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Magazine/Anthology

[November 19, 1964] Ding Dong (December 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

Avram is Gone

Way back in March 1962, Robert Mills left the editorship of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  He turned over the reins to a writer of repute, a man who had published many a story in this and other mags: Avram Davidson.

It seemed auspicious — after all, who better for the most literate of SF periodicals than one of the more literary authors in the genre.  Instead, the last two and a half years have seen the decline of the once proud magazine continue apace.  Certainly, there have been standout stories and even issues (for instance, Kit Reed's To Lift a Ship came out in that first Davidson issue — and I liked it so much, I included it among the fourteen stories in Rediscovery: Science Fiction by Women (1958-1963).

But successes aside, F&SF is mostly a slog these days, filled with uninspired and/or overly self-indulgent stories.  The only thing that kept my going was the rumor, confirmed this Summer, that Avram had decided to give up the editorship to focus more on his writing.  And so, we have this month's issue, the first in what may be called "The Ferman Era". 

Mind you, I'm sure most of the stories were picked by (and certainly submitted to) Davidson, so I don't expect miracles.  Join me on the tour of the newest F&SF, and let's see what, if anything, has changed!


by Jack Gaughan

Buffoon, by Edward Wellen

For the most part, Ed Wellen is a mediocre writer, mostly turning in lamentable stuff, occasionally contributing acceptable though not brilliant fare.

This time around, we have the story of an alien who poses as an Aztec at the time of Montezuma.  His goal is to become a thrice-sold slave so that he can ultimately be the blood sacrifice made every 52 years.  It's all part of an elaborate prank on the indigenes, which is explained in the story's last page.

Despite the seeming light nature of the plot, it's actually rather humorless, a sort of "you are there" piece on the Aztecs.  Something one might sell to National Geographic, but with a veneer of SF to make it salable to F&SF.  I vacillated between three and two stars; there are some nice turns of writing in there, lots of historical detail, but the whole thing was more tedious than enjoyable.  It certainly lacked the charm of the Aztec-themed serial that recently came out on England's Doctor Who.

So, a high two.

The Man with the Speckled Eyes, by R. A. Lafferty

Mr. Lafferty often turns in fun, whimsical tales.  But this one, about a mad-eyed fellow who claims to have invented anti-gravity, and who makes disappear the corporate bigwigs who dismiss his claims, doesn't really go anywhere.  There're some vivid scenes, some Hitchcock Presents-type horror, and then roll credits.

An ending would have been nice.  Two stars.

Plant Galls, by Theodore L. Thomas

Our resident scientific "expert" waxes rhapsodic about stimulating plant galls (think vegetable callouses) with new carbohydrate sprays.  Imagine!  Like magic, all you have to do is spray a field and you get a giant, cancerous mass of food!

Except Mr. Thomas has forgotten about the second law of thermodynamics — it takes resources to make the spray, doesn't it?

One star.

From Two Universes …, by Doris Pitkin Buck

Of Univacs and Unicorns, which have never met.  This poem is the seed for an F&SF-sponsored context: write a story involving both, and you might win $200!

Three stars, I guess.

On the Orphans' Colony, by Kit Reed

Abject loneliness can make one do crazy things.  On a hostile world, a young orphan opens the barred doors of his commune, seduced by the maternal sirensong of an otherwise repulsive being.  But what horror has he unleashed upon his barracks-mates?

Vivid.  Three stars.

Wilderness Year, by Joanna Russ

After the bomb, the sub-surface survivors only go above ground as a rite of passage.  Of course, they are given the most advanced devices to ensure their safety.

This is a throwaway joke tale, which the punchline nicely arranged to occur at the top of the page turn where it can be most effective.  Certainly not the best Joanna Russ can offer, but not bad.

Three stars.

Somo These Days, by Walter H. Kerr

A poem about sensory deprivation becoming the new, hip rage with all the kids.  I imagine it's a commentary on how our teens are plugged into their transistor radios these days, ignoring the outside world. 

Silly.  Two stars.

A Galaxy at a Time, by Isaac Asimov

Strangely uncompelling piece by Dr. A about close-packed galaxies wracked by mass supernovae.  It just didn't grab me like his articles usually do.

Three stars.

