Tag Archives: J.G. Ballard

Conventions/Performances, Magazine

[April 18, 1964] A firm line (the May 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

World(Con) Affairs

I've heard a rumor that Galactic Journey will be up for Best Fanzine at this year's Worldcon.  I'm not getting my hopes up — after all, we were promised a spot last year, but we ended up nowhere to be found on the 1963 Hugo ballot.  Still, for all of you who nominated us, we give our humblest thanks and hope you keep doing it!  In any event, we intend on attending this year's Worldcon (dubbed Pacificon II) as it will be held quite close to home, in California's Bay Area.

One person who will definitely not be attending Pacificon II is notorious fan Walter Breen.  Unless you live under a rock (or, perhaps, east of the Colorado), Breen is at the center of the "Breendoggle," a crisis that is currently rending apart West Coast fandom.  Berkeley fans report that Breen, an adult, has a penchant for unsavory activities involving fellows too young to give consent.  Far too young.  While fandom is a tolerant bunch (after all, we're definitely a bunch of weirdos), not only are Breen's actions morally reprehensible, but they attach civil liability to any organization he is a part of.

Needless to say, we support Pacificon II's decision to ban Breen from the convention, as do many.  However, Breen has got a lot of defenders, including Big Name Fan John Boardman, and superfan-turned-pro Marion Zimmer Bradley, who we understand is now in a relationship with Breen.  This saddens us, and we hope that Breen's misguided supporters soon see the light. 

My apologies for bringing up an unpleasant topic.  With luck, that's the last we'll have to write about it.

The Issue at Hand


cover by Ed Emshwiller for The Illuminated Man

On a more (but not much) more cheery note, let's take a look at this month's Fantasy and Science Fiction.  Once again, Editor Davidson wails that no one writes space adventure stories anymore.  That's not really true.  They just don't send them to Avram. 

Instead, we get the following mishmash of fantasy and horror, most of it pretty mediocre:

The Illuminated Man, by J. G. Ballard

Out in deep space, the mutual annihilation of matter and anti-matter depletes the universal store of time.  As a result, the remaining matter blooms, spawning crystalline growths that absorb heat and constrain movement.  In Florida, Belorussia, and Madagascar, wild terrain becomes iridescent with the stuff, and mass evacuations ensue.

Our protagonist, a journalist, becomes trapped in the Everglades while the swamp becomes a kaleidoscopic death trap.  But this phenomenon becomes the least of our hero's worries when he gets caught between two feuding vertices of a love triangle: the local chief of police and a lunatic, who are fighting over the woman now married to the former, once to the latter.

Ballard does love his world catastrophes (viz. the recent classic, The Drowned World).  But while I found the story vivid and certainly unique, Ballard's writing has a somber, sepulchral tone that puts me off.  Illuminated Man is a gloomy trip without much of a destination.

Three stars.

Three Times Around, by Jane Roberts

Beware the laundromat, for the item getting permanently pressed just might be you.  I'm glad to see Jane Roberts back in print, and this is a pleasant little piece of horror.

Three stars.

You Have to Stay Inside, by Calvin Demmon

If there is a genre called "Slice of Life," this might be a "Slice of Horror" — a nicely written episode.  But it needs a story to go with it.

Two stars.

No Place Like Where, by Robert M. Green, Jr.

I'm not sure why Avram chose to spoil the twist of Green's story, which illustrates the perils of making apartment buildings too big and look-alike.  Well, it's not much of a story anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Two stars.

The Building of a Protein, by Theodore L. Thomas

This pointless proto-story column continues, this time on the subject of synthetic protein manufacture, which Thomas suggests could ultimately feed the masses. 

The Second Law of Thermodynamics says we're not going to get quick-grown meat any faster or cheaper than cows.  Maybe more humanely.

Two stars.

Invasion, by Christopher Corson

The aliens apparently lulled us to sleep with this rather unimpressive piece of poetry.  Two stars.

A Red Heart and Blue Roses, by Mildred Clingerman

If there's anyone who can bring back the feeling of Weird Tales or Unknown, it's Mildred Clingerman, who in Roses, chills us with the tale of a mother who finds herself adopted by a most unsavory surrogate son. 

I particularly enjoyed the clever double narrative.  The story is recounted by one hospital patient to another; we initially think the story will be that of the viewpoint character, but it's really her roommate's.

Four stars.

Sea Wrack, by Edward Jesby

Far in the future, the Morlocks live in the sea.  They are not hairy brutes but rather civilized, handsome mermen.  Nevertheless, the Eloi still hate and shun them…to surface-dwellers' ultimate despair and ruin.

An interesting tale, too affected and jolting in its execution to be great.

Three stars.

Mar-ti-an, by Robert Lory

Now that the Ferdinand Feghoot pun column is gone, Avram has diversified the sources of his joke stories.  He needs to find better ones.

One star.

Ghost Lines in the Sky, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor brings us a pleasant but rather sterile article on meridians and parallels.  Of course, it's stuff I've known since junior high, so maybe I'm jaded.

Three stars.

Touchstone, by Terry Carr

Just as Ballard doesn't quite do it for me, Terry Carr always does.  You'll enjoy this one, about a Greenwich Village guy who trades his worries for a hunk of magic black rock.

Four stars.

The New Encyclopaedist, by Stephen Becker

Becker serves up one of those non-fact pieces, about nonconformists inheriting the Earth thanks to their uncommon common sense.  Not bad, though more suited to Analog, maybe Galaxy, than here.

Three stars.

Cantabile, by Jon DeCles

Last up is a baroquely pleasant story about a humanoid with a one-month life span, and the Space-Age princess who briefly loves him.  This is Jon's first sale — I look forward to more works from him.

Three stars.

Summing Up

F&SF continues to be much of a muchness, but at least it keeps Ed Emshwiller, artist extraordinaire, in lucre.  I've given up hope that it'll ever be my favorite magazine again, but it wasn't decidedly unpleasant this month.

And given the other news in this article, "not decidedly unpleasant" is pretty good!

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Book, Magazine

[March 27, 1964] The End of an Era? Not With a Bang…. ( New Worlds, April 1964)

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by Mark Yon

Scenes from England

Hello again!

Well, here we are, with what at one time would have been the last ever issue of New Worlds. Since this was announced in November last year, I have flip-flopped between resignation and despair.

With the time arrived, I must admit that I was curious to see what the final issue would be like. Would it go the way of many others before it, in that typically understated British manner, with a polite “Thank You” and a cheery wave? Or would it rage against the unfairness of it all, snarling and roaring like a wounded animal, determined to show everyone in a dazzling blaze of glory that the decision to cancel was wrong?

Interestingly, last month’s issue had given a few hints that it was going to be more of the latter than the former. Editor Mr. John Carnell had accused the genre of being dull, of producing little that was memorable, and yet in the same issue given the rallying call of The Terminal Beach, an undeniably memorable yet undefinable piece of what now seems to be called “New Wave” science fiction. As a result, I wasn’t sure how this one would go. (And as it turns out, there is a lifeline, of which I will explain more later.)

