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Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[October 24, 1969] How sweet it isn't (November 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Rats!

A study just completed by the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare has concluded that cyclamates may cause bladder tumors in rats.

How does this affect you?

Decades ago, it paid to be plump.  It was a sign of wealth and health.  It was attractive!  These days, we're in the Grape Nuts generation, and it's now all about fitness and being slender.  How to reconcile the popularity of fizzy sweet sodapop and the desire to cut sugar from our diets (despite the Sugar Council telling us it's good for us)?

Early this decade, a slew of soft drinks came out, sweetened not with sugar, but with a blend of artificial sweeteners—saccharin and cyclamates.  Diet Rite and Tab may not have tasted just like Coke and Pepsi, but they did the job and preserved the waistline.

But now, thanks to the HEW report, soft drink companies are all pulling their cyclamate sodas off the market as of February 1, 1970.  Grab your vintage colas while you can, because they won't exist come next spring!

What does the future hold for diet sodas?  Well, for now, saccharin is still legal, though by itself, it's a bit bitter (remember the "sach" tablets Winston Smith put in his coffee in 1984)?  There is talk of putting sugar back into diet sodas…just less of it.

And, since this is a science fiction 'zine, we can always speculate that new and better sweeteners will be developed.  Maybe even on purpose this time—did you know that both saccharin and cyclamates were discovered by accident?  Constantin Fahlberg was researching coal tar derivatives and forgot to wash his hands before going for lunch, when he discovered saccharine was discovered in 1879.  And grad student Michael Sveda was working on anti-fever drugs in 1937; some got on a cigarette, and when he took a drag, it tasted sweet.

Cue the commercials:

Bob: My cigarette just isn't doing it for me anymore.
Larry: Try mine!  It's new.
Bob: Hey! Not bad…sweet!
Larry: You better believe it.


by Jack Gaughan

Of course, with a lede like the one I just wrote, you can guess that the latest issue of Fantasy and Science Fiction is less than palatable.

The Mouse, by Howard Fast

Three-inch aliens descend to Earth in a teeny saucer and smarten up a little mouse to be their telepathic eyes and ears to scout out the world.  When the rodent's work is done, he is heartbroken to find that the aliens must leave, abandoning him to a life of loneliness, the sole example of his kind.  Despondent, he kills himself.

Not only is the story an unecessary downer (the mouse was exposed to the worst humanity had to offer, but also the best—couldn't he have found human friends to love?) but it's written clunkily, as though Howard dashed it off quickly, and didn't bother to correct it.  It's the kind of work I do if I neglect to read my work aloud before sending it in to a publisher.

Two stars.

A Feminine Jurisdiction, by Sterling E. Lanier

The latest Brigadier Ffellowes shaggy dog tale has him stranded just after the Nazi invasion of Crete (how timely!) on an Aegean island lost to time, housing a trio of mythical sisters.  One of them has, shall we say, a stony-eyed gaze.  Of course, we know the Brigadier will escape (how else could he live to tell the tale?) but the fun is in the how.

I could have done without the casual sexism.  World-traveler Ffelowes surely could not have forged his opinion on matriarchies solely on this one stacked-deck example.  Beyond that, the well Lanier plumbed for material is a little mined out.  Still, it's a competent and entertaining yarn.

Three stars.

Penny Dreadful, by Ron Goulart

A ghost writer cum secret agent (or is it the other way around?) is on one of the planets of the Barnum system, a frequent Goulart setting, mostly known from his Ben Jolson stories.  All he wants to do is collect his fee from deadbeats.  In the process, he ends up cleaning up local politics.

Goulart, at his best, does light, spy/detective stuff really well.  This is not his best.  Indeed, it's among his worst—incomprehensible and somehow incomplete.

Two stars.

The CRIB Circuit, by Miriam Allen deFord

A young computer operator, who died of cancer in 1970, is revived after five centuries of cold sleep.  But the Brave New World she wakes up into is not interested in welcoming her as a citizen, but only as a temporary subject of study before she is to be put down again.  Must keep the population constant, you see!  Can Alexandra come up with a way to extend her second life?

I had thought her solution would be a variation on the Scheherazade shtick from 1001 Arabian Nights, but it's actually a bit cleverer.  There's also a nice sting in the tail of the piece.  I should have seen it coming; that I didn't is a credit to DeFord's writing.

Four stars, and my favorite piece of the ish.

Come Up and See Me Some Time, by Gilbert Thomas

A pre-teen genius builds a psychic space ship and prepares to head off into another dimension, presumably to be reunited with his murdered mother.  But not before giving an ostentatious and horrific reply to his father, who we learn is responsible for his wife's death.