Final Exam, by Bryce Walton

A variation on the Last Man/Last Woman cliche.  In this one, Last Man doesn't want to commit until a battery of psychological tests determines the potential pair's compatibility.

Forgettable: 2 stars.

The DOCS, by Richard O. Lewis

This would-be Lafferty tale is about a guy whose attainment of multiple doctorates is undercut by his lack of empathy.  Facile, with a dumb ending.

Two stars.

The Fatal Eggs, by Mikhail Bulgakov

Ah, but almost half the book is taken up by a gem.  The Fatal Eggs is a reprint from the early days of the Soviet Union, an arch piece about a scientist who discovers a mysterious red ray.  Said ray not only stimulates the reproduction of animals, but the resulting creatures are fearsome and enormous.

I would not have thought that a 40 year-old piece, translated from Russian, could be so compelling, so colloquially humorous, and delightfully satirical (and thus banned, though our Soviet correspondent, Rita, also read and enjoyed it). 

Definitely a four star piece, and I am sad to learn (at the very end) that this is a condensed version!  With Bulgakov's story, the journey is as fun as the plot, and I would have enjoyed more comedic scenes of life in 1920s Russia.

Four stars.

All things must pass

Well, we made it.  On the one hand, half of this month's issue represents a nadir for the magazine.  On the other, The Fatal Eggs is wonderful.  On the third hand, it's an aged reprint.  Well, any constipation requires time to relieve itself.  I'm willing to give Joe Ferman, our new editor (and the owner's son) a chance to prove himself. 

How about you?

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




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Magazine/Anthology

[July 22, 1964] (August 1964 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

(If you found us at San Diego Comic-Con and can't figure out why we seem to be 55 years behind you, this should clear things up!)

Bayside Heroics

This weekend, the family and I took a mini-vacation in our home town.  Living in the suburbs as we do, it's easy to forget that San Diego has so much to offer.  Balboa Park, Old Town, the Gaslamp, not to mention the docks and the waterfront. 

Of course, being who we are, we needed some kind of event to anchor the trip, such excuse being provided by a little get together of comics enthusiasts ambitiously dubbed "Comic-Con."  I think San Diego is big enough to warrant a real SFF con — perhaps we'll get our equivalent of Lunacon someday?

Anyway, time travel was the theme, and I ran across this fellow who looked a bit like a medieval version of me:

There were also these fantastic women dressed up as Spy vs. Spy from Mad Magazine.  Very impressive!

All was not roses, however.  I took along some reading material to while away the calm hours by the hotel poolside, a bunch of books and the latest issue of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  I had (dim) hopes that this installment might reverse, or at least halt, the declining trend in the magazine's quality.  Alas, such was not meant to be.

The Issue at Hand


Cover by James Roth

A Bulletin from the Trustees of the Institute for Advanced Research at Marmouth, Mass., by Wilma Shore

It's always a good idea to start your magazine with a hook, your best stuff.  Instead, Editor Davidson led the August 1964 issue with a short piece by newcomer Wilma Shore, a dialog between a scientist from the present and an everyman from the future — one that proves utterly fruitless.  It's the sort of throwaway gag that Jack Benny might make mildly amusing.  Here, it just droops like a wet rag.

Two stars.

"I Had Vacantly Crumpled It into My Pocket … But By God, Eliot, It Was a Photograph from Life!", by Joanna Russ

Evoking but not aping Lovecraft, Joanna Russ' latest turn involves a fellow with a taste for the pulps and nothing fantastical written since 1940ish.  An abrasive anti-social, he unexpectedly finds his love in a park, her nose in a tome by the long-dead H.P.  But does she really exist?  And what ominous specter animates her, gives her purpose?

Russ never fails to deliver something atmospheric, but in the end, I found the piece as insubstantial as the story's mysterious femme fatale.

Three stars.

Poor Planet, by J. T. McIntosh

A few pages into this "latest" tale by McIntosh, I had a distinct impression of deja vu.  In fact, my description from his story in the April 1959 Satellite, The Solomon Plan, will summarize things quite adequately:

"A terran spy tries to succeed where all of his predecessors have failed before: solving the mystery of the backward planet of [Solitaire].  Where the other planets of the 26th century terran federation enjoy a correspondingly advanced quality of life, the hyper-patriotic [Solitaire] seems to be stuck in the 20th century.  Moreover, their population is unaccountably low given the length of time it has been settled."

