Tag Archives: science fiction

Magazine/Anthology

[Sep. 18, 1960] Keeping things even (October 1960 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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I've said before that there seems to be a conservation of quality in science fiction.  It ensures that, no matter how bad the reading might be in one of my magazines, the stories in another will make up for it.  Galaxy was pretty unimpressive this month, so it follows that Fantasy and Science Fiction would be excellent.  I am happy to say that the October 1960 F&SF truly is, as it says on the cover, an "all star issue."


from here

"After-the-Bomb" stories always appeal to me.  I like stories about starting with a clean slate, rebuilding, and pushing onward.  Thus, James Blish's The Oath, this month's lead novelette, starts with an advantage that it, thankfully, never gives up.  In this story, an atomic apocalypse has decimated humanity, which has reverted to subsistence farming.  Specialization is virtually impossible, in part because most of the specialists were slaughtered early on by a resentful populace.  But everyone needs a doctor, and in one remote part of the former U.S.A., an erstwhile copywriter becomes an amateur pharmacologist.

In doing so, he attracts the attention of a real doctor, a recruiter for one of the few bastions of civilization left standing.  The resulting dialogue is a compelling one that gives the reader much to think about.  What is a doctor without the Hippocratic Oath?  Is it better to be a demigod among savages than an intern amongst professionals?  What is more important: fulfillment of personal dreams or serving a larger community?  Excellent stuff, if a bit speechy.  Four stars.

Something, in which an elderly antiquities curator comes face to face with an ancient evil presence, is brought to us by Allen Drury.  He won the Pulitzer this year for his novel, Advise and Consent.  Atmospheric, it's a mood piece more than a story piece.  Three stars.

Arthur C. Clarke, the hybrid who stands precisely in the gap between scientist and fictioneer, brings us the rather archaic-seeming Inside the Comet.  The crew of the Challenger, dispatched to investigate a comet, become trapped in its coma when the ship's computer breaks down.  Without the machine to compute orbital calculations, the ship might never get home.  Until, that is, a canny crewman teaches his shipmates to use abaci.  The description of the comet feels quite current, scientifically, and I like the idea of humans being able to rely on low technology solutions when the advanced options have failed.  It's just a bit dated in its structure and with its gimmick ending.  Three stars.

The least of the issue's stories is Poul Anderson's Welcome, featuring a fellow who time travels from modern day to five centuries in the future.  He is received as an honored guest, which is why it takes him so long to realize the crushing poverty in which most of the world lives.  The kicker at the end is the reveal that the future's elite literally dine on the poor.  Readable satire treading ground long since flattened by Swift and Wells.  Three stars (barely).

But then we have From Shadowed Places from that master, Richard Matheson.  The premise is simple: an adventurer in Africa offends a witch doctor and is hexed with a fatal curse.  Only the help of a woman anthropologist / part-time ju ju practitioner can save him.  It's a perfect blend of horror, suspense, social commentary, and erotica–the kind that made Matheson's The Incredible Shrinking Man a book for the ages.  Extra praise is earned for having a strong Black woman as the focal (if not the viewpoint) character.  This story definitely pushes the envelope in many ways.  Five stars.

I'm happy, as always, to see Katherine MacLean in print.  Interbalance, her first tale in F&SF, is a meet cute set in Puerto Rico some twenty years after the Bomb has wiped out most of the world.  More is at stake than simple romance, however–it is a clash between the straightlaced mores of the old world and the liberated, survival-minded culture of the new.  Delightfully suspenseful.  Four stars.

A quick dip in quality accompanies Howard Fast's tale, The Sight of Eden, in which Earth's first interstellar travelers find themselves barred from a park-like pleasure planet.  It seems that humans are unbiquitous in the Galaxy, but only Earthlings are nasty and violent.  The planet's caretaker offers no words of advice to cure the peculiar ailments of our species; he just sends the Terrans packing.  Fast tells the story well enough…I just don't like what he has to say.  Three stars.

Asimov has a good article this month, Stepping Stones to the Stars, about the halo of icy objects in our solar system orbiting so far out that it takes a year for the light of the Sun to reach it!  Too dim to see, we only know about these little planets because, every so often, one gets nudged out of its orbit such that it careens into the inner solar system.  As it approaches the sun, its volatile contents sublime, creating a dramatic glowing tail.  And so, these inconspicuous bodies become comets.  If one thinks of this cloud of comets-to-be as the edge of our solar system, and if we presume that our nearest neighbor, Alpha Centauri, hosts a similar cloud, then our systems are probably less than two light years from each other.  It's a fascinating revelation, and it makes me feel similarly to when I discovered that the Soviet Union and the United States are just twenty miles apart…by way of Alaska.