Told from the point of view of the father, the tale is just silly.  It's more of a mood piece than anything, and frankly, I didn't care enough about the schmuck to get into his head.

One star.

After the Bomb Cliches, by Bruce McAllister

Martin Potsubay is convinced The End Is Nigh.  So he builds a bomb shelter, and when the air raid sirens begin to blow, ensconces himself inside.  But the trumpets keep blowing, and in the end, there's no way to avoid Armageddon…or the heavenly recruitment officers!

This is definitely my favorite McAllister piece to date, bordering right between three and four stars.  On reflection, I think I'll finally give him the win.

Four it is (but I still like the deFord better!)

The Sin of the Scientist, by Isaac Asimov

The Good Doctor takes Oppenheimer's "physicists have known sin" line and runs with it, defining "sin" in a scientific sense, and discussing which scientists have committed it.  His answer is an interesting one.

Three stars.

Diaspora, by Robin Scott

A catastrophe has rendered the Earth uninhabitable, and just one small colony of 400 humans is left.  Establishing themselves on a kind world, farm yields explode and the settlement prospers.  Yet, their puritannical leader refuses to loosen the reins of privation.  One rebellious type chafes under the tyrant, and so he plots an escape, establishing himself as an independent concern.  This proves instrumental to the colony's success…and as it turns out, all according to plan.

This story is decently written, but the overly deterministic nature of the premise is a turn-off.  The idea that the colony was founded with the expectation that it would need a malcontent to ensure its success, and that a ten-year agenda could be stuck to so as to carry out the plan, beggars belief.  It's the kind of thing I expect from Analog.

Three stars.

After the Myths Went Home, by Robert Silverberg

Future-dwellers get bored of reconstituting historical personages, so they turn to reviving mythical people.  After having their fill of hanging out with the whole panoply of (Western) legends, from Adam to Hercules to JFK, they banish them, too.  But the result is there's never a hero around when you need one…

Silverbob phoned this one in.  It has the veneer of literariness, but it just coats a hollow interior.

Two stars.

Ptui!

Like soda without sweetener, the latest F&SF was a bland mouthful.  Still, the two good pieces are enough to keep me going, albeit with ever fading enthusiasm.

But perhaps next year, the editors will find the right formula to spice up their wares…


by Gahan Wilson




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Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[July 20, 1969] Today's the day! (August 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Live from the Moon

Four days ago, Apollo 11 blasted off from Cape Kennedy's Pad 39A, destination: Moon.  KGJ, our affiliated TV station, will be simulcasting CBS coverage of the landing and Moonwalk starting at noon, Pacific time, and going all day from then.

Please join us for this once-in-a-lifetime event!

The issue at hand

As excited as I am about this historic day, we must remember that today's scientific triumphs owe much to our science fictional musings.  Let's crack open the latest issue of The Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy and see what the good folks there have dreamed for us this month!


by Ronald Walotsky

An Adventure in the Yolla Bolly Middle Eel Wilderness, by Vance Aandahl

Well, things don't start too good.

Big Foot is a girl, and she's in heat.  Lucky for her, an overtaxed young English teacher on sabbatical has just broken down in the backwoods near her lair.

My friend, Jean-Paul Garnier, who runs a science fiction bookstore out in Joshua Tree, describes the New Wave as:

Science fiction has always been concerned with technology and its repercussions.  The New Wave, at its best, includes in its speculation, the technology of language, both thematically and in praxis.

Aandahl's story is what happens when you combine the worst logorrhea of the New Wave with a per-word payment incentive mixed in with the latest craze for inserting sex into everything.  I think it's supposed to be satirical in its deadly earnest telling, or perhaps it just comes off as satirical because it's so ridiculous, its prose so contrived.  Like Zelazny passed out drunk and wrote a novelette before he woke up.

Two stars.

Books (F&SF, August 1969), by Joanna Russ

I have no comment on this column as I feel commentary on commentary is a bit superfluous.  I just note that Ms. Russ has graduated to full-time columnist, and that her views do not quite match up with mine (which is fine—no book reviewer's do, save for, in the main, P. Schuyler Miller and, of course, our own David Levinson).

The Shamblers of Misery, by Joseph Green

Alright, now we're talking.  This piece, by Britisher Joseph Green, is an example of one of my favorite science fiction subgenres: the evaluation of an alien race to determine its sentience (establishment of such generally meaning that the planet is marked off limits for exploitation).  The late H. Beam Piper's Little Fuzzy is a prime example.

