Category Archives: Science Fiction/Fantasy

[September 4, 1960] Flawed jewel (The Status Civilization, by Robert Sheckley)

Readers of my column know of my affection for Bob Sheckley's work.  A fellow landsman, he has turned out a regular stream of excellent short stories over the past decade.  He's already published four collections, and they are all worth getting.

But though Sheckley gets an A for his shorter works, his novel-writing talents earn him, at best, a B-.  He's written two thus far, both of them novelizations of serials.  One was the tepid adventure, Timekiller.  The other, The Status Civilization, was serialized in Amazing earlier this year.  It just came out in book form; I'll let my readers tell me if it's been substantially changed.

The novel has a great hook: Will Barrent, age 27, wakes up from the deepest of sleeps to find he has no memories of his former existence, not even his name.  Then he is informed that he is guilty of a murder he can't remember, and is sentenced, along with several hundred other mind-wiped criminals, to spend the rest of his days on the prison planet, Omega.

Like Devil's Island and Australia, this convict-ruled place of exile is a society completely apart.  New arrivals start with the rank of peon, and only through a long period of virtual slavery can they rise in status.  Or they can get away with murder, literally, and take the fast elevator. 

Omega is a paradoxical hell world where evil is lauded, even canonized.  There is law, and it is strictly enforced.  And yet, status only comes when one successfully evades the law.  Usually, this involves surviving the punishments for transgression–generally some kind of public gladiatorial spectacle.  Of course Barrent (without much explanation) is able to survive these trials by combat and do quite well for himself.

Despite this, Barrent becomes increasingly confident that he is not a murderer, and this eventually lands him in the hands of an underground group of non-violent political criminals, whose goal is to somehow return to an Earth they know nearly nothing of.  Barrent is sent on a lone mission of reconnaissance to his forgotten homeworld, which turns out to be the mirror image of Omega, or perhaps just the other side of the same coin. 

The Status Civilization is an entertaining but unsatisfying read.  Stylistically, it feels unpolished, even rushed.  I see less of Bob Sheckley here and more of Murray Leinster on a bad day.  Whole episodes of the story are glossed over, particularly some potentially exciting action bits. 

Sheckley introduces us to a pair of fascinating worlds: Omega, where evil is lauded, and status is gained by murder; and Earth, where society is static, and status fixed.  Neither society is stable.  Both will fail at some point, though there is the suggestion that in their violent union, salvation might be found. 

These are topics worthy of significant elaboration, but Sheckley gives them rather minimal treatment.  Upon further reflection, I determined that he gave them the minimum treatment possible to effectively convey them.  I admire his economy of words (The Status Civilization is quite a short novel), but I was left feeling hungry for more.

Which brings us to an interesting literary question: need a story be further written if it accomplishes what it was made to do?  In this case, I'm going to say yes.  I think Sheckley could have had a masterpiece to his name with this one if he'd just put it through the ringer one more time.  It needs to either be longer or better-written. 

As it is, however, The Status Civilization is worth reading.  The questions it raises are compelling, even if they are incompletely answered by the author, and the writing, while workmanlike, is engaging.

3.5 stars.

[By the way, the World Science Fiction Convention is going on as we speak in Pittsburgh.  I'll have a report on the con and the 1960 Hugo Awards in a few days.  If you are an attendee, please feel free to add your anecdotes!]

[September 1, 1960] Looking up (October 1960 Galaxy, second half)

I'm sure you've all been waiting like caught fish (with baited breath), so I shan't keep you in the dark any longer regarding the October 1960 Galaxy.  The second half of the magazine is better than the first, but it is not without its troubles.

Neal Barrett is back with his sophomore effort, The Stentorii Luggage.  This engaging little tale highlights the dangers involved in running a hotel for dozens of disparate (and mutually incompatible) alien races.  It also justifies the "no pets" policy common to most places of lodging. 

A Fall of Glass gets my nomination for the best story of the issue.  This is also a second effort, by Stanley R. Lee, in this case.  Breezy, light touch tales are hard to pull off, but I think Lee has managed in this one, a romance set inside a climate-controlled, post-apocalyptic dome.  Superficially similar to World in a Bottle in subject matter, but far better in execution.

That brings us to Edward Wellen's "non-fact" article, Origins of the Galactic Short-Snorter.  It's an unwieldy title, to be sure, and these droll attempts at humor generally fall flat.  But this one, about a museum of obsolete currency, isn't bad.

The one familiar name in the issue is Gordon Dickson.  He can usually be counted on to turn in a decent story; his The Hours are Good is rather masterful.  It's not the vaguely futuristic setting or the details of the plot that stand out.  What distinguishes this thriller is the measured, deliberate way Dickson reveals what's going on in, culminating in a nice kicker.  I like stories that show rather than tell, and it's all show in this one.

