All posts by Vicki Lucas

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


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.





 

[August 4, 1963] Little Boxes Made of Ticky-Tacky: Carr's The Burning Court


by Victoria Lucas

Those who think that the title of The Burning Court refers to a physical court in the sense of a courtyard or an ordinary courtroom haven't read the book.  In fact, there is no particular enclosed space that can be more than peripheral to it, with the exceptions of a train car, a bedroom and a crypt.

It's really a quite interesting tale just from the point of view of the controversy surrounding it.  Can a detective story have elements of the supernatural?  Can a mystery also be horror fiction?  Or, as one of the main characters opines,

"Ghosts?  No; I doubt it very much.  We've managed to struggle along for a very long time without producing any ghosts.  We've been too cursed respectable.  You can't imagine a respectable ghost; it may be a credit to the family, but it's an insult to guests."

The sort of society pictured in this odd short novel/long short story is just exactly one that is based on respectability, things that are "a credit to the family," and not insulting guests (at least not to their faces).

But what kind of book is it?  I'm not going to put it in a little box.  Or even a big one, no matter whether they're made of ticky-tacky or marble.  Malvina Reynolds may be referring to look-alike townhouses (with a hint of hasty construction) in Daly City, California, but there are boxes in the head as well, and I don't want to call them into service.  They're flimsy and inadequate.

I first heard of this book when a friend sent me a tape of the radio program based on it.  My friend is an old-time-radio buff and collects this sort of thing.  This one intrigued him, because he couldn't figure out what it is.  Knowing that I'm a mystery fan, he sent it to me.  When I sent it back I could not ease his perplexity, because I don't know in what genre it should belong, and I really don't want to confine this work to any of those little boxes in peoples' heads .

The mystery is first presented as a puzzle: a series of apparently unrelated events that must fit together somehow but don't make sense, as protagonist Edward Stevens sees it.  In fact, there is some misdirection as Stevens is introduced as a man who has had a lot to do with courtyards.  The first puzzling clues are the nervousness of the head of the editorial department in which Stevens is employed in Philadelphia, a photograph, and Stevens's wife's plea that he not "pay any attention" to their neighbor who wants to see him.

Well into the first chapter (entitled "Indictment"), I had the impression that a gothic novel had been set down in a 20th-century railroad smoking car, and had followed Stevens home.

It is not until some pages later that we are given a single hint of the nature of the "court" in the title.  I think I cannot tell you more about that without spoiling the unfolding of the story as well as the ending.  There are milestones as each puzzle piece fits into another, and the picture begins to hazily take shape, which is the main story arc.

That is the mystery part.  The horror part proceeds in jerks as horror movies do.  There is a scare, then a lull and life returns to normal for awhile, then another scare, and each heart-racing event ratchets up the levels of suspicion, fear, uncertainty, doubt of one's own perceptions, and anxiety, with suspense running through all.

Braiding the two threads of this story together are the ordinary trappings of life in upper-middle-class (or lower-upper-class) 1937 America.  Yes, the book is that old.  However, a movie was made based on it last year by a European collaborative group (France and Italy, among others, with French-speaking actors).  Now that I've read the book I'm hoping that the movie (due in September in New York City) will get here soon to my neighborhood foreign-movie theater and I can see the latest incarnation of the story after catching it in radio and printed form.

After reading the book I can say that the radio program did violence to it.  In shortening it to a half-hour format the script writers deleted and did a write-around of much of the explication, conflated some of the major characters, and cut out other characters and subplots, including a second murder!  The major cut, however, was done when they completely changed the ending.  The ending, mind you, is the part of the book to which most critics object the most.  Not only is it a denial and dismissal of the detective-novel solution of the previous chapters ("It's the easiest way out.  We're all looking for easy ways, aren't we?").  It is the most macabre and supernatural bit of the book–which is probably why the writers bypassed it with a bit of voiceover ghostliness that reminds me of nothing so much as the old "The Shadow" programs I used to listen to when I was a child.

I recommend this book to anyone who doesn't mind suspense, jolts of unease, gothic-novel horrors, and mystery-like puzzles, and who does like surprises, piquant phrasing, and entertaining writing.  (I only have one nit-picking complaint: Carr uses "antimacassar" for "doily"–antimacassars are for seat backs, not tables–and compounds the error by misusing the word more than once.  I love words, you see, and it's sort of like seeing an animal abused to observe a misuse.  I find myself wincing.)

If the movie that came out last year comes to town I'll review it in light of the radio program and the book — since everyone says that one should read the book before seeing the movie.




[July 14, 1963] JFK gets a Ph.D.


by Victoria Lucas

[Would you believe that the Traveller got scooped in his own home town?  I knew JFK had been downtown, but I didn't know he'd been to (one of my) alma maters…]


(a thank you to SDSC for providing these pictures)

I really wish I had been able to be there.  Fortunately my friend in San Diego came through again, and I’ve been drooling over the prints and tape she sent.  She was at the commencement ceremonies on the 6th of June at San Diego State College (SDSC) when President John F. Kennedy was presented with an honorary doctorate in the Aztec Bowl.  Kennedy is one of my favorite people, and I look forward to voting for him when I vote in my first presidential election next year.

Not for the first time, Kennedy was the star of a motorcade.  This one went down a main drag (El Cajon Boulevard) in San Diego
as he sat and stood in a limousine and rode from the airport on his way to San Diego State as Marines pushed the crowd back.  His primary reason for this trip to San Diego was the inspection of local military installations, so he just picked up a degree on his way to Pendleton Hall for a ceremonial inspection of the nearby Marine Corps base.