The story: Allan Odegaard is a "Practical Philospher", one of a handful of humans qualified for the judge of alien sentience.  He is dispatched to the hot, humid planet of Misery, home to a race of extraterrestrials with a puzzling life cycle.  Their intelligence grows through childhood, but upon reaching puberty, their mental faculties slowly decay.  Eventually, they all succumb to trembling seizures that increase in severity until the final, fatal one.  Though capable of doing simple chores, like collection of a local and valuable spice, the adults fall short of true sapience.

The prime suspect for this malady is the addictive drug, made from the spice, that the human colonists give the alien workers.  But is that the true culprit?  Allan perseveres until he finds the truth.

This is a delightful story, straightforward and scientific, with a refreshing degree of sexual equality so often missing from modern science fiction.  Indeed, had I not read the byline, I might have guessed the story had been written by Paul Ash (actually Pauline Ashwell), who wrote the terrific The Wings of a Bat.

The only thing that knocks the story from five stars is I felt the solution was not quite set up sufficiently to be deduced by the reader, though in hindsight, perhaps it was.  But either way, it's a good, SFnal tale.

Four stars.

Next, by Gary Jennings

A tired, retired man, just turned 60, is driving along a one-lane road in the middle of Mexico when he has a terrible accident.  Miraculously, he survives and goes on to enjoy a streak of improbably good fortune that exposes the drabness of his life hitherto in stark relief.

I liked this story quite a bit, and the only reason I give it a high three rather than a low four stars is the ending.  Not that it's a bad one, but I recommend reading this piece and end at the bottom of page 61 (the penultimate page).  I thought the story had ended there, and I really liked the abrupt vividness of it, almost Ellisonesque.  The continuation on page 62 is superfluous.


by Gahan Wilson

Fraternity Brother, by Sterling E. Lanier

Brigadier Ffellowes is a character I'm always happy to see turn up.  He's the ruddy-cheeked ex-officer who frequents pubs and can always be relied upon to recount outlandish, fantastic tales of his earlier years.  This time, when asked which of the secret societies is the oldest, he responds with a story of his time in the Basque country during the Spanish Civil War.

What I love about the Brigadier is how unflappable he is, or at least the aplomb with which he imbues his former self (whether such is an accurate portrayal is, of course, a mystery).  And the telling of these tales is always pleasant. 

I'm not sure that I buy, as is asserted in the story, that the Basques can trace their ancestry all the way back, undiluted, to Cro-Magnon Man (my 1964 Collier's simply notes that the Euskara assert that they are pre-Celtic Iberians), but it is a pretty embellishment.

Four stars.

From the Darkness and the Depths, by Morgan Robertson

This ancient story was published in 1913, and it reads like something from the old copies of Weird Tales I've gotten my hands on.  With the framing device of a fellow discussing the possibility of an ultraviolet lantern as a way to penetrate fog to avoid a second Titanic disaster, this story is the recounting of an attack by an invisible creature from the deep.  The science-fictional element is the idea that a sea monster, transparent to visible light but apparent in UV, could evolve in the ocean depths.

Pleasant, if not outstanding, reading.  Three stars.

On Throwing a Ball, by Isaac Asimov

Dr. A. offers up a derivation for the famous equation: f=ma (force equals mass times acceleration—provided you use metric units).  I suppose it's nothing one couldn't find in any good physics textbook, but it's nicely conveyed.

Four stars.

The Money Builder, by Paul Thielen

Lastly, this trivial piece about a grifter with a wild story.  Seems that he teamed up with an alien to build a gravity repulsor such that he could now tamper with any sports game.  On his way to riches, his extraterrestrial partner was apprehended by his fellows, leaving him in the lurch when the big match went the wrong way.  Now, said grifter needs just $5,000 to repair his gadget and once again rig his way to the pink.

I suppose how you rate the story is based on how you buy the grifter's tale: as science fiction, the piece is kaka.  As the seductive pitch of a con man, it's not so bad.  That said, I found the tale kind of dull and old-fashioned.

Two stars.

The Main Event

So, all in all, a reasonably palatable issue of F&SF, though nothing special.  Certainly nothing to distract from the greatest spectacle the human race has every known: our first landing on another world.  For the moment, revel in science fiction become fact.  Save the fantasy for next week, and join us this afternoon!




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Fashion, music, politics, sports, Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[September 2, 1968] What might have been (October 1968 IF)

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by David Levinson

From spring straight into the fall

Back in April, I reported on the early days of the “Prague Spring,” First Secretary Alexander Dubček’s effort to reform Czechoslovakian communism and create “socialism with a human face.” Dubček managed to keep his plans afloat through the spring and much of the summer, but—as anyone who has been following the news is aware—the Soviet bear has flexed its claws and put an end to ideas of openness and freedom of speech. But not without creating a few cracks in the Warsaw Pact.