The issue at hand

To begin with, we have Mr. Carnell’s full description of the state of the genre at the end of 1963, as hinted at last month.
It shows some interesting results, if a poll of about 350 correspondents tells us anything. Sf readership is getting older, presumably as readers stay with the genre, but there is an intriguing development with an increase in younger readers – much needed, perhaps, and also reflecting the sea change in the genre. Perhaps most importantly, with the improved accessibility of paperbacks it is perhaps no surprise that magazine sales are down and book sales are up. The summary ends on a positive note, that sf is now perhaps more mainstream than ever before – but it does make me wonder what those who like their sf to be off-kilter and underground think about it.

To the stories themselves. 

beyond the reach of storms, by Mr. Donald Malcolm

We begin the stories in this issue with the last in Mr. Malcolm’s Planetary Expedition Team (P.E.T.) stories. The most recent was in the March 1964 issue. In the tradition of many old-style s-f stories, it starts with an unusual astronomical discovery – that of a star with a hole in the middle! Of course, our team have to travel through it. I’m not sure about the scientific plausibility of such a thing, but the novelette is pretty traditional s-f – entertaining yet nothing particularly startling. I have grown to like these stories, but they are not especially memorable. 3 out of 5.

megapolitan underground , by Mr. William Spencer

And this is this month’s attempt to be Ballard.  After Mr Spencer’s tale of automotive madness last month, this is another story about urban angst, this time created by travelling on moving walkways and being bombarded with advertising images. It made me think of a never-ending journey on the London Underground, although it is really an alternative take on Mr. Robert Heinlein’s The Roads Must Roll. Again, it’s not something particularly new, nor particularly original. It seems that we have had a few of Mr. Spencer’s stories from the left-over pile. 3 out of 5.

now is the time , by Mr. Steve Hall

As computers in the future may become part of everyday life, here we have a story of another potential use: the manipulation of a political election by computers. The premise seems a little far-fetched to me – who would have thought such things were possible? In any event, the story does little more than illustrate the idea.  3 out of 5.

Farewell, Dear Brother, by Mr. P.F. Woods

As the last ever short story of New Worlds (at least, so we had been led to believe until this month), I’m pretty sure that this story by Mr. Woods (also known as Mr. Barrington J. Bayley) has been deliberately placed here in the magazine because of its title. It is a story of the broken relationship between a twin and his feckless brother, the more reckless of whom has been in a space accident and is now kept at home in the attic, out of the way of visitors. It’s meant to be creepy and despite the dodgy science (a planet with no temperature?) is quite readable in its portrayal of a dysfunctional family. But is it really sf? 3 out of 5.

open prison , by Mr. James White

And now the last installment of the final(?) serial in New Worlds. Following on from last month, we’re back to our story of civilians and military personnel trying to escape from a planet they’ve been imprisoned upon. Usually in such a story, the last part of this three-part escape story is meant to be the exciting bit, where our heroes and heroines leave the prison planet despite all the odds and return to normality. The problem is that it ends without too many surprises. With three weeks to go before E-Day there’s tension between the military group and the civilians, not to mention between the men and the women, but in the end, guess what happens?

This feels like a bit of a damp squib to finish a rather disappointing tale. There’s nothing particularly wrong with it, except perhaps for that whiff of male-chauvinism that pervades the pages occasionally and that I felt more sorry for the alien Bugs killed than the humans trying to escape. But it’s a frustratingly mundane tale with a weak ending that is not up to the standard of Mr. White’s Sector General stories, which I enjoyed much more. In short, I pretty much worked this one out from the start, and barely got what I expected. 3 out of 5.

At the back of this issue we have the tying up of loose ends. There’s a Farewell Editorial, which gives us the news that although Mr. Carnell is moving onto pastures new, we will see the return of New Worlds and Science Fantasy, but under new editorship. For New Worlds, Mr. Michael Moorcock is to take the reins in a new incarnation of the magazine, which I think should be interesting and different.

There’s another short set of Book Reviews by Mr. Leslie Flood. This is one part of the magazine I will miss most, as Mr. Flood’s brief yet insightful comments have led me to try many books I might have missed otherwise over the years. This time he looks at Mr. Robert Sheckley’s ‘mordantly successful’ Journey Beyond Tomorrow, Mr. Robert P. Mills’s “superlative collection” The Best of Fantasy & Science Fiction 11th Series (really?) and two new books in a new series, which confirm what we have said earlier this issue, that the future of sf may be in book form rather than in magazines. Even when one of them is Mr. E.C. Tubb’s Window On the Moon, which ironically was serialised in New Worlds last year.

Lastly, we have a final Postmortem letters page, which reflects the plaudits and dingbats showered upon the magazine in its coverage of sf over the last few years. It is noticeable that one of the letters is from new editor, Mr. Michael Moorcock, and another from Mr. Moorcock’s artist friend, Mr. Jim Cawthorn, gestures which bode well for the future, perhaps.

Summing up

This last issue of New Worlds in its present incarnation is sadly not what I hoped it would be. It’s an issue which feels tired and rather beaten. There’s nothing particularly wrong with it, yet it is not as memorable as last month’s issue. Whether this is because of money, because of a lack of interest or just that Mr. Carnell has run out of steam, I do feel that the magazine is leaving not with a bang but with a whimper. It is just not as good as some of the issues that preceded it, although it reflects the transition taking place in some quarters of the British genre scene.

Which then leads me to consider where we are in Britain with sf in 1964. As the Survey at the beginning of this issue shows, the reading habits and even the readership of sf are changing. We are in a very different place from where we were a decade ago, and whether we like it or not, much of this change is as a result of the work of Mr. John Carnell here at New Worlds. I think that it’ll be interesting to see where this goes with new leadership, although at the same time I suspect that not everyone is going to like it.

What I don’t know at this stage is when the new New Worlds will appear. Settling into a new form may take time, although it seems Mr. Moorcock has had a couple of months to get things together. I did notice that the magazine didn’t say anything about an issue next month, so nothing is definite about when I actually get the next one.  If and when a new issue does appear, you'll be hearing from me about it here on the Journey, so watch this space!

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Book, Magazine

[February 27, 1964] Beatles, Boredom and Ballard ( New Worlds, March 1964)

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by Mark Yon

Scenes from England

Hello again!

Things have been busy since last time we spoke. I have been watching with interest (and some good-natured amusement!) the return of The Beatles to your shores. You really have taken the Liverpudlian mop-tops to your hearts, as they have taken over here. I did try and warn you last month about the effect that their enthusiasm and energetic pop can have on impressionable teenagers, and from what news coverage I have seen here many of you seem to have capitulated to their collective charms, as we had before Christmas. 

Doctor Who is still continuing to enthrall and charm here. As fellow traveller Jessica has said already, the latest episode has been an odd one (to put it mildly!), but generally the family and I are still enjoying it a great deal. This is a rather different view to that given in this month’s New Worlds magazine, as you will see… 

To the magazine, then.

The issue at hand

As we approach the end of the magazine next month, it does appear that there is a general feeling of closure evident. But, perhaps knowing that the end is near, the magazine has some terrific fiction amongst the usual fare. 

We begin however with a typically controversial opinion. Whilst there is no guest editorial this month, in its place the issue has a summary of the state of sf in 1963 as editor Mr. Carnell sees it, entitled “A Dull Year".