Kennedy was accompanied in the limo by California Governor “Pat” Brown, Senator Thomas Eagleton, and Lionel Van Deerlin (whom you've read about here), the local member of the House of Representatives.  Once at the college, he was nearly smothered in academics as he was hurriedly dressed in a cap and gown to join the academic procession to the officials’ platform.

It seems that in 1960 the California State Legislature authorized schools in the California State College system to grant honorary doctoral degrees "to individuals who have made unusual
contributions toward learning and civilization."  This conferral of an honorary Doctor of Laws degree on JFK is the first time that power has been used to grant a degree.

There was quite a crowd, but anyone could stand at the top of the Aztec Bowl and watch the program, and photographers could sneak up and snap away if they could find a spot not already occupied by a dozen newsmen.

Of course every politician and dignitary for hundreds of miles wanted to be a part of this.  With the Governor of California, “Pat” Brown, watching, it was California State College Chancellor Glenn Dumke and San Diego State College President Malcolm A. Love who performed the academic hooding ceremony with Kennedy.  They then presented the newly minted doctor of laws to the faculty and officials on the platform and the commencement crowd.

The academic hood is a device that, despite its name, is not currently designed to be worn over the head.  If you look closely at the color photo below, you will see that the President has something with a red trim across the front of his shoulders.  That’s the hood.  (The back is more colorful.) It carries the colors of the conferring institution, in this case red and black.  Above you will see that both Dumke and Love are putting the “hood” over Kennedy’s head—that isn’t normally done.  It really only takes one person (generally the academic advisor who worked with the student to earn the degree), but in this case it’s a wonder there were only two and there weren’t people fighting over it.

Once the “hood” was on his shoulders, Kennedy was introduced as the commencement speaker by California Governor Pat Brown and gave a thrilling commencement speech before being whisked away in a helicopter to the Marine Corps base for ceremonies there. 

At least I found the speech thrilling.  The tape I received of the short (20-minute) oration has some memorable quotes that I transcribed (which is something I do for money or even fun). 

For those of you who couldn't be there, here's what the President had to say:

As an “instant graduate” of SDSC, Kennedy speaks about “the recognition by the citizens of this State [California] of the importance of education as the basis for the maintenance of an effective, free society.” He addresses the citizens of California before him, saying, “You recognize that a free society places special burdens upon any free citizen.  To govern is to choose and the ability to make those choices wise and responsible and prudent requires the best of all of us.” Again, he emphasizes, “no free society can possibly be sustained, unless it has an educated citizenry whose qualities of mind and heart permit it to take part in the complicated and increasingly sophisticated decisions that pour … upon all the citizens who exercise the ultimate power. “

Moving on to a related but equally urgent problem, he asks “The first question, and the most important—does every American boy and girl have an opportunity to develop whatever talents they have?  All of us do not have equal talent, but all of us should have an equal opportunity to develop those talents.  Let me cite a few facts to show that they do not.”

These “few facts” include the inequality of spending on public schools in various states, the inequality of graduation rates among whites and the “nonwhite population,” and the inequality of age of the school buildings they attend.  He states the obvious, then, that “American children today do not yet enjoy equal educational opportunities for two primary reasons: one is economic and the other is racial.“

The next bit, it seems to me, indicates a direction for public policy that Kennedy advocates: “ If our Nation is to meet the goal of giving every American child a fair chance, because an uneducated child makes an uneducated parent who, in many cases, produces another uneducated child, we must move ahead swiftly in both areas.  And we must recognize that segregation and education and I mean de facto segregation in the North as well as the proclaimed segregation in the South, brings with it serious handicaps to a large proportion of the population.”

He went on to speak about the resulting “increasingly unskilled labor available,” which, along with an “increasing population” of young people, forms “one of the most serious domestic problems that this country will face in the next 10 years.”

Worse than that, the illiteracy rate “in this rich country of ours” is so high that illiterate people “constitute the hard core of our unemployed.  They can’t write a letter to get a job, and they can’t read, in many cases, a help-wanted sign.” He quotes Francis Bacon: “Knowledge is power."

Yes, he does mean to make policy:

“Government must play its role in stimulating a system of excellence which can serve the great national purpose of a free society.  And it is for that reason that we have sent to the Congress of the United States legislation to help meet the needs of higher education …. We have to improve, and we have so recommended, the quality of our teachers … and … to strengthen public elementary and secondary education ….  And finally, we must make a massive attack upon illiteracy in the year 1963 in the United States ….”

Lastly:

“I recognize that this represents a difficult assignment for us all, but I don’t think it is an assignment from which we should shrink.” He pointed out how the birth rate is “going to pour into schools and our colleges in the next 10 or 20 years and I want this generation of Americans to be as prepared to meet this challenge as our forefathers did in making it possible for all of us to be here.”

In short, he called his privileged audience to account for its advantages and challenged them to bring others up to their level. 

It’s about time.




[June 10, 1963] Foma: Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics (Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s Cat's Cradle)


by Victoria Lucas

When a friend lent Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s newest novel, Cat's Cradle to me, I thought, “Oh, I know this book!" because I saw, as I flipped through it, the "ice-nine" and "Bokonon" I'd heard people buzzing so much about.  So I was glad to read it and understand the phenomenon.