A Soviet armored vehicle comes to a fiery end.

The first sign of trouble came in June. Military maneuvers by Warsaw Pact forces took place in Czechoslovakia as scheduled, but Soviet troops were slow to leave the country after the conclusion. A number of communist leaders visited Prague over the course of a week in early August; some, like East Germany’s Walter Ulbricht and Hungary’s János Kádár, probably trying to bring Dubček to heel, while Yugoslavia’s Tito and Romania’s Nicolae Ceaușescu were no doubt more encouraging. Ceaușescu certainly was, since he signed a treaty of friendship and cooperation with Czechoslovakia and has loudly condemned the invasion of Czechoslovakia in the last few days.

It’s not clear what straw broke the camel’s back, though the announcement that Czechoslovakia was considering loans from the World Bank might have accelerated things. In any case, at 11:00 PM on August 20th Warsaw Pact forces rolled across the border in numbers not seen in Europe since the end of World War II. Dubček and other reformist leaders were arrested, and the Soviets tried to install a puppet government, but the people of Czechoslovakia weren’t having it. On the 22nd, the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia met hastily and elected a new central committee and presidium, which then unanimously re-elected Dubček as First Secretary.


Somewhat more peaceful resistance.

The invasion triggered protests around the world, even by some Communist parties in western and neutral countries. In Czechoslovakia, although the military was never ordered to oppose Warsaw Pact forces, the invaders have been met with protests and violence. Alas, it was not enough. The arrested leaders signed an agreement to roll back their reforms on the 26th, and after returning to Prague on the 27th, Dubček gave a tearful radio address, asking Czechoslovakians to end their resistance as well as for their forgiveness for his surrender. As I write, that is where things stand, and like Hungary a dozen years ago, Czechoslovakia has been brought back into the fold.

Lost in the fog

A couple of the protagonists in this month’s IF spend their stories wandering in a daze. Unfortunately, the far less successful of the tales takes up nearly a third of the magazine and feels like a lot more, overwhelming an otherwise decent issue.

Scientists on Mars make an unexpected find. Art by Chaffee

High Weir, by Samuel R. Delany

A group of scientists investigate an ancient Martian temple and discover that the jeweled eyes of the sculptures contain moving holographic images. Meanwhile one of their number, linguist Rimkin, suffers a severe mental breakdown.

Art by Gaughan

Normally, I’d complain about the idea of an ancient Martian temple, but Delany’s writing is just so gorgeous I don’t care. He also has the skill to keep the viewpoint entirely with a man slowly losing his mind, keep the story coherent and include a discussion of information storage that ties the whole thing together. Not his best work, but still excellent.

Four stars.

Report on Japanese Science Fiction, by Takumi Shibano

Top Japanese fan Takumi Shibano (for more on him see last month’s article by my colleague Alison Scott) tells us about the state of science fiction in Japan. The first half of the article offers a brief history of the genre in Japan, from the inter-war years to today; the second half is a run-down of the authors in the field today and the sort of things they write. The history is very good, while the second half is a bit dry. But maybe something in there will catch a publisher’s eye and prompt a translation or two.

A high three stars.

Deathchild, by Sterling Lanier

A baby named Joseph is the ultimate weapon; anyone who comes into unprotected contact with him dies horribly. Is he enough to keep a surging communist China from conquering all of Asia and bring them to the negotiation table?

Feeding time. Art by Virgil Finlay

After a slow start under John Campbell’s tutelage, Lanier seems to have come into his own as an author. There’s certainly some good writing here, however it’s too long. Worse, the concept behind Project Inside Straight is utterly absurd. The quality of the line-by-line writing is just enough to keep the story’s head above water.

Three propped-up stars.

Paddlewheel on the Styx, by Lohr Miller

From the title, I was expecting something in the mode of John Kendrick Bangs or Riverworld. Instead, we have the tale of an attempt to rescue a crashed spaceship on the shore of a river of molten metal on Mercury. It’s beautifully poetic, but it falters a bit right at the end. I will forgive the lapse, though, because this month’s new author is very new indeed: he won’t be 14 until sometime in November. This is very well done for someone so young, and I hope we see more from master Miller in the future.

A solid three stars.

The Proxy Intelligence, by A.E. van Vogt

Space vampires and some nonsense about intelligence. ‘Nuff said.