In fact, Poor Planet is almost identical to the prior tale (which, itself, was a reprint!) including the sub-plot involving our middle-aged spy meeting with, and ultimately turning, a young local spy.  However, in this one, the spy spends much of his time leering at the girl, noting her affections for him, and then decides that it's best if he be her new father-figure.  Because all girls (even ones who are adults) need a daddy, and her current one wasn't doing his job very well.

I thought the original story decent if somewhat implausible.  This new version is the worse for its ickyness.

Two stars.

Nada, by Thomas M. Disch

I had such high hopes for this one.  It starts like something from the pen of Zenna Henderson, a sweeping piece about a teacher trying to connect with a gifted but apathetic pre-teen.  But what starts out like the next installment of The People falters and ends as a lesser episode of The Twilight Zone. 

Two stars.

The Red Cells, by Theodore L. Thomas

Another short "Science Springboard" piece in which Mr. Thomas says that, since red blood cells are more robust in our youth, that the key to youth is to strengthen our red blood cells.  Correlation, causation… what's the difference?

Two stars.

Epitaph for the Future, by Ethan Ayer

Decent but forgettable poetry about a man (or a planet) and his/its desire for a plain, unadorned grave.

Three stars?

A Nice, Shady Place, by Dennis Etchison

Another newcomer, and a story straight from Weird Tales.  Young woman with freckled skin (we are told this many times) goes to summer camp with her lip-licking (we are told this many times) boyfriend to find out what became of her brother.  Turns out that the campers are all forcibly made hosts to salamander-thingies that take over their minds.  A la The Puppet Masters.

Young Etchison has not yet learned Polonius's dictum, and the piece is pure corn.

Two stars.

Redman, by Robert Lipsyte and Thomas Rogers

Lipsyte and Rogers offer a perhaps prescient look into the television of tomorrow, when shows won't just simulate violence but will actually feature real violence.  In this case, the program is Massacre, portraying the slaughter of the White Man at the hand of the Indians.  Except, in this case, the Blue-eyed Devils aren't actors.

At first, I thought this was going to be an interesting take on (perhaps justified) revenge by the consistently decimated natives of our continent, as seen by an actor who derives lineage from both camps.  In the end, I'm really not sure what the two authors were trying to say.

Two stars.

The Days of Our Years, by Isaac Asimov

If you want to know how the calendar got to be the way it is today, the good Doctor's article is a nice primer on the subject.  There's little in here I didn't know, but it was a fun read, nevertheless.  Also, I happen to know that the entertainer, whom he got off the hot seat by performing in his place, was none other than Tom Lehrer.

Four stars.

When the Change-Winds Blow, by Fritz Leiber

This one started well enough — a fellow wings through the air of partially terraformed Mars, trying to forget the atomic destruction that savaged Earth and killed his would-be beloved.  But it then segues into a vividly (one might uncharitably say "purplishly") rendered lucid dream involving a cathedral of sand and people from a poem.  I didn't like it.  I'm sure it'll be nominated for the Hugo.

One star.

In the Calendar of Saints, by Leonard Tushnet

Last up is (yet another) Deal with the Devil story, this one won by Old Nick.  The gotcha is only mildly clever, but the portrayal of Communist Poland, with which Tushnet is well-acquainted, is fascinating.

Three stars.

Summing Up

It's a good thing the rest of the weekend was such a blast because this issue was really quite lacking.  Oh well.  You tune in for the sardonic (half) wit, right?  On the positive side, there was some discussion of a renewal of The Twilight Zone.  The issue is finding a new host since Serling doesn't want the job anymore.

I have a modest proposal…

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




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Magazine/Anthology

[August 21, 1963] Forgettable (September 1963 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

This weekend, floating on air with the news of the publication of my first piece of fiction (the lead in an anthology of Sidewise in Time stories — do please pick up a copy!) I took a trip to San Jose with my wife.  This was strictly a vacation, you see, a last restful spell before taking on the school year and redoubling our writing efforts.  There was no other reason for visiting this peaceful city south of the Bay.

After all, Worldcon isn't for another two weeks.

The trip wasn't entirely science fiction free.  I took a recent Ace Double with me, particularly exciting because one half of it, Captives of the Flame, is one of the rare novels written by a Black person (Sam Delany, a newcomer to the scene). 