But that's where my joy ended.  Vonnegut is a fine writer.  His style is idiosyncratic, askew; this is a novel novel.  But no one would accuse him of being optimistic or hopeful about the human future.  No Pollyanna he.

So in this account of the immediate future of our species, not only is there "The Bomb" to worry about, but there is a complex web of events that involves a new Doomsday Machine (ice-nine) and a new prophet (Bokonon), as if we didn't have enough of both of those.

The narrator, John, was recently divorced by his second wife because, as an optimist, she found it impossible to live with him, an ostensible pessimist.  He has writer's block ("loafing") on a book about the day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima (title: The Day the World Ended), and slowly he is drawn into the events of the story by actions he has taken to get to know members of the Hoenikker family, children of the "father" of the bomb.

It is hard to say what Vonnegut means by pessimism, because nearly every time something happens in the book, good or bad John seems surprised.  I thought pessimism meant expecting the worst in all situations.  On the other hand, he is surprised when one of the few good things in the book happens: the music Hoenikker's daughter plays is not just good but exquisite.  Just when he thinks he has the world figured out as a terrible place, there it is–beauty!  "I shrieked at Julian Castle, who was transfixed, too, 'My God–life!  Who can understand even one little minute of it?'" Obviously not John. 

And this turns out to be part of his religion, the belief system written by a black man named Boyd Johnson but called Bokonon in the dialect (of what language?) used on an island called San Lorenzo — an island on which events will shortly cause the whole world to end.  The author quotes The Fourteenth Book of Bokonon, with the title "What Can a Thoughtful Man Hope for Mankind on Earth, Given the Experience of the Past Million Years?"  The Fourteenth Book answers in one word: "Nothing."

In case I haven't already made it clear, this is a work of apocalyptic fiction.  In explaining how the doomsday tangle of vectors one might call a "cat's cradle" occurred and how attempts to untangle it failed, John uses a new vocabulary invented by Bokonon that has a certain ring to it.

For instance, Boku-maru is an act of intimacy and worship performed by two people placing the soles of their feet together.  The members of John's (or any) group who are fated to act together in something important are a "karass."  I particularly like "granfalloon," the word for an imaginary connection that (unlike the linkage of a karass) has no real significance (alumni of a school, for instance, or people from a particular state). 

"Foma" are "harmless untruths" to be distinguished from the "damned lies" of politicians and corporations which Mark Twain (or Benjamin Disraeli) placed in his famous phrase in my title.  As for the statistics, John mentions his two wives, 250,000 cigarettes, and 3,000 "quarts of booze" preceding the events of the book. 

About "foma," Vonnegut's epigraph reads, "Nothing in this book is true.  'Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy.'  The Books of Bokonon.  I: 5" Of course the existence of the "Books of Bokonon" is also fictional, but several of the quotations from it, when not black humor or bordering on it, seem almost optimistic.  This one, for instance, asserts that a person can believe in lies that make one happy.

This book of foma didn't make me particularly happy, but, dripping with irony, it was entertaining, and it has probably stirred up the college students all over the US as it has on my campus, so I'll give it a 4 out of 5.  I recommend it to anyone with a sense of humor who doesn't mind feeling slightly depressed about prospects for human peace and a long and healthy human future.




[May 4, 1963] The Love of My Life (so far)


by Victoria Lucas

There is a miracle of modern technology that I haven't yet seen covered in these pages.  It's not much bigger than a breadbox (as Steve Allen would say) and has fewer moving parts than others of its kind.  If it weren't so expensive I would have bought one of my own by now.  Hint: you roll paper into it and type on it.  And it's electrical.

But first… a little story to explain why this invention is so exciting:

When I was 10, my mother, who was not allowed to work outside our home because people might think my dad couldn't support us, worked for my dad.  He purchased a used IBM Executive for her so that she could type a TV guide he published at the time.  I wanted to help, so she taught me to type, and specifically to type on the Executive, which allows for print-type-like spacing (half spaces, etc.). 

It was a little difficult to learn, but I soon got the hang of it.  It was fun to figure out how many words a line could hold and still be flush with the line above it at the right as well as the left, so you could do columns and "justified" pages (the term for flush right and left).  I will never forget typing rows and rows of local television programming of our three network stations in Tucson.
At the same time our baby grand piano that moved with us from California took up so much room that it occupied our small dining room by itself.  I took piano lessons until I was about 12, caressing the 88 keys.  Little did I think that one day I would use a typewriter with 88 characters on each type element!

Reluctantly, I skipped third-year Latin in high school to take secretarial courses (including a typing course) so I could make a living.  That was painful.  The old upright manual (no electricity) typewriters had keys so far apart that it was difficult for my little hands to reach from one side to the other to hit the "Return" key.  And the rows were far apart too.  The Executive had the advantage here: its keyboard had rows of keys at different heights, but the relative height of the keys was less and the spaces between them were filled.  (Coming from a theater background, I would call the height of the keys as they march up to the type basket a "rake.")

On the Executive it was easier to make my fingers fly over the keys, even for my hands as little as they were when I was 10.  On the manuals, my little fingers fell between the keys, squeezing them painfully, almost as often as they hit them.  Even reaching the space bar was a stretch. 

(A friend of mine reads detective stories, and, knowing about my way of making a living, he showed me some lines where Nero Wolfe's man Archie is asked to type and sign a statement.  He replies, "Glad to, if you'll give me a decent typewriter [in 1951]."  Then, he recalls, "What I got was what I expected, an Underwood about my age."  The Underwoods seemed to me to have the highest raked keyboards with the keys the farthest apart, but that's just my impression.)