The head vampire meets the scientist and his beautiful daughter. Art by Gaughan

This unasked-for sequel to Asylum (Astounding, May 1942) is a confused mess. The protagonist wanders through the story in a daze due to his exposure a vastly superior intelligence, but unlike with Delany’s story the reader comes away knowing even less than the “hero.” In desperation, I tracked down the original story. While it did clarify who all the characters are, I can’t say it helped otherwise.

Barely two stars.

If… and When, by Lester del Rey

This month, del Rey looks at what is coming to be known as materials science, the study of improving the materials we use to make things and developing entirely new ones. He covers a wide variety of topics, such as building materials that can be eaten in a pinch, metals that dampen impacts, materials that can be induced to return to a given shape, and many more ideas. This was all inspired by The New Materials by David Fishlock, which he makes sound very interesting indeed. But then, this is a field I’ve long had something of an interest in.

Four stars for me, maybe slightly less if your interests are different.

Or Battle’s Sound, by Harry Harrison

Dom Priego is a university student doing a hitch in the military. His unit is tasked with boarding an enemy spaceship carrying a matter transmitter and keeping them from sending through a huge mass of men and equipment.

Dom fights his way through the enemy ship. Art by Adkins

On the surface, Harrison has given us an entertaining space opera, but underneath it is the philosophical question of why we fight. Overall, this is very well done, but I think it’s the wrong length. Either the combat scenes need to be tightened up, reducing the story by a couple of pages, or it needs to be a lot longer, so we can get to know Dom better, say some stuff from before he signed up and why he did so.

A high three stars.

Pupa Knows Best, by James Tiptree, Jr.

In this sequel to The Mother Ship, more aliens come to Earth. First some blue lizards who leave behind some mysterious missile-like objects, followed by the Siggies, who everybody likes. Earth people start picking up aspects of the alien culture, and then things start to go wrong.

Siggie religion features quaint rituals. Art by Brand

I liked this one a bit more than the first story. Maybe that’s because I have an easier time accepting the underlying premise. In any case, it’s a pithy tale dealing with both religion and the effects of colonization.

Three stars.

Summing up

This could have been a pretty good issue. All but one story are average to very good. Even the low score for “Deathchild” is mostly due to the highly unbelievable premise; up until that is revealed, it’s a good read. But then there’s van Vogt. A “complete novel condensation in a special section” it says on the cover. As I said, if it’s condensed, they took out too much. As for the special section, the magazine is the same length it always is; the story just squats right in the middle like some sort of unpleasant toad. Can we please go back to serials?

Three out of the four have potential, but I’d rather have the whole Zelazny.




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Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Serial

[July 22, 1968] Shades and Shadows (August 1968 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

Hail to the Chief

I mentioned a few months back that Tony Boucher, one of the original editors for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction had passed away.  Because of the vagaries of publication, it took this long for F&SF to solicit eulogies for Tony and get them in print.  But a finer tribute, I can't imagine.

Some of SF's greatest luminaries pay their respects: Poul Anderson, Isaac Asimov, Randall Garrett, Philip K. Dick, Avram Davidson…but what impressed me even more was how many prominent women authors appear, too–Judith Merril, Mildred Clingerman, Margaret St. Clair, Miriam Allen DeFord.  It is fitting that so many of the fond rememberers are women; F&SF, particularly in the Boucher years, was by far the biggest SF publisher of woman-penned SFF.

Those were great days, the Boucher reign, when virtually every issue was a winner (sort of like the Gold days at Galaxy).  And half the stories we picked for our anthology of SF by women from 1953-57, some of the very best science fiction of the time, came from the pages of F&SF.

It is a shame that the appearance of these names from yesteryear evoke a pang of loss perhaps greater than the passing of Mr. Boucher.  Except for a few notable rallies, F&SF has been on a slow, inexorable downward trend since 1959, it's last superlative year.  This issue is no exception.  While it is not crammed with wholly unworthy material, nor is it anywhere near the standards it used to maintain.

Let me show you…


by Gahan Wilson

The House that Tony Built

The Devil and Jake O'Hara, by Brian Cleeve

I was less than enthusiastic about Brian's last story about Old Nick, in which Satan is cast out of hell along with a lowly sidekick when the souls of Hell unionize and go on strike.  This one is a step downward.

All Lucifer needs to break the strike is one measly member of the damned who will cross the picket lines and turn the power back on in the underworld.  He sets his eyes on an Irish lush who sells his soul for a bottle of quality whiskey.  His daughter adds a few amendments to the deal, but it doesn't really matter.  Ultimately, the sot goes to Hell, though the result is not what the Prince of Darkness wants.

