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Spectrum 5
Ed By Kingsley Amis and
Robert Conquest
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
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CONTENTS
Introduction
Student Body by F. L. Wallace
Crucifixus Etiam by Walter M. Miller
Noise Level by Raymond F. Jones
Grandpa by James H. Schmitz
Mother of Invention by Tom Godwin
The Far Look by Theodore L. Thomas
Big Sword by Paul Ash
Commencement Night by Richard Ashby
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INTRODUCTION
In Spectrum IV we dispensed, for the first time, with an argumentative preface, but it is now clear that there is still plenty to argue about. The reviewer in the Times Literary Supplement, for instance, said we would certainly agree that science fiction stands or falls by ‘style’. Oh no we wouldn’t. John Bowen in The Sunday Times wrote that in science fiction ‘the characters do not develop, and are not examined in depth’ - offering this, seemingly, as a complaint, and a relevant one. Since confusion on these two heads persists, inside the genre as well as in commentary upon it, it may be worth briefly battering away at them yet again, particularly as we have noted an unfortunate tendency even in the excellent Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, to demand of the works it reviews all the structures and depths and levels and characterizations and completenesses which, emerging from the English departments, have for so many decades now hung threateningly above ordinary fiction - without noticeably improving it. It would be a pity if science fiction were to become yet another well-policed province of today’s or yesterday’s literary ideologies.
Hostile critics will generally except Jules Verne from their strictures: indeed, it is a favourite sneer of theirs to lament the failure of his successors to advance beyond the point he reached a century ago. Recourse to any of his texts (in English translation, indeed, but it seems fair to assume that these are what most such critics will be speaking of) shows him to be a stylistic barbarian. His narrative passages are of the utmost baldness, with occasional relief in the shape of a banal apostrophe or rhetorical question; his dialogue is a tissue of ineptitudes. Furthermore, he often contrives his story-lines badly, showing little sense of climax; he has no interest in character (see below); he is not even scientifically accurate. And yet he continues to haunt the imagination, displaying that curious property - shared perhaps with Dickens? - of making his effect through the memory rather than by direct reading experience, so that each novel starts to improve in retrospect as soon as it is laid down. Verne’s innumerable incapacities fade from the mind before the big mythic themes - the mysterious island, the wonderful submarine, the moon voyage - that engaged him. As C. S. Lewis pointed out, a myth works without the intervention of style.
A more modern example reinforces the point. The story ‘Who Goes There?’ by Don A. Stuart - actually John W. Campbell, editor of Analog - has become, in its pre-World War II mode, a minor classic. (It was hideously travestied in the film The Thing from Another World.) It can hardly be that science fiction readers in the mass are just too stylistically insensitive to have noticed its obvious blemishes. Far more likely they, like ourselves, endured these for the sake of the brilliantly engineered main problem - briefly, that of determining which members of an isolated group of people have, and which have not, become possessed by a malignant symbiotic intelligence -together with its unexpected but logical solution. In this story, idea plays a part analogous to that of myth in Verne’s novels.
We cannot, however, gloss over the objection that to endure bad style, however cheerfully, is less agreeable than to enjoy good; indeed, crossing the floor for a moment, we cannot help wishing that some science-fiction writers would stop to think about the problem occasionally, instead of assuming, or going on as if they assumed, that style is a highbrow affectation to do with semi-colons and long words. Even this, though, is less of a danger than the heresy, traceable probably to the example of that first great corrupter, Ray Bradbury, that style is a matter of whimsy, poeticality, fanciful and fancy imagery. Few writers in the field would fail to benefit from a study of Wells’s romances.
To resume our former stance: George Orwell cogently remarks of Jack London that his stories are not well written, but are well told. The best thing, of course, is to have both virtues; but if we are to give up one or the other, good telling without good writing seems indisputably preferable to good writing without good telling. In particular, it seems reasonable to decide that, while more stylists of the calibre of J. G. Ballard or Algis Budrys would be heartily welcome, stylistic distinction is neither a necessary nor a characteristic virtue of science fiction. Something humbler is more appropriate, the efficient prose of a Defoe or, not to set our sights too high, a Captain Slocombe. One might say the same of other kinds of genre fiction, the detective story, perhaps the espionage thriller; while, rounding off this part of the argument with a brief counter-attack, one might say of much fiction of the main stream that concentration on style often goes with a thinning of content, and that Henry James chewed more than he bit off.