Of course, in high school, I found myself envying Felicia Samoska, a tall woman with proportionately larger hands that easily spanned the manual keyboards and provided her with
beautiful and A+ CWPM (correct words per minute) scores.  We became friends, nevertheless; hers was the first and so far only wedding I’ve attended.  I had to accept the fact that I could never be a decent typist on a manual typewriter.  Both at home and at my mother's place of work (after she and my dad were divorced), I could use electric typewriters, and I enjoyed that.  (I think she also had an old L. C. Smith manual. Ugh!)

She taught me statistical typing, a specialty that required great accuracy and precise tabulation, done on an electric typewriter with an extra-long carriage.  I wanted to help, so sometimes when she picked me up from school we would go back to her work and I would help her finish up. 

Later I got the portable electric Smith Corona that came with its own rounded case, and except for the fact that it has a key basket and regular keys instead of a molded keyboard, I thought it was great.  I've typed hundreds, maybe thousands of pages on it by now, and it is wearing out.  It tires me out with keys that have to be punched, and my fingers still occasionally get stuck between keys, although the whole typewriter is smaller and has a lower what I think of as "rake" of the keyboard height.

But oh, then came the love of my life, my soul-mate, the IBM Selectric.

The Selectric typewriter one-uped the Smith Corona by singlehandledly destroying the carriage return.  When the Selectric's "carriage" "returns," it does not include the platen.  The only "carriage" is the metallic-looking plastic "type element" that looks like a little golf ball and moves on a slim wire from side to side inside the open top (making it all the more necessary to cover it when not in use to keep dust from getting on the works).  The keys are movable projections from a nearly flat surface, they are closer together than the keys on a manual typewriter, and they take little effort to press. 

"This is the best thing that's happened to typewriters since electricity," the commercial says.  Oh, yes!  Aw, look at its little face.  I want to kiss it! 

I'll never forget the day I first set eyes on you, lovely Selectric, at the University of Arizona Drama Department, where I now work.  You, embraceable you, with the little ball that moves and the platen that stays put, so the whole thing doesn't shake between lines.  You make it possible for me to type 120 correct words per minute without hardly trying.  Where have you been all my life?

Apparently, in the mind of architect Eliot Noyes, a frequent consultant to IBM who designs their buildings as well as their products.  This beautiful machine was first sold in 1961, and according to typewriter salesmen they're still a big hit. 

What are you going to do to steal my heart next, IBM?  For example, where is this computer thing going? Will it be the next love of my life?

[April 5, 1963] The Best Laid Plans (Tevis’s The Man Who Fell to Earth)


by Victoria Lucas

Ten days after my 21st birthday last October, a 13-day “crisis” began that got people wondering anew whether the world would end soon, if nuclear bombs would start falling.  When the crisis (and not the world) ended, like others, I felt a sense of relief, but the Cold War wasn’t over, and it isn’t over now.  It most certainly isn’t over in Walter Tevis’s novel of the near future, The Man Who Fell to Earth.  A shadow of something big and ineluctable hangs over the book.

It is somewhat genre-bending, and I didn't recognize it as a work of science fiction when I started reading it.  But the first clue was the starkness of the prose.  The author has, as I understand it, been teaching English, but nevertheless it lacks a certain richness, contains a type of get-to-the-pointedness that I've come to associate with science fiction, even though I've read little of it.  "Let's just gloss over that" description, embarrassing fact, indescribable circumstance, not draw too much attention to details that would take a long time to explain and have no relevance to the plot.  "Just the facts, ma'am," as they say on Dragnet.

Of course my next clue was that, gradually, the main character, Thomas Jerome Newton, reveals that he is not from Planet Earth. 

Tevis is the man who gave us "Minnesota Fats" and "Fast Eddie," the author of the 1959 book The Hustler, made into a film 2 years ago.  That was his first novel, this his second.

This novel's characters answer the question: What if the aliens came (in this case only one) and H. G. Wells was right, disease was the cause of defeat, but it wasn't a physical disease in the same sense as the one that infected Wells's Martians, it was something that has been popularly regarded as a character flaw, as a funny stereotype?  Like alcoholism.  (Warning: There are no happy people in this book.)

I noticed that the catalog record shows "alcoholism" as a subject.  I wondered at that until I had read to a certain point in this cautionary tale of the best laid plans of mice and aliens.

At first it is noted that Newton “had only recently begun drinking wine, pleased to find that it had, apparently, the same effect on him as it did on men of Earth.” But when he meets Betty Jo, a woman who takes him in when he breaks both legs in an elevator because the G forces are too much for him, he sees that she is fond of gin—a little too fond, in fact—and he begins to join her. 

The first character to suspect that Newton is not human is Nathan Bryce, a college-level teacher of chemistry who quits to come to work for him, but "he smiled at himself, at the cheap, science-fiction level of his own private discourse.  If Newton were a Martian or a Venusian, he should, by all rights, be importing heat rays to fry New York or planning to disintegrate Chicago, or carrying off young girls to underground caves for otherworldly sacrifices."  Having taught at colleges, he would of course think of "science fiction" in this way because these are still common ideas among academics.  This is Bryce’s opinion, but Tevis must have seen a lot of such themes preparing to write short stories such as his "The Ifth Of Oofth" in a 1957 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction.