Now that Mr. Carnell’s tenure as Editor is drawing to a close, it does seem that the gloves are off. His view comes across as rather grumpy. For example, describing Doctor Who as a programme “designed for teenagers and tottering oldsters" is a bit mean. Granted, it is not pushing the boundaries of sf too much, but the fact that we’re seeing any sf on British television I see as a strength. We are not as lucky as yourselves in the US – I still wish I could see The Twilight Zone here, but no sign yet.

Mr. Carnell is similarly disgruntled with sf fiction. There were over thirty hardback books published in Britain last year, but according to Mr. Carnell only three were of any merit. This may be a case of quantity over quality, although I found it interesting that a quick summary of the New Worlds Survey asked for last year (the first since 1958, don’t forget) may suggest another reason for Mr. Carnell’s umbrage – magazine sales are down but paperback sales are up.

After such a gloomy context, we begin the issue’s fiction with something a little more to Mr. Carnell’s taste, perhaps. 

the terminal beach, by Mr. J. G. Ballard

The Terminal Beach is the story of Traven (typically no first names here!), who, for reasons that become clear over the course of the story, has travelled to the island of Eniwetok, a site of atomic bomb tests. As is typical of Ballard, the emphasis is more on mood and less on plot, with many of the Ballard motifs from other stories repeated: physical and mental decay, dystopian featureless buildings, isolation, and deteriorating technology. It is bleak, enigmatic and unsettling, and inevitably concerned with the human condition, which frankly isn’t looking great from this perspective. I’m not entirely sure what all of it is about, or even if it has an overall meaning, but its pervasive mood is chillingly depressing.

It is also a prime example of how far the British New Wave has changed science fiction in the last decade or so. We are light years away from spaceships and monsters here. 4 out of 5.

the traps of time , by Mr. John Baxter

And now to more traditional fare, a time travel story where a killer from the 39th century escapes justice to hide in the nuclear wastes of the 48th. The idea of how minor changes in time travel have consequences is nicely done, but overall the story adds little to the genre. The story concludes with that now almost-traditional downbeat note that seems to be a British convention. 3 out of 5.

unfinished business , by Mr. Clifford C. Reed

Even compared with the rest of the issue, this story is an oddity. Unfinished Business is a story of a married couple, one of whom disappears when flying off to see a pregnant friend. The result is that the remaining partner takes on deliberately dangerous jobs on other planets, not caring if he dies or not. After seventeen years he returns to Earth, to find that the girl who was born at the time of his partner’s apparent death seems strangely familiar. I suspect that it is meant to be creepy, but in the end comes across as just strange. 3 out of 5.

the unremembered , by Mr. Edward Mackin

Have you ever been subject to one of those rants by an old person that “things are not as good as they used to be"? Mr. Mackin’s story begins like that, with an elderly couple complaining about a depressing future world of synthetic foods and euthanasia clinics. It’s not too surprising then that with the closure of ‘the Clinics’, our protagonist is determined to discover another way out and finds some sort of Cosmic message at the end. It’s a mixture of dystopian social commentary and cosmic revelation that didn’t fit together well for me, to the point where this becomes another story with a title that seems to be sadly appropriate. 2 out of 5.

jetway 75 , by Mr. William Spencer

Mr. Spencer was last here as Bill Spencer in the October 1963 issue with Project 13013. This is a one-trick pony kind of tale, showing a future where pedestrians play chicken with the endless stream of cars on the titular means of conveyance. The point of the story, if there is any, seems to be that both walker and vehicle driver need this deadly interaction to create excitement in their otherwise humdrum life. Rather Ballardian, but without the style and skill, something emphasized by having The Terminal Beach in the same issue. 3 out of 5.

open prison , by Mr. James White

Last month this story left us with the situation where a group of inmates with an innate duty to escape from the prison planet were planning to heist an orbiting spaceship. Much of this middle part is about the preparation for “E-Day" and the practical and political challenges facing the escapees. Admittedly, the story moves along and there’s a building of tension as the escape approaches, but it is scarcely original and clearly the middle part of a story. And there’s still that patronizing tone that vacillates between “What are we going to let the useless girls do?" and “Gosh, those women are jolly useful, aren’t they?" Not one of Mr White’s best, I feel. 3 out of 5.

Unusually, but again expectedly, there is a postmortem letters section this month, the first since the announcement that next month’s New Worlds may be the last. Surprisingly, this selection is not as full of outrage and regret as you might expect, instead reading as any normal letters section. Some readers take the opportunity to complain about stories (such as the recent Mr. Colin Kapp) or bemoan the fact that sf is for entertainment and not an artform, as recent editorials have tried to indicate. There’s also an impassioned cry from a long-time reader for a return to ‘sense-of-wonder’ stories, but I feel that we’ve moved long past that.

(Talking of the end of New Worlds, there are rumours, but I must emphasise at this stage only rumours, that a rescue package may be being looked at for the magazine. Hopefully we will know more by next month.)

Lastly, this month’s rather short set of Book Reviews. Mr. Leslie Flood looks at what sounds like an interesting hardback collecting together recent Russian Science Fiction, which he describes as toeing “the socialist line" but finds “entertaining". He also reviews Mr. Edmund Cooper’s Transit as a “better than average" book, albeit with a hoary plot. He is much more positive about Mr Clifford Simak’s Way Station, which you may remember our Traveller reviewing when it appeared in Galaxy Magazine in two parts last year. Mr. Flood summarises it as “the sort of nonsense I simply cannot resist, and Simak does it so well." I’ve recently read this myself and can only agree.

Lastly, Mr Flood mentions the print of a post-war classic, “for too long out of print", Messers Pohl and Kornbluth’s Gladiator-At-Law. Whilst lacking “the spurious charm" of The Space Merchants, it is “very compulsive reading".

Summing up

In summary, another diverse issue. Mr. Carnell’s tenure as Editor may be drawing to a close, but he seems determined to want to go with a bang, although I am sure that Mr. Ballard’s story will have many readers who hate it as much as others love it. You may not like everything here, and it hardly manages any degree of consistency, but it can’t be denied that in places this is a thought-provoking issue. 

Until next month.

[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




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Magazine

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

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[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!

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[September 23, 1963] Small Comforts (October 1963 Fantastic)

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by Victoria Silverwolf
 
The Heart asks Pleasure – first –
And then – Excuse from Pain –
And then – those little Anodynes
That deaden suffering –
–Emily Dickinson
 
Our host has already provided a powerful and heartfelt essay on the horrific Birmingham church bombing that occurred this month.   Along with shock and sorrow, we should share a conviction to oppose the racial inequality which leads to such evils.
 

Members of the Congress of Racial Equality march in Washington, D. C., on September 22
 
It is understandable that many people, myself included, will seek some form of distraction from these troubling times.  For most Americans, that often means television.
 
The American Broadcasting Company, the youngest of the three big networks, premiered new series this month.  Of most interest is The Outer Limits. Watch for reviews of this science fiction anthology show from one of our fellow Galactic Journeyers soon.
 

 
Those who prefer tales of suspense may wish to watch The Fugitive, starring David Janssen as a physician wrongly convicted of murdering his wife.  He escapes from custody during a train wreck, and tries to track down the real killer while eluding the police.
 

 
Young viewers, and those who enjoy unrealistic sitcoms, are likely to tune in for The Patty Duke Show.  The talented young actress, best known for her Oscar-winning role as Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker, has a double role as a pair of identical cousins with opposite personalities.  It's a ridiculous premise, but may appeal to folks in search of lighthearted amusement.
 

