it feels good to be positive for a change!  It doesn't hurt that this has been one of the better issues of F&SF, a magazine that has been largely in the doldrums since Davidson took over.  Do tell me what you think of these stories and of the fine folk who wrote them!




[January 18, 1964] Pig's Lipstick (February 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)


by Gideon Marcus

President McKinley once famously observed around the Turn of the Century that everything that could be invented had been invented.  He was not entirely correct, as it turned out.  However, if one were to read the stultifying pages of F&SF these days, one might be convinced that all the SF that could be written had been written.  The February 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction is a double-handful of cliches with a thin veneer of literary writing to make them "worthy."  It's no wonder editor Avram Davidson has moved to Mexico; he is probably fleeing his outraged readers — whomever's left of them, anyway.

The House by the Crab Apple Tree, by S. S. Johnson

The bad ship S. S. Johnson leads the issue with possibly the most offensive piece I've read since Garrett's Queen Bee.  It's an After The Bomb piece told from the point of view of one the world's last women, who is shacked up with her wretch of a husband and their fourteen year old daughter.  Barely sentient, our protagonist spends most of the story wondering which of the marauding male savages who terrorize her home would make the best husband for her kid.  After all, a woman needs a man.

Bad as it was, I read the whole story (for it it is passably well written) hoping to be pleasantly surprised.  I wasn't.  Mr. Johnson's protagonist shows no initiative at all (and, in fact, each of her episodes is characterized, even precipitated by her inaction), the daughter is violated in the end, and Davidson, in the height of tactlessness, chose to illustrate the gawdam cover of the magazine with a scene of the torture of said little girl.

One star and a new bottom for the magazine.  Shame, Mr. Davidson.  I hope the mail and telegrams stop service to your new home so you can do no more damage.

[And please see the letter sent in by Mr. Jonathan Edelstein, appended below.  It expresses what's fundamentally wrong with this story.  Thank you, Jonathan. (Ed.)]

The Shepherd of Esdon Pen, by P. M. Hubbard

Here's a stunner.  After spending half the vignette telling us about a Scottish shepherd of legend, a modern shepherd departs into a freak snowstorm, searching for his lost flock, and stumbles across the tomb of none other than the aforementioned herder. When he gets back, his sheep are safe.  WAS IT THE SHEPHERD OF EDSON PEN?!?

An ineptly told ghost story that earns two spectrally thin stars.

Ms Found in a Bottle Washed up on the Sands of Time, by Harry Harrison

A pointless bit of doggerel about a fellow intent on disproving the Grandfather's Paradox by doing away with his grandfather — only the old man has quicker draw.

Two stars.

Nobody Starves, by Ron Goulart

A satirical piece (or something) about a dystopian future for whose denizens everything is hunky dory until they stop being useful to society.  No one starves, in theory, but it's damned hard to get a bite to eat when you can't work for your supper.

There's probably a point or two buried under the glibness, but my eyes were too dizzy from rolling to find them.  Two stars.

One Hundred Days from Home, by Dean McLaughlin

The first ship to return from Mars is met halfway by a new ship zipping around at a good percentage of light speed.  The kid driving the speedster guffaws at the old men and their primitive junker, offering them a quick ride home.  Indignant, they refuse. 

Would NASA really send astronauts to Mars and back and not tell them about a huge breakthrough in space travel?  Do these fellows not even have radios?  Editor Davidson says he can't get any spaceship yarns these days, so he was happy to get this one.  With "science fiction" like this, who needs fantasy?

Two stars.

The Slowly Moving Finger, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor has always done a decent job of making abstruse concepts accessible to the layperson.  But this non-fiction piece, about the maximum ages of various animals, is too simple and could have been paraphrased as one sentence: Every mammal but humans lives for one billion heart beats; people get four times that.

Three stars.

Little Gregory, by Evelyn E. Smith

An odd, vaguely SF tale about a woman employed as a governess by a robot for an alien child who turns out to be the vanguard of an extraterrestrial invasion.  It works insofar as it fulfills Smith's goal of telling a 21st Century story with 19th Century style, but I'm not sure why the thing was written at all.

Three stars, I guess.

Burning Spear, by Kit Denton

Pointless mood piece about a kid who can capture and wield sunlight, and the folks who die when they demand proof.

Two stars.

In the Bag, by Laurence M. Janifer

An obvious vignette probably inspired by a trip to the local laundry.  Blink and you'll miss it.  Three stars.  Maybe two.  Who cares?

The Fan: Myth and Reality, by Wilson Tucker

The first of a three-part series on fandom, this one is an historical essay (next month's by Robert Bloch will cover conventions).  I'm a big fan of Bob Tucker, as readers well know, but this is a superficial, perfunctory piece.  It's over quickly, though.  Three stars?  [Note: I forgot to cover this piece in the original printing — thanks to those who pointed out the omission! Ed.]

Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming, by Doris Pitkin Buck

Welcome to the overpopulated world of 2061, where the national parks on the Moon have a long waiting list, the domes open to let the air in only on rare occasion, and citizens take hallucinogenic pills to stay sane.  Still, despite the hoariness of the subject matter, it's not a bad read.  Welcome to the ranks of the prose writers, Ms. Buck.  Now go beyond the well-trodden path.

Three stars.

I'm sounding more and more like John Boston every day.  My wife likes it when I write snippy, but boy am I tired of having things to be snippy about.

Could we please get Tony Boucher or Robert Mills back in the editorial saddle again? 

— — —

(Need something to cleanse your palate?  See all the neat things the Journey did last year!)




[October 12, 1963] WHIPLASH (the November 1963 Amazing)


by John Boston

In all the excitement last month about August’s civil rights march, I forgot to mention the other big news that has reached from Washington all the way to small town Kentucky.  On the first day of school, my home room teacher, sad expression on her face, informed the class that because of the Supreme Court’s decision, issued after the end of the last school year, barring official religious exercises in public schools , we would no longer be able to have prayer and Bible reading at the beginning of each school day.  