Nevertheless, Bryce thinks Newton must be "either the world's most original inventive genius, or an extraterrestrial" and sets out to find out if his misgivings are true, in the process unconsciously undoing everything Newton has done toward his goal.  By the time Newton visits Bryce in his apartment when “the Anthean” (as Newton’s people are called) is well along in his project, Bryce observes early in the evening that Newton "had already finished his first gin drink and had poured himself another.  A drunken Martian?  An extraterrestiral who drank gin and bitters?"  It doesn't seem to occur to him that the "drunken Martian" has caught a fatal human disease, probably because Bryce himself drinks heavily on occasion.  The expression “it’s all downhill from there” comes to mind.

I was intrigued by the fact that in several places, Newton's thoughts allude to his race and humans having the same origin, or previous visits to Earth by his people that jump-started human development of language and religion.  My research indicates that there was a book in French published in 1960 by Louis Pauwels and Jacques Bergier (Les Matin des magiciens) that includes these ideas, but I have no indication that Tevis knows French.  Another possibility is that Tevis read H. P. Lovecraft (B-r-r-r-r-r!), some of whose work reportedly has this theme. 

Eventually, of course, we find out that Newton has come to the attention of the American government, despite hiding his project away in Kentucky (Tevis's home).  While the CIA seems more interested in studying his nervous system and psychology to find out whether they can coddle or torture weapons information out of him, the person whom Newton considers his best friend on the planet (Bryce) wants him to save the humans.

Curiously, it never seems to occur to the humans to save themselves.

What holds us back?  Tevis seems to me to put his finger on some factors restraining political problem solving.  They are incarnate in the characters of the cynical Bryce, who is selfish, greedy, and apathetic; Newton’s patent lawyer and business agent, also afflicted with selfishness and greed; his woman friend Betty Jo, a female stereotype of unselfishness who drowns any intelligence she might have in booze; and the government agents—as cynical and lacking in compassion as Bryce—who would have no qualms about using any sort of world-destroying weaponry they might tease out of Newton on our fragile planet.  A type of mental short-sightedness is endemic and finally culminates in Newton’s very real blindness that is nevertheless also symbolic.

Answering a question from Bryce about what he was trying to do, Newton says, “I was not at all certain what I was up to” because, although his project was to build a lifeboat to bring the surviving remnant of his people to Earth, “I’m not certain that my people will be able to stand your world."  But he did become certain that they would have nothing to do here but "wait for the bombs to fall."

All in all, I found it a depressing book.  But perhaps that’s only because, like Newton, I’m living under the shadow of the Cold War, and I take it seriously.  So aside from those who are curious about what else the author of The Hustler wrote, or about a possible future around 15 years hence, or about how aliens or alcoholics are portrayed, I think I would recommend this to anyone in the future who wants to know what it felt like to live through (?I hope) the Cold War.  The book has a few flaws, for which I would give it 3 out of 5 stars.




[February 4, 1963] Fiddler in the Zone (a most unusual episode of Serling's show)

[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 Victoria Lucas

Now that the Traveler has treated you to a review of the first four episodes of the new season of Twilight Zone, I thought you would like to hear about the secret fifth episode that aired last month, but not on Friday at 9:00 PM…

Most evenings I’m out, doing little theatre, or in, typing to supplement my income, but on January 15th, I had just finished a thesis and the drama season hadn’t recovered from the holidays yet, so I twiddled the dial on the television and there he was, “Old Blue Eyes.” Also known as Jack Benny, a fellow who has been on TV for more than a decade. 

A brief intro from the University of Arizona’s biography stacks: this graduate of vaudeville, like my mother, found his way onto radio in the 1930s and (unlike my mother), then into television.  Born Benny Kubelski and trained on the violin since age 6, Benny pretends to play badly, won’t reveal his age (which is perpetually 39), and is fully aware of his own ridiculousness–as evinced by his frequent, off-stage stares.

I have a feeling that SFF-lovers likely know Rod Serling and his “Twilight Zone” better than they know Benny and his menage of characters that include his wife, Mary Livingston, and vaudeville comedian Eddie Anderson (“Rochester”).  Of course, I could be wrong.  I am discovering that fans are a diverse lot.

Anyway, the plot of the January 15 show involves Benny pretending to try to hire Serling to add some culture to his uncouth “writers,” one of whom Serling says “can type with his toes.” Although they don’t know about Twilight Zone, they do know about “Wreck of a Heavyweight” (Requiem for a Heavyweight, which earned Serling his second Emmy).

When (predictably) Serling emerges disheveled a second time from the writers’ den, he and Benny decide to call it quits on the idea of making Benny’s scripts better, and he and Serling part friends.  However, Benny isn’t satisfied with Serling’s explanation of what the “Twilight Zone” is.  After Serling leaves and as Benny gets ready to leave his office, he opines to himself, “I can’t get over it.  An intelligent fella like him trying to tell me that there’s a Twilight Zone, a thing, a place!  Oh, well.”

As Benny walks home in the dark, a Twilight Zone-like fog envelops him and the music takes off on a Twilight Zone-like theme.  Before long he runs into a sign reading, “Welcome to Twilight Zone.  Population unlimited. [an arrow left] Subconscious 27 Mi./ [an arrow right] Reality 35 Mi.” (It gets a laugh, if only canned.) Benny finally sees his house across the street and goes and rings the bell.  Rochester answers but doesn’t recognize Benny.  Rochester calls on his employer, “Mr. Zone” (Serling) to deal with the situation, and Serling explains that the town is named after him (“You can call me Twi”), and he is the mayor.