 
The American popular music charts were dominated by two very different hit songs.  Earlier in the month, we had the silly but catchy little number "My Boyfriend's Back" by the Angels.
 

 
More recently, a remake of Tony's Bennet's 1951 hit Blue Velvet by crooner Bobby Vinton reached Number One.  Vinton's version first appeared on the album Blue on Blue, containing only songs with the word blue in the title.  When Blue Velvet became a smash hit, the album quickly reappeared with a new cover and a new title.
 

 
Of course, my favorite form of escapism is reading imaginative fiction.  Let's see if the latest issue of Fantasticprovides the kind of thing I'm looking for.
 

 
The Screen Game, by J. G. Ballard
 

 
We return to Vermillion Sands, a desert resort for the wealthy and the artistic, which has supplied the background for several of the author's stories in the past.  The narrator is a painter. He accepts a commission to produce a large number of backdrops to be used during the making of an avant garde movie. The filming is to take place at the mansion of a wealthy man whose mother died under mysterious circumstances.  He discovers a woman inside a number of screens he has painted with signs of the zodiac. Her hobby is placing jewels on the bodies of venomous insects. Secrets are revealed, and tragedy follows.
 
This story is full of striking images.  It proceeds with the inevitability of a Greek play.  The author's characters are larger-than-life archetypes.  Cover art and interior illustration by the great Emsh perfectly capture the tale's strange beauty and brooding sense of mystery.  Not all readers will care for the decadent aesthetes who populate Vermillion Sands, but I found the story compelling. Five stars.
 
The Wolf Woman, by H. Bedford-Jones
 

 
This month's reprint, taken from the pages of the August 1939 issue of Blue Book, features the time-viewing machine we encountered in last month's Fantastic.  Here it is used to spin a tale set in ancient India, at a time of war between Aryans and Dravidians.  Dravidians force the ruler of the Aryans to swear that her people will not emerge from their stronghold.  In return, the Dravidians will refrain from attacking them and supply them with food. The ruler slyly avoids swearing that she will not leave her castle.  She embarks on a one-woman mission to slay the ruler of the Dravidians, with the help of superstition and a tame wolf.
 

 
Although the introduction by science fiction historian Sam Moskowitz claims that this story is part of werewolf literature, in fact it provides a completely rational explanation for the myth of lycanthropy.  The heroine merely uses trickery to convince her enemies that she has the power to become a wolf. The author's version of the remote past is more romantic than realistic. By the end of the story, the characters act in ways only found in sentimental pulp fiction.  Two stars.
 
King Solomon's Ring, by Roger Zelazny
 

 
This story takes the form of a letter written by the narrator to a woman with whom he shares a checkered past.  The narrative is full of flashbacks and foreshadowing, making the complex plot difficult to follow. In brief, a man has a limited form of telepathy which allows him to communicate, at least partly, with aliens.  He leaves a life of crime for a form of legal plunder, in which Earth corporations take advantage of the inhabitants of other worlds. An encounter with insect-like aliens leads to a strange transformation. Although it's not always clear exactly what's going on, the author's brisk, informal style holds the reader's attention.  Three stars.
 
Let There Be Night, by Robert F. Young
 

 
A space traveler is marooned on a planet which is inhabited by aliens who are identical in every way to human beings, except for their language and culture.  The planet has a large moon with natural features that closely resemble a scowling face. This is the god of the inhabitants. Their lives are spent trying to appease their angry deity.  The spaceman sets himself up in the tradition of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, leading the people from simple farming to advanced technology. His only problem is that they refuse to purchase anything but necessities, due to their fear of the god.  He decides to use the armaments he has aboard his spaceship to alter the face of the deity, with unexpected results.
 
As the synopsis above reveals, this story is full of implausible happenings.  It is better read as a fable than as serious speculation. The author is obviously trying to say something about the way in which religion influences human behavior.  What happens at the end may be too cynical for some readers. Two stars.
 
Mating Season, by Wilton G. Beggs
 

 
Fleeing an impending atomic war, human colonists journey to a distant planet.  It turns out to be barely habitable. An alien disease devastates the population.  By the time the story begins, there are only three survivors. A woman is dying from the disease, but her husband is immune to it.  A teenage girl, born on the planet, is also immune. On a hunting expedition, the tensions among them reach a climax. This is an unrelievedly grim story.  It has emotional power but is unpleasant to read. Two stars.
 
A Night with Hecate, by Edward W. Ludwig
 

 
The witch-goddess Hecate wakes from a long slumber to discover herself in the year 1997.  The only reason she survives at all is because she has one remaining worshipper, an old man.  Alone, he will not be enough to keep her alive, because construction equipment is about to destroy her altar.  The mismatched pair spend the night seeking out another person to worship her. This is made nearly impossible by the fact that only those who believe in her can see her.
 
This blend of science fiction and fantasy takes place at a time when science and logic have nearly destroyed any sense of the magical.  It reads like something Ray Bradbury might have written when he was in a particularly dark mood. Hecate is both alluring and terrifying, taking humans as either lovers or sacrifices.  This ambiguity makes it hard to determine what the author really thinks about the war between rationality and fantasy. The narrative has a feverish, hypnotic quality. The macabre illustrations done by Lee Brown Coye in his unique style outshine the story itself.  Three stars.
 

 
Fifty cents is a small price to pay for hours of release from the all-too-real terrors of the modern world.  Take a Fantastic detour, and refresh your mind.





 

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[May 27, 1963] A Clang of Doom?  (New Worlds, June 1963)

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by Mark Yon

One sad piece of news to start with this month. I have just found out that Science Fiction Adventures has published its last, with the May 1963 issue. I understand that sales were not what they used to be in its heyday. It is hoped that this may be a temporary measure, but previous history suggests to me that, sadly, this may be the end. [The latest Science Fiction Times seems to indicate that the cancellation is permanent (ed.)]

If this is part of a general trend, then it may explain some of the recent changes with New Worlds, including this month’s cover:

Well, at least this month’s cover doesn’t have the egregious spelling error last month’s issue had. We also have one large photo on the cover, which is an improvement on those of recent months without one.

However, it does raise issues – are things that bad that New Worlds needs the lure of a movie on its cover to raise sales? I think Editor John Carnell has tried to improve sales this month by putting a movie review head and shoulders above the fiction. (This also happened with the July 1962 issue as well, when the cover showed television programme Out of This World.)

More worryingly, with Mr. Carnell being distracted by such events away from New Worlds has he lost his focus on the magazine? I have, in recent months, raised worries about some of the recent changes, which now make sense. The use of Guest Editors over the last year may have given Mr Carnell space and time to sort things out, but I am still concerned that whilst this issue is full of experienced writers and magazine regulars, it the magazine is becoming less about the fiction and more about what is going on outside its pages. 

Beer In The Wine Bottle, by Mr. John Ashcroft

This month’s guest editor is another unusual choice. Like Mr. Michael Moorcock, back in March, he is better known for his fiction outside of New Worlds. As the magazine profile suggests, Mr. John Ashcroft has had stories published in sister magazines Science Fantasy and Science Fiction Adventures, but is relatively unknown here.