What a relief!  But I kept a straight face and eyes front and was thankful that the authorities here decided just to obey the law.  I gather in some places, mostly farther south, the peasants are out with torches and pitchforks. Anyway, one down. Fortunately, we only have to say the Pledge of Allegiance in assemblies every month or two, rather than every school day as is the case in some places.  So it’s a relatively minor annoyance. What a blessing this modern Supreme Court has been. It makes all the right people angry.

The November Amazing doesn’t make me angry, just bored, at least to begin.  It is dominated by Savage Pellucidar, a long novelet by Edgar Rice Burroughs, the fourth and last in a series of which the first three appeared in Amazing in 1942.  This one has been sitting in Burroughs’s safe for two decades, says Sam Moskowitz’s brief introduction. (ERB died in 1950.)

The story is set in Burroughs’s version of the hollow Earth, with land and oceans and a sun in the middle, in which various characters traverse the land- and sea-scapes mostly looking for each other, fending off several varieties of dangerous wildlife (reptilian and mammalian alike) and other perils, as the author cuts from plot line to plot line to maximize the suspense that can be wrung from this rather tired material.  The obvious question: is why wasn’t this story published along with the others? One might guess that it was rejected—or perhaps Burroughs lacked the temerity even to submit it.

There is certainly evidence here that the author had grown a bit tired of the whole enterprise and had difficulty taking it seriously.  One of the characters, a feisty young woman named O-aa, nearly falls to her death after escaping the fangs of a clutch of baby pterodactyls, saving herself by grabbing a vine: “ ‘Whe-e-oo!’ breathed O-aa.”  Burroughs would have been pushing 70 when he wrote this. I gather his once impressive rate of production had slowed pretty drastically by the early 1940s. Maybe he was just too old and tired by then to produce even at his previous level of conviction, and had just enough discernment left to toss this in the safe and forget about it—unlike his heirs.  One yawning star.

Or maybe I am just a cranky voice in the wilderness, or far out to sea.  I see the Editorial celebrating the “astounding revitalization of Edgar Rice Burroughs,” and on the facing page a full-page ad for the new Canaveral Press editions of Burroughs—11 volumes published, eight more coming shortly, including one with the four Amazing novelets of which this one is the last.  Catch the wave! Thanks but no thanks. Humbug for me, shaken not stirred.

So, what’s left to salvage here?  There are three longish short stories, starting with Harry Harrison’s Down to Earth, which begins as an earnest near-space hardware opera, and continues with the astronauts returning from Moon orbit to an Earth—specifically, a Texas—in which the Nazis are in the end stages of conquering the world, though the beleaguered Americans quickly snatch the bewildered astronauts away from the invaders.  A superannuated Albert Einstein appears, stealing the show and providing a solipsistic handwaving explanation. Matters speed to a predictably unpredicted conclusion. Most writers would have stretched this material at least to Ace Double length; Harrison crams it into a very fast-moving short story, and good for him. There’s nothing especially original here, but four stars for audacious presentation.

Philip K. Dick contributes his second story in two months, What'll We Do with Ragland Park?, which despite its title is not about urban planning, but is a sequel to last month’s Stand-By.  Maximilian Fischer is still President, and he’s thrown the news clown Jim Briskin in jail.  Communications magnate Sebastian Hada is scheming from his stronghold (“demesne” as the author calls it) near John Day, Oregon, to spring Briskin so Briskin can revitalize Hada’s failing network.  To the same end, he recruits Ragland Park, a folksinger, whose songs tend to come true, and uses Park’s compositional talent for his own ends before realizing how dangerous it is.

There’s plenty else going on, such as Hada’s consultations with his psychoanalyst, Dr. Yasumi, who speaks in cliched semi-broken English (“Pretty sad that big-time operator like Mr. S. Hada falling apart under stress.”), and the unexplained fact that Hada has eight wives, one of whom is psychotic and is brought back from her residence on Io on 24 hours’ notice by the President to try to assassinate Hada.  There are also things inexplicably not going on, like the alien invasion fleet which is mentioned in passing but doesn’t seem to be doing anything, or maybe the characters just don’t care. By any rational standard, this is a terrible story: loose, rambling, and arbitrary, in sharp contrast to Harrison’s tightly written and constructed story, or for that matter Dick’s own Hugo-winning The Man in the High Castle.  But Dick’s woolly satirical ramblings are still clever and entertaining, like Stand-By more comparable to a stand-up routine than what we usually think of as a story. Three stars.

Almost-new author Piers Anthony—one prior story, in Fantastic a few months ago—is present with Quinquepedalian, which is just what it sounds like: a story about an extraterrestrial animal with five feet.  Monumentally large animal, very large feet, with which it is trying to stomp the space-faring protagonist to death, not without reason. And it seems to be intelligent. How to communicate that it is pursuing a fellow sophont, and persuade it to let bygones be bygones? This one is for anyone who says there are no new ideas in SF, for certain values of “idea.”  Four stars for ingenuity and a different kind of audacity than Harrison’s.


   
Ben Bova, whom I am beginning to think of as the 60-cycle hum of Amazing, has the obligatory science article, The Weather in Space, pointing out that the vacuum of space is no such thing; there’s matter there (though not much by our standards), plenty of energy at least this close to a star, plasma (i.e., ionized gas), the solar wind, solar flares, etc.  This is accompanied by perhaps the most inapposite Virgil Finlay illustration yet for this series of articles. This piece is more interesting than most to my taste, or maybe just better suited to my degree of ignorance; I found it edifying, though Bova remains a moderately dull writer. Three stars.