Benny accuses Serling, Rochester, and tenor Dennis Day from his show of gaslighting him (credit to Ingrid Bergman in the 1944 film Gaslight).  But Serling has the last word within the teleplay: “Anybody who claims to be 39 as long as he has is a permanent resident of the Twilight Zone.”

I love it.  I hope you get a chance to see this episode in the summer reruns .  Benny is silly, funny, and one of the architects of my sense of humor, which runs to the dry and ironic.  I listened to his show when I was a little girl playing in the dirt with my two-inch-long toy cars a few feet from my father’s workshop, where he always had the radio comedy shows playing on the long summer nights: Benny, Edgar Bergen (whom I saw in Tucson!), Fibber McGee and Molly, Burns and Allen, Fred Allen, Duffy’s Tavern.  They will always make me laugh.  Unlike Twilight Zone, which I also watch — but not for the humor.

[P.S. If you registered for WorldCon this year, please consider nominating Galactic Journey for the "Best Fanzine" Hugo.  Check your mail for instructions…]




[January 5, 1963] The Trial on Trial


by Victoria Lucas

Have you been following the talk about Orson Welles’s latest movie, one he personally wrote and edited?  While not precisely science fiction, it does overlap thematically, enough so that I'm certain you'll enjoy a summary.

I was fortunate enough to catch the interview with him by Huw Wheldon on the BBC, or “The Beeb” as people across the Pond say.  First off, Welles talks about changes he made from the novel by Franz Kafka.  He says the main character (Josef K.) “doesn’t really deteriorate, certainly doesn’t surrender at the end” like the character in the novel.  That’s true, more or less, but listen carefully to Anthony Perkins playing K. at the very end and ask yourself why he doesn’t throw what he is reaching for.

I know, I know, what am I doing writing a review for a movie that hasn’t been released in the States yet.  Well, it was released in Paris, and quite a lot of people had something to do with the production and showing.  I hate to tell you this, but a copy somehow found its way into the hands of a friend of mine.  I can’t tell you any names, and I know no more than the name of my friend.  The copy is a bit, all right, under par, not like seeing it in a movie house, but it’s exciting to see the film many months before I possibly could have otherwise.  The earliest premiere in the US is in NYC, and I stand a snowball’s chance in hell of making that or any showing not in Tucson or Phoenix.  I would prefer to watch a non-bootleg copy and probably will sooner or later, but beggars can’t be choosers.

When the beginning title hits the screen, the recently discovered (1958) and orchestrated “Adagio in G Minor” by Tomas Albinoni begins a beat of what I can’t help but think of as a dirge before we see the opening parable, done in something called “pinscreen” graphics.  The title, by the way, is most remarkable for the fact that there is no trial in “The Trial.”

Of course we must keep in mind that a German word for "trial," the title of the film and the Franz Kafka book that “inspired” it (according to Welles), is Der Prozess.  Also spelled "Process," this word in German means "process, trial, litigation, lawsuit, court case."  There are other words for "judgment, tribunal, trial": "das Gericht," which at least has the word "right" in it; and "die Verhandlung," meaning "negotiation, hearing, trial." 

It turns out there are numerous words that might apply to what we in the US would call a "trial" by judge and/or jury or any litigation: there are also "die Gerichtsverhandlung," "die Instanz" (which also means "authority, court."  Why did Kafka choose "der Prozess," and why are some of the words feminine rather than masculine (like Prozess) or even neutral?  These are fine points of German as a language that I cannot reach from my one college semester of German.  It just appears to me that German has as many words for legal proceedings as the Eskimos are said to have for snow.  However, in this case the word "process" in English is fitting, because we never see a trial, only one hearing, during which the protagonist, Josef K. (with only an initial and not a full name, as if the author was protecting a real person) speaks and brands himself as a troublemaker.  (All legal proceedings in this alternate system of law are supposed to be secret.)

What we see in this film is a process indeed, a destructive process during which an innocent is exposed to corruption and chaos he never dreamed existed.  The book makes it much clearer that the system that crushes Josef K. is not related to the uniformed police and visible court system.  In fact, near the end, as K. is being frog-marched to a place of execution, he aids his captors in avoiding a policeman to whom he might have complained to prevent what was, after all, an abduction.  This network is underground, with courtrooms and file rooms in attics throughout the unnamed city.  Those enmeshed in it are “The Accused” as well as (illegal) Advocates and various officers and employees of the “court,” not to mention families who move their furniture and abandon their flats so that hearings can occur.  One character remarks (in both the book and film), “There are court offices in almost every attic” and “Everything belongs to the court.”

Welles changes this secrecy and underground nature to connect “the law” to the visible law courts by having K. exit a massive public building (actually in Rome or Zagreb), having entered it through a tenement at the back, in line with his view that “this is now 1962, and we’ve made the film in 1962.” During this century the classism and racism that were beneath public consciousness but engraved in the law, as well as officially tolerated or encouraged vigilantism, came into the open in a big way, like the difference between law practice in a makeshift courtroom and that in Grecian-style marble halls supported by uniformed officers of court and police. 