By the way, both James Blish and the good Doctor have come to the conclusion that Pluto has no moon of significant size.  They thus urge people to save their good underworld-related names for the 10th and 11th planets, should they ever be discovered.

Back to fiction, writing duo Robert Wade and William Miller, writing as Wade Miller, offer up How Lucky We Met.  We've all heard of were-wolves, but what happens when the condition is more subtle and constant than the traditional malady?  Four stars.

Finally, Philip Jose Farmer once again has the concluding novella.  A Few Miles is the fourth in a series detailing the life of ex-con and current-monk, John Carmody.  Carmody and Harrison's "Stainless Steel Rat" have a lot in common.  They are both canny former criminals for whom the transition to law-abiding citizen is not 100% complete.  In this story, the good Brer John is given orders to sojourn to the planet "Wildenwoolly," presumably to demonstrate his worthiness for ascension to the priesthood.  He does not even make it halfway through his hometown of Fourth of July, Arizona, thwarted by a series of increasingly difficult obstacles. 

I imagine Farmer will compile all of these stories into a book someday.  It will be a good one.  Four stars.

All told, this has been the best issue of F&SF of the year, with a needle quivering solidly above the 3.5 mark.  A good way to end this month's digest reading.  Stay tuned for a review of Ted Sturgeon's new book, Venus Plus X!

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Movies

[September 15, 1960] You can lead a horticulture… (Roger Corman's Little Shop of Horrors)

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The motion picture industry has been in decline for fifteen years, leaving movie houses owners pondering this humdinger:

"How do we get more folks through our doors?" 

One way has been to aim for the pocketbook.  Offer two movies for the price of one, the so-called "double feature."  Only, it hasn't worked out so well, and the practice seems to be dying out. 

The issue seems to be one of quality.  What good does it do to get a second movie for free if it's not worth the time spent to endure it?  Especially now that the allure of the theater is diminished by the spread of home air conditioning and television?  This is why Hollywood is now turning to true spectacles to pack the seats: Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments.  the upcoming Spartacus.  These are epics for which the small screen just won't cut it.  They may be what saves the industry.

This is not to say that B-movies, the second bananas in a double-bill, are history.  In fact, my family and I just went to the cinema to watch what can only be described as a Double B feature: a pairing of The Last Woman on Earth and Little Shop of Horrors.  I suppose that makes one of them a C-movie!  Both are by Roger Corman, renowned for making low-budget schlock.  He has a talent for squeezing the most out of a tiny purse, and much of what he produces has surprising merit.

I talked about The Last Woman on Earth in my last piece.  This time around, let's look at Little Shop of Horrors.

It's a simple, shocking story on the face of it.  Seymour Krelbourne is a dim-witted assistant in the shop of Gravis Mushnick, a florist on Skid Row in Los Angeles.  On the verge of losing his job due to his incompetence, Seymour wins his boss over with a peculiar homegrown hybrid that turns out to be a hit with the customers.  Seymour names it Audrey Junior after his adorable, if dotty, co-worker, and thus wins her over, too.  Happy story, no?

No.  As it turns out, Audrey Junior is a sentient Venus Fly Trap with a taste for meat…human meat.  It uses Seymour as a patsy to conduct a series of grisly murders and feed its insatiable appetite.  Ultimately, the beast is stopped, but at a high price.

Sounds like a typical low-grade horror movie, doesn't it?  Don't be fooled.  The plot is simply a vehicle to deliver a non-stop series of character gags, physical humor, malaprop jokes, and general farce.  It's a genuinely funny film that feels like a cross between The Twilight Zone and a Borscht Belt stand-up routine.  Standout characters include Mel Welles as Mushnick, sporting a convincing Turkish Jewish accent; Wally Campo and Jack Warford as a pair of police investigators doing a spot-on parody of the duo from Dragnet; John Shaner as a sadistic dentist; Jack Nicholson as a masochistic patient; and Corman-film perennial, Dick Miller, as a flosiverous (flower-eating) customer. 

Little Shop of Horrors is hardly cinematic gold, but it is good-naturedly gruesome and a lot of fun.  I suspect this odd little comedy may well become a cult film, remembered as one of Corman's better pieces.  Watch it while it's still in theaters!

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Movies

[September 13, 1960] On the beach… again (The Last Woman on Earth)

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from here

I understand that the movie-house biz isn't doing so well.  Looking through my trade magazines, I found some pretty alarming statistics.  During the War, Americans spent about a quarter of their recreation budget on movies.  Now, we spend just 5% in the cinemas.  Movie revenues are down a third, from $1.4 billion to $950 million.  Only half as many films are coming out this year as did during the War–200 versus 400.

The causes of film's decline aren't too hard to discern.  Television is free and constant.  More homes have air conditioning.  Going to the movies isn't such an event anymore. 