That’s a pretty big claim at the end of the profile, but the Editorial made a point that many s-f readers will appreciate: "Contemporary science fiction is generally more competently written; but it is more complacent." Mr. Ashcroft advocates that that old "sense-of-wonder" is important and that current writers need to raise their game. 

From The-Old-Man-In-The-Mountain, by Mr. Joseph Green

I must admit I was not looking forward to Mr. Joseph Green’s novelette this month. As the third story of an unimpressive series (so far), albeit in a longer form, I was prepared to be underwhelmed. However, it is a pleasant enough tale of the increasingly mutual interaction between colonising humans and the hirsute aliens named Loafers, even if the Loafers remind me of Mr. H. Beam Piper’s Little Fuzzies, with added telepathy. In this tale it all turns a bit Midwich Cuckoo with a young Loafer abducted by an embittered human outsider, but, with teamwork from the humans and the aliens, unsurprisingly ends with all being well. A better effort than Mr. Green’s others in the series, if still rather unmemorable. Evidently the last in the series is in next month’s issue. 3 out of 5.

To the other stories.

End-Game by Mr. J. G. Ballard

By contrast, and like Mr. Brian Aldiss last month, this is a welcome return to New Worlds of an author who had moved on to a wider literary field. This is even better than Mr. Ballard’s last tale of consumer stress (The Subliminal Man, January 1963). End-Game is another typically Ballardian tale of isolation and emotional anguish, featuring an imprisoned man to be executed but at a time unknown to him. It becomes a psychological battle of wills between the condemned and his executioner, masked by a series of chess games that imply a fight between a police state and the individual. As with the best of Ballard, it is complex and intelligent, making me believe something that could happen behind the Iron Curtain. It even self-knowingly references Kafka! Not surprisingly, the best story in the issue. 4 out of 5.

Occupation Force, by Mr. David Rome

From another returning regular, Mr. Rome’s tale is quite different to his last (Meaning, December 1962).  Occupation Force is a war story, telling of the uneasy relationship between a nuclear-weapon-wielding occupying army and the seemingly innocent oppressed "natives." In these times of campaigns for nuclear disarmament, it is a thought-experiment of a possibility that could also be relevant in 1963. Sadly, it is also short, predictable and, even with the attempt to shock through a downbeat ending, surprisingly forgettable. A lesser effort. 2 out of 5.

Dipso Facto, by Mr. Robert Presslie

Mr. Presslie’s return to New Worlds is also a disappointing effort. Even if I ignored the "poor, dumb natives" angle, this attempt to be humorous in a story of competitive eating and drinking is a long, long way away from the intelligence of similar stories, such as Mr. Poul Anderson’s Nicholas van Rijn tales.  It fails pretty quickly. Also 2 out of 5.

Window On The Moon, by Mr. E. C. Tubb

And so to the last of this serial. Last month’s part ended with a couple of shocks – an explosion that destroyed the Royal Commission sent to the British Base, and the Americans who visited the Brits also mysteriously killed on their journey back to their base. This issue deals with the aftermath and gives us a cause for the strange happenings. I’m pleased to say that the US and British bases did not declare war on each other, and it is left to our hero, Felix Larsen, to resolve things. I did predict the villain of the piece a couple of issues ago, but this didn’t stop me enjoying this last part of "Brits in Space." Window on the Moon is a tale told with energy and enthusiasm, even though I felt that it didn’t know how to draw it all together at the end convincingly.  Not quite as good at the end as in the earlier parts. It made me wonder what someone like Mr. Arthur C. Clarke would do with it. 3 out of 5.

Film Review: The Day of the Triffids, by Mr John Carnell,

The last part of the magazine is given over to stills and a commentary of this film I looked forward to seeing, back in July 1962, so it is odd to just now get to read a review. The good news is that, I understand, it has recently been released in the USA, so you will be able to see it yourselves. Fellow Traveller Ashley described it in detail back in July. Like her, I was a little disappointed at the differences between the film and Mr. John Wyndham’s fantastic novel, but here Mr. Carnell is more glowing in its fulsome praise, despite the concerns over its delay and production issues. According to the editor, even the author, Mr. John Wyndham, was rather impressed, despite the changes.

In summary, the June issue is, thankfully, another generally solid issue, but with the odd misstep. Not quite as strong as last month’s, but worthy of a read. Despite my concerns mentioned earlier over Mr. Carnell’s editorship, it must be said that the last couple of months have produced issues that have been both memorable and thought-provoking. For all of its faults, there is nothing else quite like New Worlds. I am rather feeling that I must make the most of magazines such as this, whilst I can. I fear that the writing might be on the wall…




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[May 12, 1963] SO FAR, SO GOOD (the June 1963 Amazing)

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by John Boston

On the June 1963 Amazing, the cover by Ed Emshwiller seems to portray humanity crucified, with photogenic fella and gal affixed to the front panels of computers, anguished expressions on their faces and slots cut in them like the holes in a computer punch-card.  I guess they are mutilated, if not bent, folded, or stapled.  This is done in the hyper-literal and slightly crude mode of Emsh’s Ace Double covers, which compares badly to the less literal but much more imaginative and better-executed work he is contributing to F&SF.  Suffice it to say that Emsh has not displaced William Jennings Bryan as our nation’s leading purveyor of Crucifixion imagery.  The cover illustrates Jack Sharkey’s two-part serial The Programmed People, on which I will defer until it’s finished next month.

Of the other stories, the longest and best is J.G. Ballard’s novelet The Encounter, a notable departure from his usual tone and attitude.  Astronomer Charles Ward takes a position at a California observatory and meets Andrew Kandinski, author of The Landings from Outer Space, who claims to have met a Venusian visiting in (his, her, its) flying saucer, and is trying to spread the revealed word that Earth must abandon its space explorations.  Kandinski is clearly suggested by George Adamski, author of Inside the Space Ships and others, who makes similar claims.  But the similarity stops there, since Adamski appears to be an outright fraud, while Ballard’s Kandinski is a tortured character who actually believes his stories.  Ward becomes fascinated and can’t stay away from him, with personally disastrous consequences when the extraterrestrials come again—or do they? 

Ballard deftly preserves the ambiguity, and along the way amusingly notes in passing the variety and similarity of imagery among SF, UFO mania, and more commercial popular culture (the only job Kandinski can get is waiting tables at a space-themed restaurant called The Site Tycho).  There is also a brief but telling riff on Jung’s theory of flying saucers as a manifestation of the unconscious in times of impending crisis, and a suggestion that Kandinski may prove to be one of the “mana-personalities of history.” There’s a lot going on here and it is purposefully not tied up neatly. 

This is also one of Ballard’s most humane stories.  In some Ballard stories—even very good ones like last year’s Thirteen to Centaurus—his characters are more like finely-made constructs, machined to serve the author’s argument, than actual human beings.  By contrast, both Kandinski and Ward come across as genuine, flawed, and vulnerable people, and the story as less of an intellectual construct than much of Ballard.  (Of course, that’s part of the construct, but let’s not follow that line of argument any further.) This is a story that will be worth coming back to.  Five stars.