The author of the original book, Das Process was killed by an early 20th-century epidemic we now call tuberculosis, dying at age 40 in Austria.  (I am tempted to say, “died like a dog,” as K. characterizes his own murder or, in the logic of the book, execution.) Born Jewish in the kingdom of Bohemia, Kafka was a lawyer who worked for insurance companies.  This book would have been destroyed had his executor followed his instructions, but instead the order of the written chapters (mostly finished, apparently—I saw only one chapter labeled “unfinished”) were determined by his editor/executor and the book was originally published in 1925, a year after Kafka’s death.  Welles mentioned the Holocaust in the BBC interview as his reason for changing the ending, choosing “the only possible solution” (rather than the “Final” one) to negate the choices made “by a Jewish intellectual before the advent of Hitler.” So I feel justified in seeing much that relates to racism, not to mention sexism and classism.  Kafka was reportedly a socialist with some tendencies toward anarchism. 

According to Welles, the movie was filmed partly in Zabreb, Yugoslavia (exteriors), with most interiors in Paris (the Gare d’Orsay and a Paris studio), and some exteriors in Rome.  Welles would have filmed in Czechoslovakia, but Kafka’s work is banned there.  The last scene was shot in Yugoslavia, and so were the scenes with 1,500 desks, typewriters, and workers in a huge room for which they could locate no place but the Zabreb “industrial fair grounds” (scenes at K’s workplace, which do not correspond with the descriptions in the book). 

The partly abandoned Gare d’Orsay, in contrast to the other locations, was a huge seminal find for Welles, one that appeared to him at the end of a long day in which he learned that sets in Zagreb could not be finished in time to make his schedule or possibly even the film, if he could not find another location quickly.  Originally the Palais d’Orsay, subsequently a railroad station with platforms that became too short for long-distance use, the station was mostly abandoned, but the building included a 370-room hotel.  Welles quickly changed his plans from sets that dissolved and disappeared to one that was “full of the hopelessness of the struggle against bureaucracy” because “waiting for a paper to be filled is like waiting for a train.”

The gossip is that producer Andrew Salkind agreed to underwrite Welles’s project only if he could find a book to base it on that was in the public domain.  They both thought this work by Kafka was such a book, but discovered that they were wrong and had to pay for the use of the story, reducing the budget for the film.  Several people are credited with the writing, with Welles himself reading the titles at the end, but he says he wrote as well as directed and acted in it.  Rumor also says he wanted Jackie Gleason (yes, “Honeymooners”) to play the role he played, that of a lawyer Kafka named Dr. Huld (German for “grace” or “favor”) but that Welles christened “Hastler” (hassler? what the lawyer should do to the courts but not to the clients?).

There are some problems with Welles’s editing, the main one in my view concerning a scene with a wall of computers at the bank where K. is a middle-rank executive.  As it is, the scene is quite pointless and appears to exist only to show how up-to-date the film is compared to the 1925 novel.  However, it was originally a 10-minute scene in which Katina Paxinou (a face on the cutting-room floor) uses the computers to foretell K’s future (wrongly…OK, mostly wrongly).  It was “cut on the eve of the Paris premiere,” according to my notes on the BBC interview—in other words done in haste and, as in the proverb, made waste, but Welles clearly felt there was something wrong with the scene and saved us from most of it. 

Nevertheless, on the whole Welles felt good about “The Trial.” In the BBC interview he summed it thusly, “So say what you like, but ‘The Trial’ is the best film I have ever made.” I’m not sure I agree, but it’s definitely worth watching, even taking the time to compare it with the book.  (But beware of any resulting depression.)

[P.S. If you registered for WorldCon this year, please consider nominating Galactic Journey for the "Best Fanzine" Hugo.  Check your mail for instructions…]




[November 8, 1962] Late Night with the Journey (Johnny Carson, Merv Griffin… and Steve Allen!)

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


by Victoria Lucas

When I got back from Stanford in June, I was ready for a little TV.  I didn’t take one to school and didn’t have time to watch it anyway.  I worked most of the time I wasn’t in class or doing homework so I could stay in school.  I got a student loan, and paying off that and paying the mortgage on my mother’s house where I lived is difficult, so I type papers and theses here. 

I’m often also at work evenings—my salary includes coming to work on weekends so I can run the box office for the Drama Department where I’m the secretary—and if I’m not doing that I often work on community productions, like the ones for Playbox or the dinner theatre, or act as a “clacker” for the Drama Department productions or others (clapping and laughing loudly).  And I go to concerts.

About the only time I have to watch TV is late at night — after I can’t type any more, the rehearsals are over, the concerts done with, the occasional parties over, the box office closed and plays over.  I used to watch Jack Paar on “The Tonight Show,” but I understand he walked out, and his last show was March 29.  I don’t know, I guess I tried some of the guest-hosts (Merv Griffin, Arlene Francis, et al.) they had on in his place, but none I watched caught my fancy.  (Griffin went into daytime TV, interviewing people.)

I understand Johnny Carson finally replaced Paar October 1.  But he didn’t catch my fancy either.  I think only of seeing him in “Who Do You Trust?” his daytime show I would see when sick at home with the TV for company, and I don’t like the way he mocks housewives.

So I twiddled the dial and into my room at the back of the house walked Steve Allen, laughing.  He used to be the host for “The Tonight Show.” In fact, he started the thing.  But now he has the theatre where the show is taped named after him and can do pretty much anything he wants.  Carson wears tailored suits that look expensive and his humor—what there is of it—is deadpan.  That’s OK, but by the time I turn on the TV at night I want laughter, lots of it.  I want Steve Allen yelling “SMOCK SMOCK” back at the audience when they make bird noises at him.  I don’t mind if he dives into a pool full of Jello or his other opening stunts.  (It gives me time to get settled until the screaming dies down.) I want Steve Allen leaving the studio to accost some unsuspecting passers by on the streets outside or at the very least making fun of the people at Hollywood and Vine. 