Not that the film parlors haven't tried.  Cinescope.  Cinerama.  Aroma-rama!  Double features.  Drive-in viewing.  Nothing's working.

Well, never let it be said that the Journey shirks its civic duty.  Thus it was that the Traveller and his family all went to see the Roger Corman double-feature at the local movie palace.

Yes, you heard right.  They billed a Corman B-movie with…another Corman B-movie!  Boy are we gluttons for punishment.  Actually, the experience wasn't so bad.  We'd heard that his Little Shop of Horrors was a clever little comedy, and we weren't disappointed. 

But that's getting ahead of ourselves, for Shop was the second feature on the billing.  Number one was:

The Last Woman on Earth

This is a post-apocalyptic film, a genre that is booming these days.  In Woman, some sort of bomb or act of God momentarily destroys all free oxygen in the atmosphere, killing humanity and most of Earth's animal life. A crooked billionaire, his beautiful and disillusioned wife, and his nebbishy young attorney manage to survive the end of the world thanks to some timely scuba diving off the coast of Puerto Rico. 

In the first 15 minutes of the movie, we get to meet the three protagonists as they are in the civilized world.  Harold is a rich cynic who takes nothing very seriously, including his wife.  He spends much of his life drinking, gambling, and making his fortunes.  Martin is Harold's lawyer.  His defining trait seems to be caution.  And then we have the lovely Evelyn, who is tired of being ignored, tired of being kept at arm's length from her new husband.  She makes a pass at Martin in just the second scene, though it's hard to see what the attraction is, other than convenience.

Then comes the disaster.  The characters emerge from the water and take in lungfuls of air that do not satisfy.  Matches don't light.  Engines don't catch.  When the trio gets back to town, everyone is suffocated.  It's really quite nicely done.

The three take refuge at a swank residence with enough food and booze to last months, if not years.  Sounds idyllic… except Harold is a rolling stone, a man of action.  He worries about disease and wants to look for other survivors.  What made him venal and dirty in the old world makes him a natural leader in the new one.  One can't help but like him.

Except Martin doesn't much like him.  Under the new conditions, Martin sees no reason to follow the driven Harold..  And Evelyn sees the catastrophe as a sort of liberation, a chance to start anew.  With Martin.

Martin and Evelyn consumate an affair, and Harold exiles his attorney from their little paradise.  Martin leaves…with Evelyn, and the pair plan to steal Harold's yacht and make for Florida.  But Martin is not really a rebel–more of a depressive.  His basic pessimism and lassitude become evident when he rejects Evelyn's suggestion that they start a family, and she starts to have second thoughts about their relationship. 

Then Harold shows up, and we are treated to a long chase and fight scene in which Harold mortally wounds Martin.  This leaves Harold and Evelyn a couple by default, if a rather shaky one.

I like dramas in a bottle, and I like post apocalyptic stories.  This one had its issues, however.  It's not so much bad as it is disappointing. The film sort of fizzles out halfway and never does much with its material.  It doesn't help that two of the three characters aren't very likable, and the fellow who plays Martin isn't much of an actor.  The ending is a letdown, too; I think it would have been more compelling if Harold had let the others go, with Evelyn ultimately returning to her husband. 

Of course, the real issue is that this movie has been done before, and better: The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 

But, if nothing else, it is a lovely film.  Corman makes expert use of the local scenery: beaches, forest, a coastal fort.  I can only imagine that he had other business on the island.  There's no way he'd have the budget to head out there otherwise! 

Stay tuned for Little Shop of Horrors in a couple of days…

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Magazine/Anthology

[September 10, 1960] Analog, Part 2 (The October 1960 Analog)

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The October 1960 Analog is a surprisingly decent read.  While none of it is literature for the ages (some might argue that the Ashwell-written lead novella is an exception), neither is any of it rough hoeing.  Interestingly, it is an issue devoted almost entirely to sequels.  It works, I think.

The first story after the Ashwell is H.B.Fyfe's Satellite System, and it's the best of the three I've seen from him thus far.  An interstellar trader is ejected from his ship by hijackers.  But will orbital mechanics allow him to have the last laugh?  I liked the idea that trade between the stars is so expensive that only the exchange of ideas is profitable.

Mack Reynolds offers up the thoughtful and enjoyable Combat.  It's another of his Cold War stories set in the mid 1970s, a la Revolution and (maybe) Pieces of the Game, where the Soviet Union is ascendant despite all of our current predictions.  It's not a utopia, mind you, but it's definitely something of a success story.  In Combat, advanced extraterrestrials appear, and to the West's consternation, pick Moscow as their first stop. 