I also finished the September 1963 Fantasy and Science Fiction — a less exciting experience.

I knew even before cracking the covers that it'd be something of a lost cause.  Robert Heinlein's latest serial, Glory Road, concludes in this issue, and I'd already given up on the book in its second installment.  Thus, a huge chunk of the magazine is so much ballast.  The rest is varying shades of acceptable.  Were Nat King Cole to write a song about them, well, it'd be a sharp contrast to his 1951 hit…

There Is Another Shore, You Know, Upon the Other Side, by Joanna Russ

A wisp of a girl, British by extraction, flutters at the edge of Roman nightlife.  Irresistibly beautiful, she remains frustratingly out of reach of all but the most persistent of would-be lovers.  When Giovanni does manage to catch the butterfly, she crumbles to dust in his arms.  Some things are better left alone.

Joanna Russ appears to have finished graduate school and is turning her pen to writing full-time.  This is her third story in F&SF, and her appearances are always welcome.  That said, this is the least of the works from this "young and nice" possessor of "very blue eyes."  It's vividly written, but it goes on twice as long as it needs to, and the ending is obvious from the beginning.  I also found Giovanni maddening in his pushiness.  Three stars, but with a hopeful suspicion that this is the author's lowest ebb.

Glory Road (Part 3 of 3), by Robert A. Heinlein

I know I'm not alone in my disappointment with this serial.  That said, I am already seeing fans salute each other with calls of "Are you a coward?" (a reference to the ad that starts the story's adventure) so I imagine this book will sell reasonably well.  You're welcome to tell me how it ends and what you thought.

The Man Who Feared Robots, by Herbert W. Franke

F&SF has been at the vanguard in its offering of foreign science fiction, with stories from French, German, Czech, and even Japanese authors.  This month, we get our first taste of SF from an Austrian pen, about a fellow undergoing psychotherapy to treat his irrational(?) fear that everyone he knows is actually a robot.  An interesting theme with not particularly noteworthy presentation.  I'd love to see a book on this topic some time.  Three stars.

Collector's Item, by Jack Sharkey

Readers of this column know that Jack Sharkey is my favorite authorial whipping boy.  He just comes out with so much drek so often.  That said, he has written stories I have enjoyed, particularly the ones involving the scout service fellow who swaps minds with extraterrestrial fauna.  Item features a fellow who delights in subverting hoary similes with physical objects.  For instance, he owns loose drums, lazy bees, dirty pins, and so on.

In fact, the so on goes on for a long time, the list of items in the protagonist's collection being nearly as long as the catalog of ships from the Iliad.  All to set up a final pair of puns that I found worth my time.  It made me smile.  Three stars — four if you're a big fan of Feghoot.

Who's Out There?, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor fairly gushes over The Young Doctor, a Dr. Carl Sagan who, at just 27, has already made a big name for himself in planetary science.  I understand that this article is the expurgated version, and that the original one was even more praising of the astronomer. 

In any wise, this particular piece, inspired by a conversation with Sagan, is on the likely number of extraterrestrial civilizations currently extant in the galaxy.  It's an unusually tedious and tentative piece, not up to Doctor A's normal capabilities.  Maybe Avram is crimping his style.  Three stars.

Unholy Hybrid, by William Bankier

A renowned horticulturalist finds a way to grow a champion squash and do away with an unwanted house guest at the same time.  However, he soon finds that the seed of his evil act bears revenge-seeking fruit. 

If the anti-woman sentiment doesn't give you pause, the staleness of the subject matter will.  And yet, there are moments of crystalline writing here that save the piece from oblivion.  Three stars verging on two (or vice versa).

Attrition, by Walter H. Kerr

A poem on the near-immortals who Walk Among Us, their youthful faces just beginning to fray.  Worth a read.  Three stars.

237 Talking Statues, Etc., by Fritz Leiber

And, at last, a screenplay about a young man and his conversation with his satyric dead father, the latter narcissistically preserved in several hundred paintings and statues.  A cute diversion, right in the middle of the great Leiber's range of production.  Three stars.

I was once told that my star rating system was flawed because it didn't account for story length.  I explained that, in fact, it does.  So I shall now pull the curtain back and show you how I calculate my magazine ratings:

There were eight pieces in this issue, seven of which scored 3 stars, and one of which scored 1.  The average is, thus, 2.875.