Well, that was bracing.  What’s the cliche? The night is darkest just before the dawn?  Something like that, anyway. From the doldrums of ERB to three pretty decent short stories, in nothing flat and 130 pages.   But I could do without the whiplash.




[July 30, 1963] Inoffensive Pact (August 1963 Analog)

[Don't forget to vote for the Hugos — the deadline is here!]


by Gideon Marcus

Across the globe, under the medieval spires of the Kremlin, three ambassadors and their teams vigorously discussed the terms of what may be the precursor to Peace in Our Time (where have we heard that before?)

It all started in 1961, when the Soviet Union began testing gigantic atomic bombs in the air and on the Siberian tundra after a three year moratorium.  America followed suit with a series of tests in the Pacific and high in the atmosphere.  These provided a wonderful show for residents of Hawaii but also made planning for Mercury shots a bit more tricky.

Then, in October 1962, the two superpowers came to the brink of war over the Soviet Union's placement of nuclear missiles in Cuba, just 90 miles off the Florida cloast.  Nikita blinked when Jack glared, and the Doomsday Clock, fluttering at seven minutes to midnight, did not tick.

Nevertheless, it was a close shave, and since then, great strides have been taken to ensure the ongoing survival of our species.  For instance, a teletype "hotline" is being established between Washington D.C. and Moscow.  If things heat up, the President and the Premier can be chatting (via text) in short order, no need to work through ambassadors.

More significantly, W. Averell Harriman, a former U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union; Lord Hailsham of Britain; and Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko have just put together the first Partial Test Ban Treaty.  It will establish a moratorium on atomic testing in the oceans, in the air, above ground, and in space.  Enforcement of the ban will be done by satellite, which can detect the flash of a nuclear detonation.

Why are underground tests excluded from the ban?  Because we can't easily verify when they've happened, and the Russians don't want us prying too deeply into their affairs.  That said, it is a first step, and one that should greatly reduce atmospheric and orbital radiation — a boon that cannot be understated.  With the ban's ratification (hopefully within the next couple of months), the Free and Communist Worlds may inch permanently back from the potential of war.

Meanwhile, in the United States, editor John W. Campbell appears to have done his utmost not to distract from the unquestionably big news described above.  Indeed, the August 1963 Analog is so unremarkable that it might well have not even been published.  I suppose I prefer good real news to good science fiction, but on the other hand, I pay for my subscription to Analog

Well… maybe not for long.  See for yourself.

Change, by R. A. J. Phillips

For once, the "Science Fact" article is neither silly nor dry as dust.  This month's piece is on the Eskimo people of the Arctic, the consequences of their interactions with the industrialized peoples to the south, and the lessons we might carry over to our first contact with aboriginal aliens.

Pretty interesting, actually.  Three stars.

The Hate Disease, by Murray Leinster

I adore the stories of Dr. Calhoun of the interstellar "Med Service" and his cute little monkey/cat, Murgatroyd.  So enchanted have I been by his universe that I have unabashedly cribbed some aspects of it (like the jump drive and the independent nature of the various worlds) for my own stories. 

Thus, it is with great sadness that I must levy a two-star rating on this piece, whose premise involves a contagion that had infected nearly half of a planet's population.  It's just poorly put together, difficult to follow, and the chemical basis for the plague is both abstruse and ridiculous.

"To Invade New York … ", by Irwin Lewis

A mild professor believes he has discovered a plot to paralyze the Big Apple by seizing control of its traffic lights.  This first tale from Irwin Lewis is a shaggy dog bar story without a lot of there there.  Two stars.

Patriot, by Frank A. Javor

An extraterrestrial invasion of Earth is repulsed when one brave man tricks the conquering enemy into raising the flag of a terran nation (presumably the United States).  The hook is that the fellow wends his way into the alien camp by wearing a deliberately mismatched enemy uniform — but it is never explained how that accomplishes his goal.  I read it twice and couldn't figure it out.  It was a silly story, too.  Two stars.

Controlled Experiment, by Arthur Porges

The prolific (if not terrific) Arthur Porges returns with an unnecessary sequel to The Topper, depicting another magical hoax and its scientific explanation.  Forgettable.  Two stars.

The Ethical Engineer (Part 2 of 2), by Harry Harrison

At last we come to what you all will probably (as I did) turn to first: the conclusion to the second novel in the Deathworld series.  When last we left Jason dinAlt, interstellar gambler and lately resident of the dangerous world of Pyrrus, he had been enslaved by the D'sertanoj of a nearby primitive planet.  These desert-dwellers know how to mine petroleum, which they trade to the people of the country, Appsala, in exchange for caroj — steam powered battle wagons.  When dinAlt reveals that he can produce caroj himself, he is promoted to "employee" status and given run of the place.  He eventually escapes with his native companion, Ijale, as well as the obnoxiously moralistic Micah, who kidnapped dinAlt in the first place.  Adventures ensue.

The original Deathworld was a minor masterpiece, a parable about letting go of destructive hatred, suffused with a message on the importance of environmentalism.  It was also a cracking good read.  This new piece is just a yarn, one almost as clunky as the caroj dinAlt works on.  The theme is that universal morality is anything but, and ethics must be tailored to the society for which they are developed. 

I don't disagree, but the passages that deal with ethics are long-winded and poorly integrated; Harrison never matches the message to the underlying carrier wave.  The result reads as if the author had digested a bunch of recent Heinlein before putting finger to typewriter.

The second Deathworld is not bad, just disappointing, particularly given the brilliance of the first story.  Three stars.

It's time to crunch the numbers.  Firstly, I note that the readers of Analog found that Norman Spinrad's first story, the exquisite The Last of the Romany, was the worst story of that issue.  Well, I hope they're happy now.  This latest issue ranks a lousy 2.4 stars, easily at the bottom of the pack this month. 