What makes this story compelling is the rather even-handed way with which Reynolds portrays Communism and the world behind the Iron Curtain.  There's a lot of good political discussion, but it never gets too preachy or bogged down, as in some of Heinlein's work.  Of course, I don't buy Reynolds' predictions, even with Jack Kennedy's recent statement that Sputnik and Lunik were "twin alarm bells in the night."  Some of Reynolds' statements don't even make sense.  For instance, in his story, both superpowers spend half of their GNP on the military.  Fundamentally impossible. 

But it's worth seeing the tale through to the end, even if that end is a slight let-down.

Randall Garrett, under the name of "Darrel T. Langart," wrote the next tale: Psichopath.  It's a direct sequel to What the Left Hand was Doing and features the same psionic secret agency.  This time around, they are investigating what appear to be acts of sabotage at an antigravity research facility.  Given the two-page screed about scientists' reluctance to acknowledge attacks on cherished scientific axioms (a thinly disguised paean to the much-abused Mr. Dean and his "drive"), I suspect Campbell had a strong hand in its editing.

Wrapping up the fiction is Isaac Asimov's latest non-fact article on Thiotimoline, the a fictional substance that dissolves in water before its insertion!  Thiotimoline and the Space Age discusses some of the technological advances the substance allows.  For instance one can use it to send messages back in time to determine the success of a space mission or missile launch before it happens.  It's a cute piece.

Finally, Campbell has yet another report on one of his home science projects.  In this case, it's an overlong treatise on his attempts to grow crystals called The Self-Repairing Robot.  It would have been nice had he discussed at further length the concept behind the article's title, that self-repairing crystals could be a pretty neat technological advancement.  Rather, we get to ooh and ahh at the descriptions of brightly colored inorganic growths–accompanied by drab black-and-white photos. 

All in all, its a solid three-star issue.  That's pretty good for Analog.  Plus, it looks like "Mark Randall" will be back next month with another Malone and Boyd story.  Their last one was pretty good, so there's something to look forward to. 

In other news, Hurricane Donna has made landfall in Florida.  This massive storm is a serious menace, and the folks at Cape Canaveral are taking no chances.  Both stages of the Atlas Able, which was deployed for a Pioneer Moon lshot ater this month, have been towed to protective hangars.  Antennas and cables have been disconnected from buildings and vehicles.  All of the large transport aircraft based at Patrick Air Force Base departed like a flock of frightened birds.  Their destination was San Salvador and other downrange islands.  The base personnel evacuated the base by noon after securing the hangars.  I understand that they had a harrowing ride back to their Cocoa Beach hotels as blinding rain lashed against their windshields and gusts of wind threatened to knock their cars off the road.

I suspect there will be another rough couple of days, not just for the engineers, but for all the residents of the Eastern seaboard.  Stay safe, my friends. 

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Magazine/Anthology, Science / Space Race

[September 9, 1960] Willingly to Sequel (October 1960 Analog, lead novella)

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Analog, formerly Astounding, has a reputation for fielding the fewest female authors.  Perhaps its because Campbell's magazine is the most conservative of the science fiction digests, or maybe its because of the conception that women's STF is somehow softer than the "real" deal.  You know, with characterization and such.

So you can imagine my delight when I saw Pauline Ashwell once again has the lead novella in this month's Astounding, the second in her tales starring the spunky Lysistrata Lee.  You may have caught the fun Unwillingly to School a couple of years ago in which Lee wins a scholarship to study on old Earth (after a bit of adversity, of course).  The Lost Kafoozalum, which takes place after Lee graduates, and covers her first field mission, has that same unusual first person storytelling style as the earlier story. 

I like the plot, and Lee is hard not to love, but I found there was a little too much set-up for the payoff.  I would have liked more showing than telling during the expository first half.  The end is a bit pat, too.  I don't mind romance (actually, I like it a great deal), so I'd have enjoyed more development leading to the reveal.

Read it, and tell me what you think!

I'll be covering the rest of the October 1960 Astounding tomorrow.  In the meantime, here's an update on Hurricane Donna.  It apparently began forming on August 29 off the coast of West Africa, and we've been tracking its swath of destruction via radar and TIROS 2 ever since.  It's already pummeled the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico, swamped the coast of Cuba, and it's currently gathering strength just 150 miles southeast of Miami. 

It's not certain yet whether the track of the storm will take it over Cape Canaveral, but Air Force and Space Technology Laboratory personnel are taking no chances.  They've already set up evacuation plans for personnel and vital equipment related to the upcoming Pioneer Moon mission.  Let's hope the inclement weather doesn't jinx things.  The last failure was heartbreaking enough.

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Book

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

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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!]

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Magazine/Anthology

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

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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.

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Magazine/Anthology

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

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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!

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Magazine/Anthology

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

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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!

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Magazine/Anthology

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

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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!

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