However, if one weights for page length, Glory Road takes up most of the magazine and drags things down.  That said, I don't have a direct ratio of pages to impact.  In other words, a piece that takes up two thirds of an issue doesn't comprise two thirds of the ultimate rating.  Here's my scale:

1-8 pages: 1 length point
9-19 pages: 2 length points
20-40 pages: 3 length points
41-70 pages: 4 length points
71+ pages: 5 length points

Arbitrary, but it keeps the calculations simple.  It also means I somewhat equalize the credit between a brilliant vignette and a brilliant novella. 

Using this method, this issue gets just 2.286 stars.

I then further flatten things out by averaging the two and rounding the result.  Thus, I get a final score 2.6 stars. 

In short, my system is about 3/4 based on the quality of pieces and 1/4 based on the length.  Agree or disagree, that's the system I've used for years so I now have to stick with it for consistency's sake.

And we all know what foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of…

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Magazine/Anthology

[June 25, 1962] XX marks the spot (July 1962 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

I've been thundering against the new tack Editor Avram Davidson has taken The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction for several months now, so much so that I didn't even save what used to be my favorite magazine for last this month.

So imagine my pleasant surprise when, in synchronicity with the sun reaching its annual zenith, the July edition also returns to remembered heights.  Of course, Davidson's editorial prefaces are still lousy, being at once too obvious in describing the contents of the proceeding story, and at the same time, obtuse beyond enjoyment.  If there's anything on which I pin the exceeding quality of this issue, it's the unusual abundance of woman authors.  It's been a long time, and their absence has been keenly marked (at least by me).  For the most part, the fellas aren't too bad either.  Take a look:

Darfgarth, by Vance Aandahl

Hundreds of years from now, or perhaps thousands of years ago, a mesmeric bard named Darfgarth came to a little Colorado town.  He exerted his influence like a God, but men aren't Gods, and men who aspire to be Gods usually meet an unpleasant end.  A nicely atmospheric story, though the seams showed through a bit too much.  Three stars.

Two's a Crowd, by Sasha Gilien

A pair of polar opposite souls struggle for ascendancy in the tabula rasa mind of a newborn.  Gilien's first published piece reads like one – uneven and with a hackneyed ending.  Two stars.  (Take heart – this is the only sub-par story in the book!)

Master Misery, by Truman Capote

When a thought-vampire steals all of your dreams, what is left to live for?  I tend to look dimly upon reprints as a cheap way to fill space, but it's hard to complain about the inclusion of this story, by a very young Capote, fresh off the success (and controversy) of his first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms.  It's a dreamy, metaphorical piece, both in theme and delivery, and it works.  Four stars.

Stanley Toothbrush, by Carl Brandon

Newcomer Brandon has written a timeless yet incredibly now story about a tired young man, his fetching (but physically demanding) girlfriend, and the improbably named fellow who literally comes out of nowhere to threaten their relationship.  It's the youth's owned damned fault, but he doesn't know it.  A very The Twilight Zone sort of piece that's rising action all the way to the very pleasant end.  Four stars.

Subcommittee, by Zenna Henderson

Henderson's first non-The People story in a good long while is a tale of finding common ground between two seemingly implacable foes.  In this case, the enemy is a fleet of alien exiles, the "good guys" the denizens of Planet Earth a few decades from now.  The cynical side of me groans at the naivete of the piece.  The romantic side of me kicks the cynical side a few times and reminds it that Henderson still spins a compelling yarn, and we can use a little hope in this harsh world.  I only cringe slightly at the highly conventional gender roles of Subcommittee – but then, I expect Henderson is making more of a statement about today than a prediction about the future.  Let's hope HUAC doesn't investigate her for being a commie peacenik.  Four stars.

Brown Robert, by Terry Carr

A gritty time travel story with a twist, but the set-up doesn't quite match the ending, and the thing falls apart on closer inspection.  Good twist, though.  Three stars.

Six Haiku, by Karen Anderson

Better known as the better half of prolific writer Poul Anderson, Karen seems to be embarking on an independent career; her first story came out just two months ago.  Anyway, this handful of poetic trifles is worth the time you'll spend on them, plus the customary 20% mark-up.  Three stars.