By comparison, F&SF got a lackluster 2.7 stars, and all the other mags finished above water: Fantastic (with the best story, the Leiber), New Worlds, and Galaxy all got 3.2; Amazing scored an atypical 3.5.  Editor of Fantastic and Amazing, Cele Goldsmith, is the winner this month for certain.

Women fared less well otherwise — out of 39 pieces of fiction (lumping together the various vignettes in this month's Fantastic), only two were written by women — one a short poem co-written with her husband.  Yes, folks.  It's getting worse.

Maybe the SF editors have signed a Partial Woman Ban Treaty?




[June 30, 1963] Calm from the Storm (July 1963 Analog)


by Gideon Marcus

We live in increasingly tumultuous times (or maybe we are just better informed about them).  A war is heating up in Vietnam, an even significant enough to have produced fictional characters who have experienced it (e.g. Linc, the veteran in Route 66; Oscar from Heinlein's new serial, Glory Road). 

There's a war waging in our country, too, as Blacks fight for the rights they are due as humans.  They march, they protest, they are attacked, and sometimes they are killed.  The President recently sent a Civil Rights Bill to Congress, but its future is far from certain.

When the news gets unbearable (or if you are a soldier on either of these front lines and need a break) science fiction and fantasy provide welcome respites.  They offer completely new worlds to explore that may have their own problems, but at least they're different ones.  Or the stories posit futures/alternaties where vexing issues have been solved. 

I find myself increasingly seeking out this refuge as the world gets scarier.  This month's last science fiction digest, the July 1963 Analog, afforded me several hours of peace when I needed it.  Perhaps it will do the same for you.

The Big Fuel Feud (Part 2 of 2), by Harry B. Porter

Even as a rocket scientist, I found Porter's increasingly dry comparison of solid vs. liquid fuels to be interminable.  Campbell needs contributors who will be less textbook, more Asimov (or Ley).  Two stars.

The Ethical Engineer (Part 1 of 2), by Harry Harrison

When we last saw Jason dinAlt, the psychic gambler with a galactic range, he had brought a tepid peace between the city-dwellers and the country folk on the lethal world of Pyrrus.  The latter had managed to live with the increasingly hostile life forms on that death world rather than wage an increasingly futile arms race against it. 

Pyrrus barely figures in this new serial, as dinAlt is kidnapped in Chapter One by a religious fanatic bent on taking Jason back to galactic civilization to face crimes against decency.  On the way, their ship is crippled, and the two must become unlikely allies to survive on yet another harsh world.

It's not as good as Deathworld, and it could have just as easily starred another character.  That said, it picks up as it goes, and I found myself wanting more at the half-way break.  I appreciate that Jason dinAlt, like Laumer's Retief, appears to be Black.  Three stars trending upwards.

New Apples in the Garden, by Kris Neville

In an increasingly technological world, the engineer becomes increasingly essential.  So what happens when people stop seeing slip-stick pusher as a desirable career?  Kris Neville describes a dark future of slow but inexorable decay (with the unspoken subtext made overt in the final illustration).  I don't know that I buy this premise given how heavily the sciences are boosted these days, but it is evocatively drawn.  Three stars.

A Knyght Ther Was, by Robert F. Young

Robert Young has written a lot of great stuff, but these days, his work tends to be really bad, usually some sort of in-joke based on an obvious literary reference (usually something obscure like the Book of Genesis).  This time, his story features a fellow named Thomas Mallory who goes back to England in 542 A.D.  Can you guess what he finds?  I'll give you a clue — it's not a decaying Romano-British/Welsh society under attack by colonizing Saxons.

Worse yet, and you'll see this a mile away, Mallory is THE Mallory.  Yes, bootstraps galore in a tediously predictable tale that doesn't even have the virtue of being funny.  Two stars, and that's being generous.  Read the original, or the ur-document penned by Geoffrey of Monmouth.

New Folks' Home, by Clifford D. Simak

Cliff Simak, master of bucolic SF, has got a serial running in Galaxy right now called Here gather the stars, in which aliens set up a galactic way station in a rural part of America.  New Folk's Home is very similar, thematically, in which an old man, making his last vacation to the backwoods of his youth, discovers a beautiful new house in the middle of nowhere.  Why is it there, and how could it be tied to him?  Is it an intrusive eyesore, or just the retirement spot he was looking for? 

I especially enjoy Simak because his stuff tends to have happy endings, and his aliens are benevolent.  Good stuff, as always.  Four stars.

Thanks to the Harrison and the Simak, I have a more positive feeling toward this issue (and the world) than the issue's 2.6 star rating would normally command.  It's not the best magazine of the month, or even near the top — that prize goes to Fantastic (3.3), followed by Worlds of Tomorrow and Fantasy and Science Fiction (3.1).  Even IF got a higher score (2.8), and it had one of the best stories (Down to the Worlds of Men, by Alexei Panshin).  New Worlds was slightly better, too (2.7).  Only Amazing was worse, and it was a LOT worse (2.1).  So there was lots to enjoy this month to take you out of the miseries of the world.

On the other hand, one misery continues to intrude.  Women wrote just two out of the thirty-seven contributions.  I've been told women aren't just interested, and the editors print the best things they can find.  Why should editors bother to especially solicit women when their jobs are busy enough as it is? 

In reply, I present Exhibit A: Jack Sharkey, whose work fills half of two magazines this month, garnering a whopping two stars between them.  Surely, we can do better than that if we bring in some new blood. We literally can't do worse.

Speaking of Alexei Panshin, the great young author, himself, has answered my letter and offered up an article describing the birth of his first (and most excellent story).  Look forward to it in just a couple of days!