Sadly, the issue doesn't stop there.  It's final tale, David Duncan's The Immortals, is a loser.  In brief: the inventor of immortality wants to know the effects his efforts will have on civilization.  He enlists the aid of a computer simulations expert.  When the projection shows that everlasting life leads to cultural torpor, the pair insert themselves into the simulation to learn more.

Duncan's story is B-Movie fare.  The idea that a computer could predict the future with perfect accuracy, so long as it is fed sufficient data, is silly on its face.  Anyone with a background in mathematics knows that even single equations often have several answers; many have an infinite number.  Add to that implausibility the idea that one could wander around this virtual reality and interact with its denizens using computers of current vintage…well, let's just say I'll need a splint for my strained credulity.

It's really too bad.  The societal impacts of everlasting life are worth exploring.  So is the notion of creating "life" within the memory banks of a computer.  Either would merit a novel of development.  Both get short shrift in this clunky novelette.

In more positive news, my family enjoyed a lovely, sunset stroll down Grand Avenue in nearby Escondido a few days ago.  I picked up copies of my reading material for this month, so you can expect reviews of Sheckley and Sturgeon in short order.

[August 29, 1960] One shoe down (October 1960 Galaxy, 1st half)

There is an old saw: "Just when I got my mule to work without being fed, she up and died on me!"

At the end of 1958, Galaxy editor H. Gold announced that his magazine was going to a bi-monthly publication schedule.  He did not mention that he was also slashing writer pay rates in half.

Last issue, Gold crowed about his stable of fresh new authors who would carry the torch of science fiction creation.  And, of course, there is plenty of room for the new authors now that the old names have departed for greener pastures.

Is this how a great magazine dies?  Not with a bang, but with a whimper?  You may disagree with me, but the October 1960 issue of Galaxy feels like a throwback.  A lesser mag from the mid '50s.  Let me show you the first half of the issue, and you'll see what I mean.

Allen Kim Lang opens things up with his novella, World in a Bottle.  The premise is an interesting one: take a group of people with no resistance to diseases (such people exist today).  Put them together in a sort of commune.  What are the sociological and practical implications?  What kind of life can they expect to have?

Some of the story rings true, particularly the feeling of imprisonment and the lack of attraction for one's fellow commune residents.  This isn't science fiction–this is what's happening right now on the kibbutzim in Israel.  What kills the story, for me, is the breezy style and the overly neat finish at the end.  It's a pity–Lang has been good enough to get printed in F&SF.  I'm sure he could turn out better.

The Hills of Home, by Alfred Coppel, originally came out in Future Science Fiction back in 1956.  It reads like an inferior version of Sturgeon's sublime The Man who lost the Sea, but I guess Coppel's came first, so perhaps Sturgeon's is a polish-up.  In any event, it's a clunky piece, but not horrible.  It does show that Galaxy is now resorting to reprints to fill its pages.  That's probably not a good sign. 

Marshall King is, as far as I can tell, a complete newcomer to science fiction.  His Beach Scene, about a cute little alien who can stop time, is rather engaging.  The creature's encounter with a band of rapacious human colonizers is bittersweet.  Mostly bitter.

Willy Ley seems to be coasting these days.  His latest article, The Air on the Moon, is not a stand-out.

Then we've got James Stamers' The Imitiation of Earth, positing a sort of planetary sentience that deliberately fosters the evolution of life.  This is Stamers' fourth published story, and Gold has bought every one of them.  I've noted in my reviews of his last three that his work tends to be forgettable stuff with occasional interesting ideas mixed in.  He continues this trend with his newest story, which starts out in a quite compelling manner, but ends prosaically. 

That brings us to newcomer Andrew Fetler's Cry Snooker, a satiric tale about the havoc wreaked on a suburban town by an experimental little flying machine.  It reads like a lesser Rosel George Brown story.  Heavy on the domestic banter, crude with the lampooning.

Now, things could turn around quite suddenly in the second half of this month's issue, but thus far, we're looking at a 2.5 star issue.  It would be a crying shame if Galaxy, once my favorite science fiction digest, ended up below Astounding!

In happier news, I met a lot of wonderful folks at the local science fiction convention last week.  One of them was dressed up as the new member of the family from Krypton, Supergirl.  Well, it turns out she is a local, and she sent me a photo to share with my fans.  Meet Janel, everyone!

[August 27, 1960] Coming up in September!

Every month, I get a heads up from my connections in the publishing, movie, and aerospace industries to let me know what books, films, and space launches will occur in the near future.  August is coming to a close, which means its time for a sneak preview of coming attractions for the month of September.  This way, all of you can follow along and share your thoughts. 