My Dear Emily, by Joanna Russ

A fine take on Stoker from the victim's point of view, but is the increasingly unshackled Emily really a victim?  Russ doesn't write often, but when she does, the result is always unique.  Four stars.

Hot Stuff, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor serves up an article on a subject near and dear to my astronomically-minded heart: the death of stars.  You may find it abstruse, but careful reading will reward.  Four stars.

Meanwhile, Alfred Bester continues to savage books he hasn't actually read, to wit, his utterly missing the point of The Lani People.  Moreover, he refuses to do more than describe the plot of Catseye, so affronted is Bester by the grief Andre Norton gave him for his review of Shadow Hawk.  Ms. Norton was entirely in the right – I, too, was incensed when Bester proclaimed, "women just can't write adventure."  Firstly, Norton does not represent all of womanhood.  Secondly, Norton has proven countless times that she can.  And lastly, when's the last time you wrote anything, has-been Alfred? 

It's a good thing I don't rate book review columns…

The Man Without a Planet, by Kate Wilhelm

A rendezvous on the way to Mars between the man punished for unlocking the heavens and the boy he inspired to reach them.  A great idea if not a terrific story.  Three stars.

Uncle Arly, by Ron Goulart

Yet another Max Kearney story.  This time, the avocational exorcist takes on the spirit of a buttinsky ad-man who won't stop haunting a young man's TV until he agrees to marry the ghost's niece.  The prime requisite of a comedic story is that it be funny.  I chuckled many-a-time; call this one a success.  Four stars.

Throw in a conclusory Feghoot (the groan it elicits is a sign of its potency) and you've got an issue that comfortably meters in at 3.5 stars.  Four woman authors marks a record for the digest – any s-f digest, in fact.  Perhaps it is this quality issue that prompted "Satchmo's" profuse praise, which now graces the back of the magazine:

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Science Fiction/Fantasy

[June 28, 1961] The Second Sex in SFF, Part IV

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Many years from now, scholars may debate furiously which decade women came to the forefront of science fiction and fantasy.  Some will (with justification) argue that it's always been a woman's genre – after all, was it not Mary Shelley who invented science fiction with Frankenstein's monster?  (Regular contributor Ashley Pollard says "no.") Others will assert that it was not until the 1950s, when women began to be regularly published, that the female sff writer came into her own. 

It's certainly true that a wave of new woman writers has joined the club in just the last few years.  If this trend continues, I suspect we'll see gender parity in the sf magazines by the end of this decade.  Right around the time we land on the Moon, if Kennedy's recently expressed wishes come to fruition. 

Come meet six of these lady authors, four of whom are quite new, and two who are veterans in this, Part IV, of The Second Sex in SFF. 


Photo generously provided by the author

Kit Reed: Born in my hometown of San Diego, Ms. Reed happens to be the one person on these lists with whom I am friends.  Like me, Ms. Reed was previously a reporter.  She's been a rising star in sff since her debut in 1958 of The Wait in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (F&SF).  Interestingly, she does not consider herself a "woman" author and thinks the distinction superfluous.  I've only read the four stories she's published in F&SF, so I may not have a complete picture of her talents.  Nevertheless, I've liked each successive story I've encountered more than the last.  She's going to be famous someday, I predict.

Jane Dixon Rice: I understand Mrs. Rice was a fairly prolific writer during the War, but so far as I can determine, she has written just three stories in recent past, all of which came out in F&SF, and all of which were pretty good.  The last was over a year ago.  I hope she hasn't disappeared for another decade-and-a-half long hiatus.

Jane Roberts: Ms. Roberts popped on the scene in '56, writing for F&SF, and she was a regular for the next several years.  The only woman invited for the first science-fiction writer's conference in Milford, PA (also in 1956), her work is beautiful and haunting.  She hasn't published anything in the genre since the '59 piece Impasse, which is really too bad.  I hope she comes back soon.

Joanna Russ: An English graduate of the distinguished universities of Cornell and Yale, Ms. Russ has to date published just one story in the genre, the quirky Nor Custom Stale.  It's something she squeezed in the cracks in between studying for her Masters', and it shows great promise.  Now that she's gotten her advanced degree, I'm hoping we'll see more of her work!