There's just too much affected dialect, meandering, and oh-so-cleverisms.  What could be a workable premise is, instead, tedious.  And this is from someone who likes Deal-with-the-Devil stories.

Two stars.

Sos the Rope (Part 2 of 3), by Piers Anthony

[As with last time, Brian has graciously offered to stand in so I don't have to suffer through Anthony's latest "masterpiece"…]


by Brian Collins

To show once again that democracy is a flawed system, Piers Anthony is now a Hugo nominee! I can scarcely fathom some people’s enthusiasm for his debut novel Chthon getting nominated for Best Novel. His second novel, Sos the Rope, may redeem itself by the final installment, but the chances of it recovering are not high. There is one positive that can be said of this middle installment immediately: it’s short.

Not much happens here, and at only about 25 pages there isn’t much opportunity for Anthony to bless us with his worst habits, all involving women. To recap, it’s America a good century after a nuclear catastrophe, and two rogues, Sos and Sol, agree to a one-year partnership while the latter builds a tribe, one combatant at a time. The two are good friends and respect each other as warriors, but Sos is weaponless while Sol is unable to beget children of his own. Their friendship is complicated when Sol’s wife in name only, Sola, takes a strong liking to Sos and the two eventually have sex behind Sol’s back, leaving Sola pregnant with Sos’s child. This is unfortunate for everyone, including the reader. But by now the one-year contract has run out and Sos and Sol agree to part ways, with Sos returning to a crazy-run hospital where he grew up and where he learned to read.

Another positive thing I can say is that since Sola is virtually absent in this installment, and since Sol only appears at the beginning and end, we’re taken away from the plot to be given more of an explanation as to the workings of this post-apocalyptic world. It’s during his time away from Sol’s tribe that Sos finally decides to take on another weapon—this one the long heavy rope of the title. It’s about halfway through the novel that we finally get the weapon that would become part of the hero’s name. I still cannot properly describe how much I object to the naming system Anthony concocted here. It only gets more aggravating when Sos eventually returns to the tribe and finds that Sol now has a daughter named—wait for it—Soli. Sos and Sola still want each other but the latter refuses to give up Sol’s name and Sol himself refuses to give up his adoptive daughter. A fight in the battle circle, possibly to the death, ensues!

Anthony still cannot write compelling action scenes, and he still cannot write women above the level of depicting them as instigators of doom. A recurring implication here is that Sos and Sol would turn out fine, at worst going down different paths amicably, if not for Sola’s meddling. At the same time I was not offended so much this time.

If I turn my head on its side I might be able to stretch this installment to 3 stars, because it is a relatively painless experience and even mildly enjoyable in a few places, but that implies a tepid recommendation and I can’t lie to readers like that. Strong 2 out of 5 stars.


by Gideon Marcus

The Twelfth Bed, by Dean R. Koontz


by Gahan Wilson

This one takes place in a futuristic rest home, where the aged are confined in their last years under the beneficent but iron care of robot wards.  One day, a young accountant is checked into the home by mistake.  Try as he might, he can't get out…until he brews a revolt.

Koontz is a writer with a lot of promise, and he did manage a 4-star tale last month, but most of his stories have some kind of issue.  For this one, it's that the setup is a bit too contrived to really engage sympathy.  Maybe it's supposed to be satire, but again, it plays things to straight if that's the case.  Moreover, I read a similar (and better) story in Fantastic three years ago (Terminal, by Ron Goulart).

Anyway, three stars, and keep trying Dean!

2001: A Space Odyssey, by Samuel R. Delany and Ed Emshwiller

Two of my more favorite people provide reviews of Kubrick/Clarke's epic film, 2001: A Space Odyssey.  They are interesting perspectives, one from a vivid fictioneer, and one from a gifted illustrator and artist. 

Chip (Delany) actually favored the original three-hour version that was cut within a week of its premiere, asserting that the irony of the HAL segment is sharper, and the disorientation of the weightlessness scenes settle in more viscerally.  I don't know if that kind of glacial pacing would have been an improvement, but on the other hand, the only time I felt even slightly restless when I watched the film was during the transit scene near the end, so maybe I missed out.

Emsh praises the effects and spends most of his time discussing them rather than the story, which he seems to find serviceable, if not stellar.

It's a better pair of reviews than, say, Robert Bloch's blistering affair (in which Bob calls the monolith a "cylinder" for some reason–sadly, I can't remember where I saw it.  A fanzine, I think.)

Four stars.