So: Amazing has justified its existence for one more month.  What else is here, besides the serial?  Three short stories, two of them very short indeed.  Let’s take the longer one, Telempathy, by Vance Simonds, his first in the SF magazines.  It’s a story that is best allowed to speak for itself, though unfortunately some length is required to get the full flavor.  Here’s the beginning:

“Huckster Heaven, in Hollywood, set out to fulfill the adman’s dream in every particular.  It recognized more credit cards than it offered entrees on the menu.  Various atmospheres, complete with authentic decor, were offered: Tahitian, Parisian, even Afro-Cuban for the delectation of the Off-Beat Client.  In every case, houris glided to and fro in appropriate native costume, bearing viands calculated to quell, at least for the nonce, harsh thoughts of the combative marketplace.  Instead, beamish advertisers and their account executive hosts were plied so lavishly that soon the sounds of competitive strife were but a memory; and in the postprandial torpor, dormant dreams of largesse on the Lucullan scale came alive.  In these surroundings, droppers of such names as the Four Seasons, George V, and the Stadium Club were notably silent.”

And it goes on like that.  If one can push aside the layers of attitude and exhibitionism (a canoe paddle might do it—or maybe a sump pump would be more suitable), a story becomes visible.  Everett says he’s got something that will precisely predict the reception of new products or advertising campaigns, which he calls Empathy, and which appears to consist of extra-sensory rapport with several very smart or insightful people, mediated through Everett’s mutant pet mongoose.  So Cam the adman takes him to see his client Father Sowles, a Nehemiah Scudder-like figure whose campaign for high office Cam is fronting.  The campaign goes into high gear based on Everett’s ultimate inside information, though Father Sowles complains that the message is being lost: e.g., “And what about the race mongrelizers? . . . Trying to subvert America with an Afro-Asian Trojan Horse!”

A lot of this is actually pretty funny, and it’s nice to see such explicit skewering of current politico-religious crackpottery.  If Simonds—whose first appearance in the SF magazines this is—had cut the supercilious vaudeville by about 30%, especially in the first several pages of the story, it would have been much more incisive and less irritating.  Adding it up, three stars, indulgently.

Thomas M. Disch’s three-page The Demi-Urge is a good example of an old cliche, the report by visiting aliens about how things are on Earth—this time with a minority report and a clever twist, confidently and economically written.  Disch is another new writer, with one previous story in Fantastic, also praised here.  Three stars for revitalizing a usually trivial and tedious gimmick.

Arthur Porges is a prolific veteran of the SF and fantasy magazines (though rarely Amazing), and more recently of the crime fiction mags.  His stories are invariably either short or shorter.  The two and a half-page Through Channels posits that if you can reach millions of eyes with a TV broadcast, you can freeze millions of brains by adding another unspecified frequency.  About the only interesting thing here is that one of the programs on at the fatal moment is another fanatical right-wing preacher—two in one issue!  Two stars for competent execution of not very much.

Sam Moskowitz is at it again with Eric Frank Russell: Death of a Doubter, consisting of his usual reasonably competent biographical summary and review of Russell’s work, with the usual greater focus on earlier than later work: there is no mention of his novels of the later 1950s, Three to Conquer (serialized as Call Him Dead), Wasp, and The Space Willies, the last an expansion of his very popular novelet Plus X (Astounding, June 1956).  Hold that thought, and look at Moskowitz’s subtitle again.  He quotes a 1937 letter from Russell to a fanzine describing himself as “another young rationalist of 32 years of age,” and says (after touching base at Thomas Aquinas): “The weakness of the Rationalist viewpoint is that it promulgates no ideas of its own; it waits to be shown.  Stubbornly waiting to be shown, Russell had a hard time dreaming up new plot ideas.” Later on, after selectively discussing Russell’s work of the late ‘40s and early ‘50s, Moskowitz sums up: “Most significant of all is the final impression the works give of the man.  The display of outward toughness of manner, speech and philosophy is a facade.  A man who feels not only a reverence for but a communion with life, who transmits those feelings and with them his protests against prejudice in terms of poetry and parable—such a man is not a rationalist.” Here Moskowitz is not only psychologizing without a license, but going about double the speed limit.

Further, Moskowitz is quite right in characterizing some of Russell’s later work, but hardly all of it.  Three to Conquer is marked by violent xenophobia, and Wasp and The Space Willies are to varying degrees comedies of condescension to aliens, who are presented as stupid, incompetent, and easily gulled by their betters, homo sapiens.  So Russell is not a writer who changed in any identifiable direction; look at the whole picture and you see a writer of utterly contradictory tendencies that he has maintained through his career.  Come on, Sam; we saw you palm that card.  Two stars.

Well, altogether, not bad so far: one very fine story and two promising efforts by new or newish writers.  But the specter of Sharkey’s serial looms over all, to be dared next month.

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[Apr. 17, 1963] Would-be poetical (May 1963 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

Science fiction has risen from its much maligned, pulpish roots to general recognition and even acclaim.  Names like Heinlein, MacLean, Anderson, Asimov, and St. Clair are now commonly known.  They are the vanguard of the several hundred men and women actively writing in our genre.

One name that comes up again and again on the lips of the non-SF fan, when you query them about the SF they have read, is Ray Bradbury.  Thoroughly raised in and part of the "Golden Age" of science fiction, he has remained as he always was — a writer of fantastic tales.  And yet, he's popular with the masses, and the reputation of our genre is greater for it.  Thus, it's no surprise that Bradbury was chosen to have this month's F&SF devoted to him.

That said, I don't like Bradbury.  Or, at least, I don't like what he writes.

Maybe it's because he insists that he doesn't write science fiction, which is true.  His stuff has the trappings of SF, but it follows none of the rules of science.  That kind of scientific laziness always bugs me.  The only person I feel who can get away with enjoying the benefits of our genre while dislaiming association is Harlan Ellison, whose writing really is that good.

Or maybe it's because, as Kingsley Amis put it (and as William F. Nolan quotes in his mini-biography included in this issue), Bradbury writes with "that particular kind of sub-whimsical, would-be poetical badness that goes straight to the heart of the Sunday reviewer."  I've never read a Bradbury story that I didn't think could have been better rendered by, say, Ted Sturgeon. 

Or maybe it's just sour grapes.  After all, Bradbury is two years younger than me and much more famous.  Heck, I've barely gotten to the point of accomplishment he was at twenty-three years ago!  On the other hand, I don't feel that resentment for, say, Asimov (another lettered colleague of similar age).

Anyway, I suspected an issue about Bradbury would be a bad one, and in fact, it's not a great one.  Still, there is stuff worth reading.  And if you're a fan of Ray's, well, this will be a treat:

Bradbury: Prose Poet in the Age of Space, William F. Nolan

Bradbury's Boswell is a minor SF writer, fairly recent to the scene.  Nolan became pals with Ray in his fandom days in the early '50s, and he is sufficiently versed with Bradbury's career to write a perfectly fine biography.  Worth reading.  Four stars.

Bright Phoenix, by Ray Bradbury

F&SF editor Davidson has apparently persuaded Ray to part with a couple of pieces of "desk fiction" — stuff that didn't sell, but which now has value since the author is famous.  Phoenix is the original version of The Fireman, set at the beginning of the government campaign to burn seditious (i.e. all) books.  The Grand Censor's efforts are thwarted by the grassroots project whereby library patrons take it upon themselves to memorize the contents of the books, thus preserving the knowledge.