Evelyn Smith: Ms. Smith has been writing in the genre since 1952.  Her works have primarily appeared in Galaxy and Fantasy and Science Fiction, the two major mags more likely to publish women. She is also known for her gothic romances under the pen name Delphine C. Lyons. With more than 30 SF credits to her name Smith is truly one of the pillars of the genre.  (Note: Evelyn E. Smith is not Evelyn Gold, former wife of H.L. Gold, publisher of Galaxy, the SF magazine in which Evelyn E. Smith was first published…)

Margaret St. Clair.  Last, but certainly not least, is an author who has been around under one nom de plume or another since just after the War.  Her work bespeaks a broad-ranged talent.  If you know her as Ms. St. Clair, you've no doubt enjoyed her playful sense of humor.  If you are acquainted with her alter-ego, Idris Seabright, you've seen her more somber, fantastic side.  She regularly appears in Galaxy, IF, and F&SF, and she's also turned out several novels (which I've unfortunately not yet had the pleasure to read.) I expect she'll continue to be a household name for a long time to come.

—

Thus ends the last of the list I'd compiled as of the end of last year (1960).  Just in the course of creating this series, several new (to me) woman authors have made it into print.  Thus, this installment shall not be the last of the sequence. 

Stay tuned!

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Magazine/Anthology

East meets West (September 1959 Fantasy and Science Fiction, second half; 8-04-1959)

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A thousand pardons for my lateness.  It is partly to blame on mundane matters taking precedence, and partly to blame on my magazines showing up late this month.  Perhaps laziness is also a factor.  It's languidly warm this Summer.

We left off half-way through this month's Fantasy and Science Fiction.  Fifth in the line-up is Will Stanton's Who will cut the Barber's Hair? It is the very definition of a two-star story; I've had to go back several times to remember what it was even about.  In brief, a human from the far future, when creativity has disappeared, takes over a hayseed's body to experience a bizarre cocktail party and feel the full gamut of human emotions.  Utterly forgettable.

On the other hand, newcomer Joanna Russ' Nor Custom Stale stayed with me far longer than it ought to have given the silliness and simplicity of the premise.  A husband and wife shut themselves into a near-immortal house with the ability to generate Air and Food in limitless quantities.  They discover that adhering to an extremely regular schedule every day contributes to longevity.  In fact, the couple end up sleep-walking through thousands, if not millions, of years until the ultimate end of the Earth in a fashion recalling Leiber's A Pail of Air.  I don't know why I liked it so much, but I did, and I look forward to more by Ms. Russ.

Robert Graves' Interview with a Dead Man is a cute reprint from 1950 about an embalmed fellow who still finds time to write.  It's over almost as quickly as it begins, and it seems mortar for bricks, but I enjoyed it.

The Makers of Destiny, by Edward S. Aarons, is a direct sequel to his The Communicators, although it is so different in tone and content that I'd forgotten until recently, when I looked through my catalog of stories.  The world is rather fascinating–the Ten Day War erupts between East and West when an American bomber inadvertently bombs Moscow near the end of the century.  The United States and the Soviet Union are reduced to barbarism for decades, and the rest of the world shuns the erstwhile superpowers as pariahs.  Slowly, painfully, the United States reforms as a loose confederation with the aid of a group of psionically adept "Communicators." 

In the instant story, Private Mugrath is a soldier of the Northern Union fighting in the last battles of the 15-year Civil War, which has waged since 2050.  But he is more than that–he is an esper under the control of the Communicators.  Their goal is to alter the course of history through the creation of squad of psychic superhumans–but there is resistance, and whether that resistance is some fundamental property of the universe or a traitor in the organization, is unknown.

I liked it a lot.  Evocative, dramatic.

Last up is Leslie Bonnett's Game with a Goddess, a delightfully lusty (though oblique) tale of the ravishing of a comely acolyte by the Goddess of Love.  There aren't many stories dealing with the mythology of the Orient, and this story does a great job of conjuring the setting and style. 

Apropos of nothing, have you read Robert van Gulik's Chinese Detective novel, The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee?  It is excellent and lots of fun, a recreation of Ching dynasty mysteries set in the Tang dynasty. 

That's that for this issue.  A unremarkable but not unpleasant 3-star issue.  See you in two days.  I'm sure I'll have something for you!

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