(Note that publications that I don't plan to review will be in a smaller font.  You are, of course, welcome to try them and let me know if I should take a gander.)

In the world of magazines:

September 1960 Galaxy

September 1960 Fantasy and Science Fiction

September 1960 Analog

September 1960 Fantastic

September 1960 Amazing

In the world of books:

The Status Civilization, by Robert Sheckley

Venus Plus X, by Theodore Sturgeon

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star by Ben Barzman

Skynappers, by John Brunner ; Vulcan's Hammer, by Philip K. Dick (ACE Double)

Guardians of Time, a collection of Time Patrol stories by Poul Anderson

Deathworld, by Harry Harrison (already covered by the Journey here)

In the world of movies:

Little Shop of Horrors ; The Last Woman on Earth (a Double Feature!)

In the world of space launches:

Pioneer Moon (Atlas Able)

In the meantime, we also have the leadership of the Free World at stake.  Immediately after the Democratic Convention, national polls showed Kennedy leading Nixon at 52-48.  Now that the Senator has been stuck in a quagmire of a Congressional Session for the last month, and Nixon was just greeted as the Second Coming in Atlanta, the polls show a different story.  Nixon is now the favorite at 53-47.

The Race doesn't really start until after Labor Day, however.  I'm looking forward to the first televised debates come Fall.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

1) Brontosaurus, Tyrannosaurus, and Neanderthals lived contemporaneously;

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

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

4) Brontosaurs are adorable and make excellent steeds;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And some attendees, not in costume:

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

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

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

And sometimes, the cinema astounds me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Highly recommended.  5 stars of 5.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned!

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

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

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

This year, I joined the crazy persons' club.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in a few, likely from sleepy Fukuoka!

[August 1, 1960] Saving the Day (Poul Anderson's The High Crusade)

Analog (formerly Astounding) has tended to be the weak sister of the Big Three science fiction digests.  This can be attributed largely to Editor John Campbell's rather outdated and quirky preferences when it comes to story selection.  There seem to be about five or six authors in Analog's stable, and they are not the most inspiring lot.

On the other hand, at least since last year, Analog has reliably produced a number of good serial novels that have elevated the overall quality of the magazine.  This month's issue, the September 1960 Analog, contains the conclusion to Poul Anderson's The High Crusade, and it continues this winning streak.

Anderson is an author with whom I've had a rather stormy relationship… a one-sided one, of course.  I was captivated by his early novel, Brain Wave, and generally disappointed by most of his output since.  And then, about a year ago, he started writing good stuff again.  His latest novel is excellent, far better than it has any right to be.

The set-up is ridiculous, and smacks of Cambellian Earth-First-ism: a crew of alien invaders visit 14th Century England, bent on adding Earth to the sprawling galactic imperium of the Wersgorix, only to be defeated by the retainers of the canny Baron, Sir Roger de Tourneville.  Sir Roger, realizing that the repelled spacers represented only a scouting contingent, seizes their vessel and takes his entire barony on a trip to the nearby Wersgorix colony, Tharixan.  His goal is to take the fight to the enemy before more come to Earth.  Thus ends Part 1.

The fight for Tharixan comprises the whole of Part 2.  Using a combination of medieval and captured weaponry, and aided by the aliens being somewhat out of fighting trim, their empire having lacked serious conflicts with which to blood their soldiers (while the feudal warriors of Europe spend most of their time fighting or planning for war), Sir Roger's forces are triumphant. 

Nevertheless, a single world would hardly stand a chance against the fleets and armies of the aliens.  Thus, Sir Roger unites the subjugated races of the empire together in a Crusade against the Wersgorix (Part 3).  The success of this venture, and the individual machinations of his strong-willed wife, Catherine, and his wily subordinate, Sir Owain, I shall leave for the reader to enjoy.

And enjoy you will!  Anderson clearly knows his medieval history and, more importantly, he adopts an authentic archaic writing tone which is, at once, evocative and yet perfectly readable.  Using the clever artifice of telling the story through a chronicler, Brother Parvis, Anderson captures nicely the attitudes of medieval persons thrust into a futuristic universe.  One technique I particularly admired (and, again, which I think could easily have been botched), is the narrator's recounting of scenes that he, personally, could not have witnessed, but rather reconstructed after the fact.  It is a clever way of transitioning from 1st to 3rd person without jarring the reader.

Anderson's biggest coup, though, is that he can make such a silly story at once plausible and seriously executed.  Strongly recommended — 4.5 stars out of 5.

(and for those following along as the Journey zips across Japan, I am now on the train from Nagoya to Osaka, this country's third and second cities, respectively.  Osaka is one of my favorite cities, and I look forward to relaxing pool-side and typing my next article on the rest of the September 1960 issue.  Stay tuned!