It's a mawkish, overdone story, but at the same time, it accomplishes in less than ten pages what it took Bradbury more than a hundred to do in his later book.  Had I not known of The Fireman, and had I read this in 1948 (when it was originally written), I might well have given it four stars.  As it is, it's redundant and a bit smug.  Three stars.

To the Chicago Abyss, Ray Bradbury

This longer piece is a variation on the same theme.  An old man, one of the few who remembers a pre-apocalyptic past, continually runs afoul of the authorities by recounting fond memories to those who would vicariously remember a better yesterday.  It's another story that pretends to mean more than it says, but doesn't.  Three stars.

An Index to Works of Ray Bradbury, William F. Nolan

As it says on the tin — an impressive litany of Bradbury's 200+ works of fiction.  Look on his works, ye Mighty, and despair. 

Mrs. Pigafetta Swims Well, Reginald Bretnor

From the writers of the increasingly desperate Ferdinand Feghoot puns comes an amusing tale of an opera-singer bewitched by a jealous Mediterranean mermaid.  Told in a charming Italian accent, it is an inoffensive trifle.  Three stars.

Newton Said, Jack Thomas Leahy

New authors are the vigor and the bane of our genre.  We need them to carry on the legacy and to keep things fresh.  At the same time, one never knows if they'll be any good, and first stories are often the worst stories (with the notable exception of Daniel Keyes' superlative Flowers for Algernon). 

So it is with Jack Thomas Leahy's meandering piece, built on affected whimsy and not much else, of the face-off between a doddering transmogrifying elf and his alchemically inclined son.  One star.

Underfollow, John Jakes

This one's even worse.  A citizen of Earth, for a century under the thumb of alien conquerors, decides he's tired of the bad portrayal of humans on alien-produced television shows.  He tries to do something about it.  His attempts backfire.  I read it twice, and I still don't get it.  I didn't enjoy it either time.  One star.

Atomic Reaction, Ron Webb

Deserves a razzberry as long as the poem.  Two seconds should suffice.  One star.

Now Wakes the Sea, J. G. Ballard

British author Ballard has a thing for the sea (viz. his recent, highly acclaimed The Drowned World).  This particular story starts out well, with a man, every night, dreaming of an ever-encroaching sea that threatens to engulf his inland town.  It's atmospheric and genuinely engaging, but the pay-off is disappointing.  Colour in search of a plot.  Three stars.

Watch the Bug-Eyed Monster, Don White

Don White has a taste for the satirical.  Here, he takes on stories that start like, "Zlat was the best novaship pilot in the 81 galaxies," by starting his story with, "Zlat was the best novaship pilot in the 81 galaxies."  The problem is, a satire needs to say something new, not just repeat the same badness.  One star.

Treaty in Tartessos, Karen Anderson

Now things are getting better.  In Ancient Greece, the age-old rivalry between humans and centaurs has reached an unsustainable point, and an innovative solution is required.  A beautifully written metaphor for the conflict between the civilized and the pastoral whose only flaw is a gimmicky ending.  Four stars.

Just Mooning Around, Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor presents a most interesting piece on the tug of war over moons between the sun and its planets.  The conclusion, in which the status of our "moon" is discussed, is an astonishing one.  Five stars.

No Trading Voyage, Doris Pitkin Buck

A lovely piece on the troubled trampings of a dispossed starfaring race called humanity.  Four stars.

Niña Sol, Felix Marti-Ibanez

The Brazilian author who so impressed me a few months back has returned with an even better tale.  Writing in that poetic, slightly foreign style that one only gets from a perfectly fluent non-native speaker, Mr. Ibanez presents us a love story set in Peru between an artist and a Sun Elemental.  Beautiful stuff.  Maybe Bradbury should go to Rio for a few years.  Four stars verging on five.

If you're a Bradbury fan, then the emotional and fantastic character of this month's issue will greatly appeal to you.  And even if you're not, there's enough good stuff at the ends to justify the expenditure of 40 cents. 




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[February 24, 1963] Something Old, Something New (March 1963 Fantastic)

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[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 the tops, pops…]


by Victoria Silverwolf

The pace at which innovations are arriving in these modern times is dizzying.  This month alone, a remarkable array of novel products appeared:

A new commercial aircraft, the Boeing 727, made its first flight.  It differs from the earlier 707 in having three jet engines rather than four.  Intended for short and medium-length flights, it can use shorter runways at smaller airports than the older model requires.

The Coca-Cola Company introduced Tab, a new diet soft drink, in competition with Royal Crown Cola's Diet Rite.  An IBM 1401 computer generated more than 185,000 four-letter words containing one vowel as possible names for the product.  The winning name, shortened from "tabb,"sometimes appears as "TaB," with the first and last letters capitalized.

The Feminine Mystique is a recently published book by Betty Friedan that may lead to a new women's movement, similar to the fight for voting rights in the early years of this century.  It challenges the idea that the most fulfilling roles for American women are as housewives and mothers.

While we welcome all these new things, we should also remember the old.  Telstar 1, which now seems like a part of history, although it launched only seven months ago, has ceased operating.  Radiation in the Van Allen belt destroyed its delicate circuitry.

Popular music also featured a mixture of old and new in recent weeks.  Earlier this month, Walk Right In by the Rooftop Singers reached the top of the charts.  Many listeners may not have realized that this catchy folk song is a remake of a tune first recorded by Cannon's Jug Stompers way back in 1929.  This revision of an old song yielded the Number One position later in the month to something brand new, Hey Paula, as sung by a duo calling themselves Paul & Paula.  In my opinion, this is a case where newer isn't better.

Fittingly, half the stories in the latest issue of Fantastic appear in print for the first time, while the other half date back to the previous century.

Physician to the Universe, by Clifford D. Simak

One of the biggest names in science fiction begins his most recent story in a mysterious fashion.  A man awakes in a dark place with little memory of his past.  Little by little, he remembers what happened to him.  This is a future world where robots enforce strict health regulations.  The man's crime is failing to take care of himself.  His punishment is exile to an island in the middle of a vast swamp.  With two fellow prisoners, he undertakes the long and dangerous journey across the wilderness to freedom.  Slowly, he recalls the extraordinary thing that happened to him as a child, and the important reason he must return to his home.  This is a complex story, told with multiple flashbacks.  Some scenes are full of lyrical beauty.  One might quibble that the ending is sudden, and that the author makes use of too many speculative themes for a story of this length, but overall it's compelling.  Four stars.

A Question of Re-Entry, by J. G. Ballard

A major British author offers a science fiction version of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness in his latest story.  A United Nations official travels deep into the South American jungle in search of a spacecraft that crashed there five years ago.  He finds a tribe of Indians ruled by a white man who knows more about the missing vehicle than he admits.  Ballard has a gift for vivid description, and the jungle setting truly comes to life.  The plot is less effective, but adequate.  Three stars.

An Apparition, by Guy de Maupassant

We begin a trio of reprints with this 1883 story, translated from French.  An elderly man recounts the ghostly encounter he experienced as a young soldier.  There's not much else to this tale of the supernatural, which is really just an anecdote.  Two stars.