[February 20, 1963] A merry chase (March 1963 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

[While you're reading this article, why not tune in to KGJ, Radio Galactic Journey, playing all the current hits: pop, rock, soul, folk, jazz, country — it's real now, man…]


by Gideon Marcus

If you've been reading the papers this week, you've no doubt been avidly following the improbable trip of the Anzoategui.  This Venezuelan freighter was hijacked by Communist dissidents who wanted to embarrass Venezuelan prime minister Betancourt such that he wouldn't visit the United States.  Several navies chased the purloined vessel as it steamed 'round the eastern hump of South America, ultimately finding sanctuary in Brazil.

The editorial helm of F&SF was recently taken over by Avram Davidson, and like the poor freighter, the magazine has been a captive to its new master and his whims.  Quality has declined steeply, and were it not for Asimov's article and the excellent tale at the end, this issue would barely be fit to warm a stove.

But, those two pieces are the saving grace of the March 1963 Fantasy and Science Fiction

Seven Day's Wonder, by Edward Wellen

This un-shocking tale of an electric New Testament missionary will fail to galvanize you, either with its ponderous pace or its puny puns.  Honestly, this is the sort of thing Avram Davidson (now F&SF's editor) used to make work.  Sadly neither Wellen nor Davidson are Davidson anymore.  Two stars.

The Day After Saturation, by D. K. Findlay

If overpopulation compel us to settle the seas, is de-evolution toward our aquatic ancestry the next inevitable phase?  Probably not, and this, Findlay's first work, is overwrought.  Two stars.

The Sky of Space, by Karen Anderson

Not a bad poem on the changing understanding but unchanging characteristics of outer space.  Three stars.

The Question, by Donald E. Westlake and Laurence M. Janifer

Hot enough for you?  Be careful what you take for granted.  It might just disappear.  Three stars.

The Importance of Being Important, by Calvin Demmon

Second in a matched pair on solipsism (also from a new author), it explores the perfect life of a fellow whose existence is merely another's convenience.  Pointless.  Two stars.

The Journey of Ten Thousand Miles, by Will Mohler

It's the end of the world, and Tyson St. J Tyson III desperately wants to leave his tomb of a house and go on a sea cruise — only the sea isn't there anymore.  Three pages of a story inflated five-fold to no one's profit.  One star.

Captain Honario Harpplayer, R.N., by Harry Harrison

Overblown, unfunny pastiche of C. S. Foreseter's work.  I've often said that I have trouble distinguishing Harrison and Laumer, but Laumer is funnier when he tries.  1 star.

Game for Motel Room, by Fritz Leiber

When a three-brained, too-silky centenarian beauty with a homicidal husband comes a flirtin', best you send her packing sooner rather than later.  Decently written, but disturbing and kind of dumb.  Two stars.

You, Too, Can Speak Gaelic, by Isaac Asimov

I love pieces on etymology, and the Good Doctor does a fine job of explaining the (not) Celtic roots of para-dimethylaminobenzaldehyde.  Four stars.

Zack With His Scar, by Sydney Van Scyoc

When the world of the future is perfect, the only imperfect thing…is you.  And the only therapy is being saddled with someone worse.  I don't know that I liked this story, but I found it interesting.  Three stars.

Hunter, Come Home, by Richard McKenna

I put off reading the final novelette for days, given how lackluster the rest of the issue had been.  But this story makes up for them all.  It's sort of a cross between Deathworld and Hothouse — a planet with a single, planet-spanning and omnivariate lifeform is under attack by a group of rapacious colonists bent on scouring the native biome and replacing it with terrestrial plants and animals.  The rationale of the invaders is plausible (if distasteful), the depiction of the native life is profound, and the characterization is superb.  Five stars.

And there you have it.  Mediocrity and downright lousiness followed by a burst of talent.  Let's hope Asimov and McKenna don't disembark at Brazil, never to be seen again…

[P.S. If you registered for WorldCon this year, please consider nominating Galactic Journey for the "Best Fanzine" Hugo.  Your ballot should have arrived by now…]




[August 3, 1962] New Worlds to Conquer (a view from Britain: September 1962 New Worlds)

[if you’re new to the Journey, read this to see what we’re all about!]


by Mark Yon

Hello to all Travellers – greetings from Europe.

I’ve been asked by our Traveller to tell you of the British magazine situation as it appears here in England. There are some differences between the British & the American markets, as you may know. Generally US magazines are quite difficult to get here, due to the cost of transportation and the fact that there import restrictions to this fair isle. One of the consequences of this is that although we do get UK editions of your main magazines such as Analog, Fantasy & SF and Galaxy here, they are often different to the American editions you see. What this has meant in actuality is that the British editions often have less content than their American equivalents, with editorials, stories and serials removed altogether. To add to the confusion even more, different stories from different American editions are often mixed together in one British issue. This can mean that my view of what you are reading in America is slightly different, or at least a few months behind, yours.

Nevertheless, we do have some interest in new science fiction in England. Our co-traveller Ashley Pollard has mentioned much of this already in her articles here. Our most popular ‘home-grown’ SF magazine is New Worlds, which Ashley has already given a wonderful summary of already. The intention of New Worlds’s editor, Mr. John (Ted) Carnell seems to be to not only produce a magazine that shows British talent off but to also push the boundaries of science fiction (s-f).

It seems to be a time of change for s-f here in England. Generally the situation at the moment seems to be one of decline for British magazines. The actual number of publications available is much smaller than it was five years ago, though there are some that seem to survive. There are four by Nova Publications, of which, and currently in its 16th year of publication, New Worlds is the most popular British magazine at the moment. I do like Nova Publications’s Science Fiction Adventures and Science Fantasy as well, but I think that my purpose here is to discuss New Worlds with you.

