by Gideon Marcus
Picking up the pieces
It's been two weeks since President Kennedy was shot in Dallas, and the country is slowly returning to normal (whatever normal is these days). Jackie has taken the family out of the White House, President Johnson is advancing the first legislation of his social welfare plan, the "Great Society," and all around the nation, streets, parks, and buildings are being renamed in the slain President's honor. In fact, Cape Canaveral, launching site for all crewed flights, is being christened "Cape Kennedy."
We're still trying to make sense of the events surrounding Kennedy's death. Within an hour of the shooting, there were two divergent theories as to who shot the President. CBS reported on the trail that led to Marine-turned-defector, Lee Harvey Oswald. NBC, on the other hand, interviewed a woman who saw a shooter on a grassy knoll overlooking Dealey Plaza. On December 5, the FBI determined that Lee Harvey Oswald, acting alone, did the deed. Of course, Jack Ruby ensured that Oswald would never speak in his own defense. The seven member "Warren Commission," headed by Chief Justice Earl Warren, has begun a more thorough investigation. We may never know who shot Kennedy or why.
A eulogy for Kennedy
Yesterday, I appeared at a local venue to present a eulogy for Kennedy and enlighten the audience as to the youthful President's numerous accomplishments. In the end, we all drank a toast to Jack. We taped the performance so you can view it even if you couldn't make the event.
Meanwhile, the science fiction magazines continued as if nothing unusual had happened. This makes sense given the vagaries of production schedules and the need to have work to press months in advance. Still, it is an eerie feeling to have the world turned upside down and yet see no evidence of turmoil in one's reading material.
Maybe that's a good thing. One can use stability in crazy times.
In any event, the January 1964 issue of IF, Worlds of Science Fiction was the first sf digest of the new year. As usual, it contained a mixture of diverting and lousy stories. Let's take a look:
The January 1964 IF
Three Worlds to Conquer (Part 1 of 2), by Poul Anderson
On the Jovian moon of Ganymede, American colonists warily greet the arrival of the U.S.S. Vega, a battleship out from Earth. Thanks to a recent civil war in the USA, it is uncertain where the loyalties of the ship's crew lie. Meanwhile, tens of thousands of miles below, the inhabitants of Jupiter's surface are also preparing for a war of their own. The common thread to the two stories is the neutrino beam link set up by the human protagonist who makes his home on Jupiter's biggest moon.
It's an interesting set up, but it utterly fails in its execution. Poul Anderson is the patron saint of unreliability. On the one hand, he produced some of last year's gratest works, including Let the Spacemen Beware and No Truce with Kings. On the other, he produced drek like this piece.
Some examples: Anderson likes to wax poetic on technical details. He spends a full two pages describing what could have been handled with this sentence: "I used a neutrino beam to contact the Jovians; nothing else could penetrate their giant planet's hellish radiation belts or the tens of thousands of thick atmosphere."
Two. Pages.
Worse, while I applaud Anderson's attempt to depict a Jovian race, he fails in two directions. Firstly, it's highly doubtful anything could live on the solid surface of Jupiter, if the planet even has one. If there is a rocky core, its surface gravity must be around 7gs, and the air pressure would be more crushing than the bottom of the Earth's ocean. Assuming life could stand those conditions, it would have to be something akin to the well-drawn creatures portrayed in Hal Clement's Close to Critical (in the May 1958 Analog). Instead, Anderson gives us centaurs with quite human characterization and motivation.
The dialogue is stilted. The writing is uninspired. And there's enough padding to comfortably sleep on.
One star. And, oh boy, a whole 'nother part to read in two months.
Mack, by R. J. Butler
Dolphin stories are big right now, from Clarke's People of the Sea to Flipper. New author, R. J. Butler, gives us another one. Something about the thwarting of an alien invasion of fish people. Pleasant enough but it won't stay with you. A very low three stars.
Personal Monuments, by Theodore Sturgeon
IF's non-fictionalist tells us about six science fiction authors he believes deserve more credit than they get. He's probably right. Three stars.
Science-Fantasy Crossword Puzzle, by Jack Sharkey
A welcome feature that is as long as it needs to be (two pages for the game and half a page for the answer). Three stars.
The Competitors, by Jack B. Lawson
Here is the jewel of the piece. Humans and androids have evolved in their own directions, each with a stellar sphere of influence. When humanity comes across an alien race, whose close ties with their own robots make them more than a match for our species, a crotchety old man and a powerful (but subdued) android take on the enemy.
The interactions between human and humanoid robot are priceless and illuminating. Neither can stand the other, but both see the value in their cooperation. In the course of their quest, our human protagonist learns the pros and cons of too close integration of humanity and machinery.
Excellent stuff that packs a wallop: Four stars.
The Car Pool, by Frank Banta
Car Pool is a cute little joke in which a gaggle of human petty criminals turns a run-in with the Martian law into a profitable venture for all concerned. Three stars.
Waterspider, by Philip K. Dick
There is a sub-genre of science fiction known as "fan fiction." It is written by SF fans (of course) and involves said fans going on wild and fantastic adventures. Laureled SF author, Philip K. Dick, offers up the fannest of fan fiction in which a pair of folks from the 21st Century employ a time machine to visit a gathering of "pre-cogs" in 1954 to get help with some thorny spaceflight issues.
The gathering is the 1954 World Science Fiction convention in San Francisco, and the pre-cog the Futurians seek is none other than Poul Anderson. He is kidnapped back to the future, where he runs into mischief before making it back home (with the notes for a story, of course — probably this one). Along the way, we get an alien's eye view of the various personages who attended SFCon, including A. E. Van Vogt ("so tall, so spiritual"), Ray Bradbury ("a round, pleasant face but his eyes were intense"), and Margaret St. Clair, whom the aliens anachronistically revere for The Scarlet Hexapod, which she hadn't written yet.
It's a bit of silly, self-indulgent fluff saved from banality by the talents of Mr. Dick; I don't know that it merits a quarter of IF's pages. Three stars.
Summing up
So, yes, it certainly looks like IF will remain steady and true through any crisis. This means some bad stories, occasional winners, and a lot of filling.
Things could be worse.