The Wet Dungeon Straw, by Jean Richepin

Also from 1883, and also translated from French, this macabre little story involves a man held prisoner for decades.  He becomes obsessed with drying out the wet straw on which he lies, exposing each piece to the tiny bit of sunlight he receives each day.  This project takes many years, and leads to an ironic conclusion.  Three stars.

His Natal Star, by Austyn Granville

This bagatelle from 1891 features an astronomer as its protagonist.  The star under which he was born draws near the solar system, and its gravity causes him to be drawn toward it.  The only purpose of this bit of absurd science is to show the fellow floating upside down in his home.  One star.

Nine Starships Waiting, by Roger Zelazny

We return to new fiction with the longest story yet from this prolific young writer.  It's difficult to offer a synopsis of this confusing tale.  Suffice to say that a super-assassin is sent to prevent a fleet of spaceships from conquering a planet.  The story is told from multiple viewpoints, and the assassin undergoes a strange change of identity, so the plot is difficult to follow.  The story is overwritten at times, with many literary allusions.  Two stars.

This disappointing issue, with a few bright spots, proves that both the old and the new contain good and bad.

[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…]




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Magazine

[February 12, 1963] HOPE SPRINGS (the March 1963 Amazing)

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[If you live in Southern California, you can see the Journey LIVE at Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore in San Diego, 2 p.m. on February 17!]


by John Boston

Well, hope springs eternal, and a good thing for certain SF magazines that it does.  The March Amazing has a rather distinguished table of contents: a novelet by John Wyndham and short stories by veterans Edmond Hamilton, H.B. Fyfe, and Robert F. Young and up-and-comers like J.G. Ballard, rising star Roger Zelazny, and variable star Keith Laumer. 

But we must temper optimism with realism: since Amazing is about the lowest-paying of the SF magazines, top-market names are probably here with things they couldn’t sell elsewhere.  So, prepared for all eventualities . . .

Edmond Hamilton’s Babylon in the Sky is a simple morality tale for SF fans.  Young Hobie lives in the sticks, where there are no jobs and people survive on doles and make-work, seldom make it past the eighth grade, and resent eggheads and know-it-alls—especially the decadent ones in the orbiting cities that Hobie’s preacher father rails against.  So Hobie runs away to the spaceport and stows away to one of these satellites, planning to sabotage the power plant and blow it up.  He doesn’t get far, and the sane and reasonable people there explain to him that they are not living sybaritic lives but working hard at research to benefit everyone.  We didn’t rob you, Hobie, the home folks did.  So they’re just sending him back, but Hobie, you’re a smart kid, if you go to the Educational Foundation near the spaceport, they’ll take care of you, and then maybe you can join up and come back here.  Hobie buys it.  Well, yeah, that’s more or less my life plan too if I can swing it, but I don’t read SF for homilies even if I agree with them.  It’s slickly enough done, but two stars for unearned propagandizing.

Speaking of slick, here’s Robert F. Young again.  When last he appeared, I said he “knows so many ways of being entirely too cute,” and boy howdy was I right.  In Jupiter Found, the protagonist’s brain, after an auto accident did for the rest of him, is installed in a giant mining and construction machine on Jupiter—a M.A.N. (Mining, Adapting Neo-Processor), model 8M.  He is shortly joined by model EV, who is of course a W.O.M.A.N. (Weld Operating, Mining, Adapting Neo-Processor).  They work for Gorman and Oder Developments, which has strictly forbidden them to process an ore called edenite, and they’ve also been warned to beware of a guy who has been cast out of a high place in the company and is now in business for himself, who will be sending down a mining unit called a Boa 9.  By this point in Young’s arch and labored rendition of the Old Testament I was thinking longingly of some of the more bloodthirsty passages in Leviticus.  One star.  What kind of rubes does this guy think he’s writing for?  Even Hobie wouldn’t go for this.

John Wyndham is best known for his chilly novels of the 1950s, from The Day of the Triffids to The Midwich Cuckoos, less so for Trouble with Lichen (1960), intelligent and readable but much less incisive than its predecessors.  His novelet Chocky is unfortunately in the latter vein.  The protagonist’s kid seems to be having conversations with an imaginary friend, except anybody who’s read a lick of SF will know immediately that he’s communicating with an extraterrestrial intelligence.  So we get the worried parent routine, and the marital tension, and the visit from the child psychologist friend, the rather subdued climax, and then . . . some explanation and it all goes away.  The whole 38 pages worth is so low-key as to be near-comatose.  One wonders if Wyndham is taking some of the new tranquilizers that psychiatrists hand out these days.  It’s benignly readable but there’s not much to it.  Two stars.

Roger Zelazny’s short The Borgia Hand is livelier but insubstantial, about a young man with a withered hand in generic fairy-tale country who chases down a pedlar (sic) reputed to traffic in body parts.  Yeah, he’s got a hand in stock, and here’s a quick gimmick and it’s over.  Two stars.  Snappy writing is nice, but as one noted critic put it, where’s the bloody horse?

But relief is in sight.  There’s nothing especially original about Keith Laumer’s The Walls: future overpopulated Earth with people living regimented lives stuffed into tiny spaces in big apartment complexes; protagonist’s husband is on the make and brings home a Wall, i.e. a TV screen that covers one wall.  You can turn it off but then you’ve got a wall-sized mirror.  Next, another Wall; then another; then . . . .  The story is the wife’s psychological disintegration stuck all day with a choice of all-directions TV-land or a hall of mirrors, but—as with It Could Be Anything from a couple of issues ago—Laumer’s knack for concrete visual detail brings it off and keeps it from being a print version of one of those lame Twilight Zone episodes which end with somebody going crazy.  Four stars.

J.G. Ballard is back with The Sherrington Theory, his most minor effort yet in the US magazines.  Protagonist and wife are at a beach cafeteria terrace, watching the remarkably dense beach crowd (no sand visible), and intermittently discussing the theory of Dr. Sherrington that the imminent launch of a new communications satellite will trigger certain “innate releasing mechanisms” in humans, which of course it does.  This one frankly reads a bit like a self-parody; in fact, the idea is a sort of domesticated knock-off of the one he developed much more effectively in The Drowned World.  Of course it’s written with Ballard’s usual flair (or mannerisms, as you prefer), e.g.: “. . . this mass of articulated albino flesh sprawled on the beach resembled the diseased anatomical fantasy of a surrealist painter.” The situation is more skillfully developed and built up than in Zelazny’s story, bringing it up, barely, to three stars.

The stars hide their faces as we come to H.B. Fyfe’s Star Chamber, a shameless Bat Durston in which a parody of a despicable criminal has crash-landed on an uninhabited planet and a lone lawman has come after him.  It reads like something Fyfe couldn’t sell to Planet Stories until the mildly clever end, which reads like something he couldn’t sell to Analog because they were overstocked on Christopher Anvil.  Two stars, barely.

And here is earnest Ben Bova with Intelligent Life in Space.  Haven’t we seen this already?  Not quite—this time he’s going on about the definition of intelligence, touching base at ants, dolphins, and chimpanzees, and suggesting that we’re not likely to find it in the Solar System but likely will do so farther away.  This one is a more pedestrian rehash of familiar material than most of his earlier articles.  Two stars.

So: one very good story, one amusing one, and downhill—pretty far downhill—from there.  Hope may spring eternal, but one takes what one can get.

[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…]




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