I can see that, even with New Worlds, there have been some drastic changes in the last few months. The glorious colour covers of the last few years by artists such as Bob Clothier, Gerard Quinn, Sidney Jordan and Brian Lewis have since the June issue (that’s number 119) been replaced by covers with black & white photographs on a coloured background. Whatever reason editor John Carnell has had for the change – I’m assuming to reduce printing costs, but of course, it could be a number of things – to my mind it makes the magazine less attractive as a science fiction magazine (One rumour is that it is meant to be a radically different cover style to try and attract a wider, less specifically science-fiction readership). Colour pictures on the front cover would have made this new look so much more attractive. I do hope that this is nothing to worry about from our leading British magazine.

The magazine contents are as variable as ever, though. New Worlds has a reputation of being the publishing place of many of our British authors such as Mr’s Brian W. Aldiss, J. G. Ballard, James White, and John Brunner, names you may recognise. Some of the work of other lesser known authors can vary in terms of quality and consistency, though I must say that there’s something worth reading in each issue. As well as the fiction, the magazine occasionally covers book, film and television reviews, usually by Mr Leslie Flood.

With all of that out of the way, what about the latest issue, #122?

Well, the cover reflects the current startling colour scheme. Behind the bright pink cover we begin this issue with a Profile of the Guest Editor, 22-year-old Mr John Baxter from Australia. Australia does buy a lot of these magazines from Britain as well. There have been a number of Guest Editorials recently, but this is the first by a science-fiction fan, as Mr. Carnell says in his introduction “to represent a reader’s viewpoint”.

Mr. Baxter pulls no punches with his Editorial. This is clearly not an essay that panders to sycophancy. Instead, whilst welcoming the addition of Guest Editors, he decries their lack of criticism: “…. all of them have been, in my opinion, short-sighted, illogical and inconclusive…. As literary essays, the Guest Editorials were fine; as constructive criticism, a dead loss.”

I was impressed that Mr. Carnell has been brave enough to take on and publish such a forthright and provocative opinion. Mr. Baxter writes with enthusiasm and creates an effective call-to-arms for modern s-f readers and writers – that if science fiction is to be accepted by the masses then writers need to take up the challenge of writing stories that are intelligent and scientifically precise that also manage to stand up to professional criticism. This is a view also taken by many in the intermittent letters section, Postmortem, at the back of the magazine. Presumably to ally with the Guest Editor’s perspective, many of the letters there this month also examine the importance and usefulness of previous Guest Editorials, the need for scientific accuracy in stories and the need for s-f that is Literature, with a capital-L. I’ll be interested to see what response we get in future issues from other readers.

Of the actual fiction, first of all there is the start of a new two-part serial. This one is by Mr. Keith Woodcott, an author unknown to me, although I suspect that because there is no picture of the author on the lurid front cover, it may actually be written by someone better known as another name. The rather dramatic title, The Crack of Doom, is a psi-story that according to its introduction “introduces a slan-like atmosphere into what has become a highly controversial theme.” It’s a story that deals with racial segregation and cultural isolation as Van Vogt's classic, Slan, did, with the psinull Starfolk, in a fit of evolutionary superiority, persecuting the psychic minority Psions. There are similarities between our world, at a time of a racial conflict, and Mr. Woodcott’s one, I feel. The plot basically hinges on the revelation that an anguished psionic scream is heard by all Psions coming from ancient Old Race ruins on the Starfolk-governed Regnier’s Planet. This may have consequences for our hero Philip Garcon, intrepid graduate in cosmoarchaeology, who, as a psinull rarity, is given the task of uncovering the source of the scream on Reignier’s at the end of this first part.

It’s a satisfactory tale. Though rather old-fashioned in some ways (after all, Slan is over fifteen years old!) it also refreshes those ideas fairly well. I’m not a huge fan of these ESP type tales, personally, but I’ve always liked the idea of archaeology in space, (here called cosmoarchaeology) and ancient cultures. The Crack of Doom is a bit run-of-the-mill, but done well enough to keep me reading. I look forward to the next part, though I think I can see where this story is going. 3 out of 5.

There are five short stories in this issue. The first is by a well-known author who you may know in the US – Mr. Harry Harrison. In line with the editor’s current mission to push the envelope of British s-f, it may be a controversial one. The Streets of Ashkalon is one which tackles the idea of religion head-on. It is the story of John Gath, an atheist trader on the planet of Ashkalon, who greets the arrival of Father Mark, a Christian missionary, with extreme reluctance. Father Mark is determined to bring the word of God to the alien Wesker species living there on Ashkalon, though to Gath they are pure and innocent and cannot understand the difference between facts and beliefs. Whilst Gath is eventually impressed by the zealot’s single-mindedness, there are consequences to Father Mark’s actions. The story is shocking and memorable, and by far the best thing in this issue. I wonder what Mr. James Blish, whose 1958 novel A Case of Conscience also dealt with religion, would think of it? 5 out of 5.

The second story is Pandora’s Box by Mr. Steve Hall, a fairly new writer to me. It’s a typical space-frontier tale, set on the Moon, that I think Mr. Arthur C Clarke would appreciate. It was OK for me, not too surprising, but I liked it. The story does much to set up a scenario of a mysterious box being found on the Moon whilst a new Matter Transmitter is being built there, but then uses a rather obvious solution and has an ending that concludes the tale rather too abruptly for my tastes. I suspect that in the end it’ll not be that memorable, but Mr. Hall may be an author to watch for in the future. 2 out of 5.

Next is a short story by another new name to me, Mr. Morris Nagle, named Serpent in Paradise. It’s the story of an adventurous millionaire, Archibald Downes, a castaway who seems reluctant to be rescued. When an exploratory team find him they not only have to persuade him to leave but also deal with the local flora and fauna. This one is typical adventure story stuff, with an unsurprising twist at the end. It was OK but not really outstanding for me. 2 out of 5.