OK, there’s an occasional guest, but between guests and his piano music, he laughs and does crazy stuff and breaks himself up laughing when he sees himself on a monitor.  And I love it when he has his wife Jayne Meadows on.  One word that has been applied to him explains why I like to watch Allen: unpredictable.  I like music that surprises me, theatre/movies with endings I can’t foretell, jokes with punchlines I can’t anticipate.  Wrap all that up with intelligence, eloquence, musicianship, and a sense of humor that won’t quit, and you’ve got Steve Allen.  If you aren’t watching him already, I suggest you start.

Incidentally, Lionel Van Deerlin won his seat in the California election for the 37th District Tuesday.  I didn’t stay up eating a pomegranate while waiting for election results the way I used to when I was younger, but kept an ear out for the results.  Remember, he’s the guy who was newscaster and news director for local television after an unsuccessful run for Congress 4 years ago.  It’ll be interesting to see what a Democrat from the usually Republican San Diego will do for a change.

[Sadly, but expectedly, the unincorporated community of Vista will be represented henceforth by James B. Utt, who is somewhere to the right of Atilla the Hun.  At least Governor Brown trounced Tricky Dick! (Ed.)]




[October 7, 1962] …like a Man.  (the surprising true identity of sf author Lee Chaytor)

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


by Victoria Lucas

OK, that’s neat.  Mostly when I look at the covers of science-fiction magazines, I see silly bug-eyed monsters and rocket ships that look like they’re out of early movies, and I don’t know who those men or boys are who wrote those stories or why, but I suspect the stories are for other men or boys.

But now I see "Lee Chaytor’s" name on an sf magazine cover and I feel like giggling — for Lee is no he!  A friend going to San Diego State College sent me word that she’s a lecturer in English, name of Elizabeth Chater, and she is writing science fiction (and advocating that it be taught as literature, of all things!) while she works on her Master’s degree there.

Chater/Chaytor has a story in the May 1958 Fantastic Universe Science Fiction magazine that I happened to see when I was in that dusty bookstore I mentioned last time.  On this visit the cat got down from the desk near the door and accompanied me as I fumbled around, trying to remember where I’d seen it.  Ah, there, with bug-eyed monsters, a flying saucer, and a rocket ship, with an eagle harassing an alien.  And “featuring their BAIT FOR THE TIGER A New Novel by Lee Chaytor.” So I gathered my pennies and, after considering leaving them with the cat since the owner was elsewhere, I found him, showed him the magazine, gave him my handful of change, and walked out reading it.

Wow!  She doesn’t stint on the monsters, but these sound close to human in their description.  Lots of suspense after the story opens with men locked into a corner of a lower floor of the Pentagon, secret government workers affiliated with the FBI.  There is a flying ball of green light, a master race (the aliens) and a subservient one (the aliens again), and what’s left of a town cringing in fear as the aliens take over a piece of Oregon.

Oh, and of course there has to be a buxom blonde (is she blond?), Valentine, 6 feet tall, an exotic dancer with a “magnificent body” who uses a robot snake in her performances, and who is described in florid terms.  The wife of a missing agent, she falls in with a scheme to try to find out if the aliens have her husband.  Other characters include a sad and terse bodyguard for the telepath running the operation, an argumentative type who tries to keep an eye on the telepath; and a domestic agent who makes breakfast and does the dishes, the most sympathetic of the men to me.  The telepath is a little man who knows all and is predictably headstrong and obnoxious.  The men spout British poetry.

Complications enter the plot in the form of a dying agent who heard a human consorting with the aliens, said to be golden and godlike (as well as conceited), nothing like the green monsters on the cover of the magazine.

I don’t know if I like the piece.  It’s a fast-moving story; you want to find out what happens!  But at this pace in a magazine novella, there is no time for character development.  There are no other women in the narrative, and I can’t identify with the one introduced so far, with those full lips and young, lissome beauty one expects to see in a science fiction tale (at least from looking at other covers).  I guess it’s always been the covers that have alienated me and often deterred me out of science fiction books and magazines.  Scantily clad women, bug-eyed monsters, weird-looking space ships and flying saucers: what’s for me to like?  Adventure?  I consider music and poetry and history and art and architecture to be adventure.  I guess that just sounds pompous, but those media constitute my adventurousness.

Oh, well, back to “Lee Chaytor.” Valentine is up to the task.  The suspense continues.  We hear how nasty the aliens are, how ruthless.  Will she survive?  The team of three men and a telepath stays as close to her as possible as she pursues her mission, but they cannot get too close.  Not yet.  At this point, I had the suspicion that Valentine, “Val,” now referred to as a “girl,” would still be a “girl” at the end of the narrative, and might never become a “woman,” even though much of the narrative is through her eyes.

The ending could be considered to be a happy one, less so inside the circle of characters we know.  I won’t tell you what happens because you have a right to see for yourself.  I’ll just say this: Valentine lives and is unhurt, but, as so often happens with women, her interests come last and are hardly considered.  We have instead clichés about male bonding and jealousy. 

I haven’t learned much from this tale about aliens and secret US government departments, but I did learn this: that a woman can write like a man when she chooses — take that as compliment or damn.  But it does make me wonder: how many other woman authors (and English Professors!) lurk behind androgynous pseudonyms?