Death to the Keeper, by K.M. O'Donnell

This piece is book-ended by the protestations of a producer of a television program, disclaiming all responsibility for what ensued on his show, Investigations.  It seems he hired a has-been actor to re-enact the recent assassination of a public figure (presumably, echoing the murder of JFK).  The actor went meshuginnah and actually assured that he actually got killed in a sort of expiation of public sins.  We know this from the interminable, raving diary the actor left behind explaining his motivations.

I really don't know what to make of this story.  While I'm not the biggest fan of J.G. Ballard, I found his utlization of the Kennedy assassination (and other cultural touchstones) to be more effective.  Certainly more readable, despite the outré nature of his composition.  O'Donnell just seems like he's trying too hard.

And as with his earlier story satirizing war, it's clear he believes in writing ten words when two would suffice.

One star. 

A Sense of Beauty, by Robert Taylor

It is the last night of a short-lived affair, for the male half is leaving.  And not just away from his lover, but from Earth.  You see, he is an alien, sort of, a member of an extraterrestrial race of humans, and Earth is doomed to soon be consumed in a natural nova.  He was sent to our world to gather our finest art treasures, these to form a legacy of our lost race.

The tale is reasonably well executed, but its effectiveness is reduced both by the mawkishness of the scenario and that of its participants (the woman is hysterical, the man poor at communicating), as well as the fact that, again, this feels like a story I've read before, one that was done better.  I just can't remember which one it was…

Maybe Taylor, who is a novice, will realize his potential with a more original story next time out.  For now, three stars.

The Terrible Lizards, by Isaac Asimov

I was just thinking that I wanted a nice survey on what we know about dinosaurs in 1968, and the good Doctor has presented one.  As a bonus, he tell us some horrible things about Sir Richard Owens, a preeminent dino-hunter in the last century.

I enjoyed learning the greek roots of the various dinosaur names as well as the relationship between dinosaurs, mammals, birds, crocodiles, and turtles.

Four stars.

Soldier Key, by Sterling E. Lanier

Lanier is another newcomer, but this is his second story, and he seems to have found his footing very quickly.  This is the tale of a British Brigadier, the sort with decades of experiences and a knack for storytelling.  Apparently, Lanier has a whole treasure chest of stories that the Brigadier will tell, which we'll get to see as F&SF publishes them.

This particular piece involves the time the Brigadier went Caribbean island-hopping in a small boat with his friend, Joe, and two local seamen, Maxton and Oswald.  They learn of Soldier Key, a little spit of land inhabited by the queerest of ex-Britishers, dedicated to an unholy church and with an unhealthy adoration for giant hermit crabs.

The plot is Lovecraftian, but without the undercurrent of racism (indeed, the story is quite anti-racist).  I found it engaging, thrilling, and also satisfying.  Not just horror for horror's sake, but threaded with light–the light provided by decent human beings remaining human in the face of inhumanity.

Four stars.

Urban blight

Well, that wasn't all bad, thankfully.  Still, 2.4 is a pretty dismal aggregate.  Compare that to the 3.3 average for 1959.  Also, for all the female participation in the eulogizing, there are no fiction stories from women this issue.  In fact, there have been only six stories by women this entire year.

We could stand to go back to the '50s in more ways than one…


Tony Boucher, with friend, in 1954




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Magazine, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[February 20, 1968] 1-2-3 What are we fighting for? (March 1968 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

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by Gideon Marcus

Sock it to me

In the middle of this month's issue of F&SF is this ad:

In short, 68 members of the science fiction community (most of them authors, but some I only know of from fandom) have paid lucre to support staying the course in Vietnam.  Some of the names on the list surprised me: Biggle, Buck, De Vet, Galouye… I should have thought they'd be less belligerent.  And, of course, Bradley's name just makes me sick.

But, as David pointed out, the language is "weasel-worded. It's perfectly possible to be opposed to the war, but feel that the US has an obligation to South Vietnam."

I'll also note that, for this ad to have come out in this issue, it must have been prepped last year.  This is before the recent offensive, when it could be said with a straight face (albeit with decreasing credibility) that we were slowly but surely "winning" in Vietnam.

I was rather surprised to find this ad in F&SF, to be sure.  It's the most liberal of the SF mags–this felt like it would be more at home in Analog.  But then, flipping to the back of the issue, I found this:

That's right–half again as many authors and fans are against staying in Vietnam (they use the older spelling, "Viet Nam").  One wonders which ad came first, and did the two campaigns know about each other?

Does this kind of political posturing belong in our science fiction magazines?  I was already seeing buzz about this in the fanzines even before the ad was printed (I somehow ended up out of the loop, but San Diego is a bit of a fandom backwater).  One fan opined that fans had no business politicizing our sacred pages.