The next story, The Craving of Blackness by Mr. Robert Ray, was a tale of about a young man’s coming-of-age, and the consequential loss of innocence. Fourteen-year-old Joey wishes to be a Space-Medic but on taking his IQ test finds that things in the future may not be what he hopes for. It’s OK but is a little heavy-handed for my tastes personally. 3 out of 5.

Lastly we have Moonbeam, by an author not unknown to me or other regular New Worlds readers, Mr. David Rome. Since his first story in the May 1961 New Worlds, Mr. Rome has become an increasingly popular writer. Moonbeam is a story of the effects of the first faster-than-light transmission of a person far away to Alpha Centauri. Earth to Alpha Centauri in five hours is something we can only dream of today, and here it is suggested that there are problems in being one of the first people brave enough to try it. The ‘test pilot’, as it were, Bianchi, finds that there are unanticipated consequences of such travel. There’s issues of identity involved, as Bianchi appears to be a subject created in a factory and an increasing sense of dislocation as the story tells its plot. It is capped by a nice twist in the ending to this one, which stays in the mind just long enough to make you think before moving on. 3 out of 5.

So: was New Worlds worth my 2/6 (that’s two shillings and sixpence to you non-Brits) this month? On balance, yes. I would give it a score of 3 out of 5. It’s a solid issue overall, with some parts very memorable and others being OK, without any real rotters. I suspect that The Streets of Ashkalon will become one of Mr Harrison’s better-known works in the future, and not just for its determination to tackle sacred issues.

This time around, New Worlds seems to have made its mission explicit – to be different, to not be content with mundanity and clichés but push s-f into new and exciting ideas and themes. It is therefore perhaps as good a place as any to start my journey with you, fellow travellers. It’ll be interesting to see where this takes us.




[March 22, 1962] Provoking Thought (April 1962 Analog)


by Gideon Marcus

Ask the average citizen their opinion of science fiction and they'll likely mention monsters, flying saucers, and ray guns.  SF has gotten a bad rap lately, largely due to the execrable movies nominally representing it, but there's no question that the pulps of the 30s and 40s, and the lesser magazines of the 50s didn't help much.  And yet, only Science fiction offers endless worlds in which to explore fundamental human issues.  Religion.  Philosophy.  Politics.  It is only in our fantastic genre that the concept "if this goes on" can be pushed to extremes, whether a story be set in the far future or on a remote planet.  SF isn't just kiddie stuff – it can be the most adult of genres.

Case in point: Analog, formerly Astounding Science Fiction, set a standard in the pulp era as the grown-up magazine in the field.  And while I've had something of a love-hate relationship with the digest that Campbell built, this particular issue – the April 1962 edition – offers up some intriguing political predictions that, if not probable, are at least noteworthy.

Mercenary, by Mack Reynolds

Take four concepts and carry them to the nth degree: 1) unions and corporations increase in power such that they become virtual nations; 2) world disarmament is achieved – to the point that post-1900 weaponry is abolished; 3) the public's demand for violence on television is insatiable; 4) economic class stratification gets stronger. 

The result is a United States where private entities no longer resolve disputes in court; they do literal battle with brigades, even divisions of professional soldiers.  Their conflicts are televised as circuses for the masses (whose bread needs have been met by automation).  Mercenary is the tale of a veteran-for-hire who is desperately trying to climb the social ranks with the one remaining avenue: a successful military career.

This novella is my favorite of the bunch.  Reynolds, who has traveled the world and seen both the Soviet Union and the Mahgreb first-hand, invests his work with a gritty realism that elevates it above its genre siblings.  It's what Dickson's Dorsai should have been in about half the space.  Four stars.

Toy Shop, by Harry Harrison

When no reputable government agency will look at your breakthrough scientific achievement, then it's time to resort to unorthodox methods, right?  I'm disappointed with this one.  It's clearly an opportunity for Harrison (normally quite good) to get a quick $100 from editor Campbell, who champions all sorts of quackery.  Two stars.

A Slave is a Slave, by H. Beam Piper

Take a colony of humans, reduce them to slavery at the hands of a rapacious space vikings, and let stew for seven centuries.  Then topple the viking-descended overlords and see what happens.  This story, set in Piper's often presented Galactic Empire, is a clear analogy for decolonization.  It's got some straw men, some broad strokes, some glib presentation, but I think it makes some good points.  The oppressed aren't always the good guys.  The road to democracy is a long and fraught one.  Noble intentions do not guarantee positive outcomes.  Three stars.

Suppressed Invention, by John W. Campbell, Jr.

I rolled my eyes when I saw the title and the byline for this one, but I was surprised to find that this essay, about recent advancements in electric battery science, is both readable and informative.  Sure, it's got a little bit of the Campbellian spin on things, but the basic facts are here and nicely presented.  Three stars.

The Circuit Riders, by R. C. FitzPatrick

We've seen the idea of "pre-crime" before, where police attempt to stop incidents before they occur.  The example that stands out most to me is Philip K. Dick's Minority Report.  FitzPatrick, to all accounts, is a new author, but he's arrived on the scene with a visceral sensitivity in his first story that suggests he'll be offering up great stuff in the future.  A detractor from Riders is that, after a fantastic cold open first act, FitzPatrick then devotes an unnecessary scene to explaining the mechanics behind the "deAngelis" thought monitor.  Also, the resolution isn't quite up to the build-up.  An invention that can monitor emotional patterns needs a book, is worth a book.  Three stars.

***

Thus, Analog finishes this month on the right side of decent 3-star quality.  Moreover, it presents a set of intriguing visions guaranteed to make you think.  And that's exactly what science fiction should do.