I just think it's a mark of how polarizing and important this debate is that it now has spilled over into our sanctum sanctorum, the monthly escapist literature.  I can only imagine the war of ads will become more bitter now that the actual fight has escalated.

Doo-whackadoo


by Gahan Wilson

Aside from the shots traded in the dueling ads, the rest of the issue is actually surprisingly pleasant, if not entirely placid.  A number of these stories could have been played for horror, but instead, deliberately eschew it.  Intentional?  Or just a happy coincidence?  (I prefer my stories with happy endings.)

The Egg of the Glak, by Harvey Jacobs

Harold North is an unprepossessing campus cop, whose life is irrevocably changed when he meets and befriends the eccentric Professor Hickhoff.  In addition to being obssessed with the monopthongization of the English language (as well as with Harold North), the rotund professor also has a secret of the zoological kind.  Upon his untimely passing, his dying request is that North procure the egg of the last Glak, a Labradorian avian, from a local pet store owner.  After hatching it, North must release it in its home wilds.

Thus ensues a lusty, mildly hazardous, and rather droll journey in which North procures the egg and keeps it from the clutches of Nagle, an anthropologist who would make his reputation on the discovery.  Along the way, North finds romance, of a sort, but mostly haplesses his way through the endeavor.

What makes this tale is the telling.  It threads the line between light and serious, literary and earthy, bawdy and chaste.  It's something Goulart or Lafferty might have come up with on one of their better days.

Interestingly, Harvey Jacobs has only appeared on Galactic Journey twice before, and both were unfavorable outings.  This one, on the other hand, I thoroughly enjoyed.

Five stars.


by Gahan Wilson

The Ajeri Diary, by Miriam Allen deFord

DeFord, on the other hand, is a name that needs no introduction; she's as grizzled (in her ladylike fashion) as they come.  This tale is of an anthropologist who visites the rigidly segregated planet of Ajeri.  divided along sexual lines into "eskons" and "orgs", the researcher gradually learns that those terms do not precisely align with male and female.

Knowing deFord's penchant for horrific stings in the tail, I was on tenter hooks for much of the piece, especially when the anthropologists finds himself having more and more in common with the neuter "eskons".  But in the end, what we really have is a thoroughly logical state of societal affairs–indeed, something of an utopia…

For some values of utopia, in any event!

Four stars, and the Anti-Queen Bee Award for the month.

Whose Short Happy Life?, by Sterling Lanier

Two hundred years after the Atomic Apocalypse, a hunting party invades the Reserve in search of the most deadly game–the preserved tribes of The Enemy.  About halfway through, you'll figure out that something is amiss, but it's worth the ride to the end to figure out what it is.

Four stars.

Dinosaurs in Today's World, by L. Sprague de Camp

Unusually, we have two science fact articles this issue.  This is the weaker of the two, a piece on whether dinosaurs could yet live somewhere on the globe.  It's sort of a poor man's version of a Ley piece I'm sure I read several years ago.

Three stars.

Budget Planet, by Robert Sheckley

Here is an excerpt from an upcoming book, Dimension of Miracles, that (sort of) stands on its own.  It's the account of a planet builder who cuts corners every chance he gets, and his personal reminiscence of his contract with a certain Jehovah.

It's a lot of fluff, but kind of fun.  Three stars.

The Shapes, by J. H. Rosny aîné

This piece is a contender for the "oldest reprint" award.  A Damon Knight translation from the French (he's quite good at those), it is the story of an extraterrestrial invasion in a pre-Sumerian (but more advanced) Mesopotamia.

Not bad, though the "scientific account" portion in the middle both drags and feels strongly out of flavor with the beginning and end.

Three stars.

The Seventh Planet, by Isaac Asimov

This is a good, but somehow hollow account of the discovery and nature of the planet Mercury, one of the harder planets to observe as it never is very far from the Sun (I had little difficulty finding it when I lived in the desert — the horizons are very low there).

Four stars, I suppose.

That High-Up Blue Day That Saw the Black Sky-Train Come Spinning, by David R. Bunch

Finally, the most forgettable story is this piece of frivolity about two drunks who concoct an alien menace as a prank–but was one of them actually serious?

Two stars.

Who cares? I don't give damn!

However one may feel about the expanding war in Southeast Asia, I think we must remain united on this one matter: the March 1968 issue of F&SF is pretty darned good.  And if we be not united, well, I'd like to hear where you agree or disagree.

You won't even have to pay me to take out an ad…



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