[Oct. 23, 1961] Making Progress (Harry Harrison's Sense of Obligation)


by Gideon Marcus

Author Harry Harrison has been around for a long time, starting his science fiction writing career at the beginning of the last decade (1951).  Yet, it was not until this decade that I (and probably many others) discovered him.  He came into my view with the stellar Deathworld, a novel that was a strong contender for last year's Hugo.  Then I found his popular Stainless Steel Rat stories, which were recently anthologized.  The fellow is definitely making a name for himself.

Harrison actually occupies a liberal spot in generally conservative Analog magazine's stable of authors.  While Harry tends to stick with typical Analog clichés (psionics, humano-centric stories, interstellar hijinx), there are themes in his work which are quite progressive – even subversive, at least for the medium in which they appear.

For instance, there is a strong pro-ecological message in Deathworld.  I also detect threads of pacifism in Harrison's works, not to mention rather unorthodox portrayal of women and sexual mores.  Harry isn't Ted Sturgeon or anything, but he is definitely an outlier for Analog, and refreshing for the genre as a whole.

Harrison's latest novel, Sense of Obligation (serialized over the last three issues of Analog) continues all of the trends described above.  On the surface, it has a plot that's not unusual: Brion Brandd is the most recent winner of "The Twenties," a combined Olympics-type event held on the inhospitable planet, Anvhar.  The residents of this difficult world already have to be tougher than the average Terran; Brion is the toughest of them.  He is recruited by a former Twenties winner to join the interstellar secret service. 

His first mission is to help stop the destruction of planet Dis by it's neighbor Nyjord.  It turns out that the Disans, a xenophobic branch of humanity, have assembled an arsenal of bombs and plan to attack its technologically superior neighbor.  The Nyjordians are a normally peaceful people, but they can see no way to combat the implacable Disans other than to utterly wipe them out from orbit.  Brion, and his partner, brilliant Terran xenobiologist LeaMorees, have but a few days before the Nyjordian ultimatum expires, and destruction ensues.

Sense is a solid read, though it is not the classic that Deathworld was.  Call it three stars.  But what I really appreciated was that, once again, Harrison has given us a female character who is not only interesting and talented, but also has romantic agency.  As with the superhumanly strong Meta, from Deathworld, Lea makes the first move with the book's protagonist.  Moreover, the Anvharrian take on romance is contrasted favorably with the one that prevails on Earth.  Terran males relentlessly pursue their women, who must frequently employ the "spike heel" defense – sound familiar?  On Anvhar, men are respectful and respond only once a woman has expressed interest.  Platonic friendship between members of opposite sexes is valuable in and of itself, and if the female partner desires something further, she is in the driver's seat.  It's different, and I dig it.

This portrayal of alternate societies is surprisingly rare in science fiction, particularly in Analog.  The focus is usually on futuristic technologies.  Harrison's willingness to incorporate both sociological and technological speculation in his works makes him part of science fiction's vanguard, broadening the scope of our genre for the better.  It's what makes his name a pleasant addition to any magazine's table of contents.  May he continue to be a luminary throughout the '60s… and beyond!

[September 18, 1961] Balancing Act (October 1961 Analog)

Science fiction digests are a balancing act.  An editor has to fill a set number of pages every month relying solely on the stories s/he's got at her/his disposal.  Not to mention the restrictions imposed if one wants to publish an "all-star" or otherwise themed issue. 

Analog has got the problem worst of all of the Big Three mags.  Galaxy is a larger digest, so it has more room to play with.  F&SF tends to publish shorter stories, which are more modular.  But Analog usually includes a serialized novel and several standard columns leaving only 100 pages or so in which to fit a few bigger stories.  If the motto of The New York Times is "All the news that's fit to print," then Analog's could well be, "All the stories that fit, we print."

How else to explain the unevenness of the October 1961 Analog?  The lead novella, Lion Loose, by James Schmitz, is 60 pages of unreadability.  It's a shame since Schmitz has written some fine work before, but I simply unable to finish this tale of space piracy and teleporting animals.  Your mileage may vary.  One star.

Gordie Dickson's Love Me True fares better, though it is a bit Twilight Zone-esque.  Space explorer risks all to bring a cute fuzzy-wuzzy back from Alpha Centauri as a pet.  In the end, it turns out the bonds of domestication run the other way.  Nicely written, but the idea is two decades behind the times.  Three stars.

The Asses of Balaam is Randall Garrett's contribution, under the pseudonym "David Gordon" used by many Analog writers.  It's the best piece in the book (didn't expect that from Garrett!), a first contact story told from the point of view of some all-too human aliens.  I particularly appreciated the imaginative setting, the priority placed on ecological conservation, and the cute (if not unpredictable) twist at the end.  I must say – Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics have become axiomatic to all science fiction.  Four stars. 


by Schoenherr

Now, the science fact column of Analog is the worst of those included in the Big Three mags, usually filled with the crankiest of crank hypotheses.  I have to give credit to editor Campbell's printing of Report on the Electric Field Rocket, by model rocketeer, G. Harry Stine.  This report is, in fact, an experimental refutation of H.C. Dudley's dubious proposal to use the Earth's electric field to help launch rockets.  Actual science!  Three stars.

Harry Harrison's Sense of Obligation continues, to be completed next issue.  It's reminiscent of Harrison's excellent Deathworld in that it features a man made superhero by virtue of having grown up on a hostile planet.  Sense is not as good as Deathworld, though.  Full rating when it finishes.

That leaves The Man Who Played to Lose, another disappointing outing from a normally good author, in this case, Laurence Janifer (writing as "Larry M. Harris).  Interstellar Super Spy is sent to a planet in the throes of civil war.  His job is to stop the insurrection – by making it too successful!  A smug, implausible story, with far too much preaching at its tail.  Two stars.

This all adds up to a sub-par score of 2.6 stars out of 5.  This is not the worst Analog has gotten, but it's not all that unusual, either.  This is why it usually takes me the longest to get through an issue of Campbell's magazine.

Next up… a special article from a surprising source!