A concern for style goes with a certain kind of concern for character. The novel of style is also the novel of human relations, which is another name for the traditional novel of the last three hundred years, and a handy short description of what science fiction is not. The point was clear at the outset - taking the same outset as before. Verne’s characters do not develop, and are not examined at all. The standard is set by the trio of Five Weeks in a Balloon: more or less eccentric, ludicrously resourceful scientist, brave and honourable man of action (supposedly), semi-comic but loyal servant-type. They reappear almost unchanged in 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, with the addition of Captain Nemo, the foe of mankind. Nemo is another of Verne’s mythic creations, not a character in the sense that Chaucer’s Wife of Bath or Falstaff are, but a figure, like Sir Galahad or Prospero: the incarnation of mysterious power in the scientific age. He has no substance.
As before, the sympathetic reader’s ability to put up with such presumed deficiencies does not, in itself, let the writer off the task of creating characters who cannot be exhaustively described in a single phrase. But whereas stylistic merit, as we have argued, is not vital in the field of science fiction, characterization of the traditional sort would positively weaken and deflect most of the themes that typify that field. The novelist of the main stream is expected to investigate his characters as profoundly as his equipment allows, because his business is with the subtle network of relationships connecting them. The science-fiction writer, however, takes for his subject, as Edmund Crispin has noted, the relationship between humanity on the one side and a thing on the other, understanding by a ‘thing’ a wide class of phenomena: plague, invention, immortality, alien biology, or even Thing. Here several illustrations are necessary.
In The War of the Worlds, the ‘thing’ is an immensely destructive interplanetary invasion force, the theme what happens in time of unprecedented national - Wells’s interest here does not extend to global - disaster. Humanity is represented chiefly by the hero-narrator, an ordinary decent Englishman of his period. If he were more or less than this he would not do. It is his function to incarnate the average reaction to the disaster, to embody what is intended by phrases like ‘the nation responded magnificently’ - or ‘contemptibly’. A protagonist who was not ordinary, or only superficially ordinary, or finally and unexpectedly merely ordinary, or not really decent, or shiningly and supernaturally decent, etc., etc. (one or more of which he would have had to be in any corresponding novel of the main stream), would not have suited Wells’s purpose, however interesting an alt
ernative purpose might or might not have been.
Our other examples are from the present anthology. The theme of ‘Mother of Invention’ is adequately suggested in its title. The ‘thing’ is a technological problem which the five characters must solve in order to survive. The nature of the problem and the interplay of their contributions require such a number. Apart from their specialisms and the minimum of physical differentiation they are interchangeable. Of course. To have introduced individualities and conflicts - panic or indifference vs. courage, majority rule vs. authoritarianism, and so on - would again have changed the theme. ‘Big Sword’ presents an opposite case. Here the relationship between Dr Jordan and Ellen Scott is intrusive, distracting attention due to the ‘thing’. And if it were better done - it is not badly done -it would be more destructive than it is. The science-fiction writer introduces interplay of character at his peril.
A final homely analogy. A mint julep is not a far more subtle and complex glass of bourbon, nor is a bourbon a classically simple and authoritative version of the vulgarly prettified mint julep. Such associations perhaps befit what we intend, for our critics, as a plea for tolerance, real tolerance, nothing less than thinking again. On the part of science-fiction writers and fellow-enthusiasts, tolerance would take the form of renewed consideration of these problems, rather than a habit of irritation or complacency.
Our thanks are once more due to Messrs Bruce Montgomery and Leslie Flood for much generous help.
K.A., R.C.
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STUDENT BODY
by F. L. Wallace
THE first morning that they were fully committed to the planet, the executive officer stepped out of the ship. It was not quite dawn. Executive Hafner squinted in the early light; his eyes opened wider, and he promptly went back inside. Three minutes later, he reappeared with the biologist in tow.
“Last night you said there was nothing dangerous,” said the executive. “Do you still think it’s so?”
Dario Marin stared. “I do.” What his voice lacked in conviction, it made up in embarrassment. He laughed uncertainly.
“This is no laughing matter. I’ll talk to you later.”
The biologist stood by the ship and watched as the executive walked to the row of sleeping colonists.
“Mrs. Athyl,” said the executive as he stopped beside the sleeping figure.
She yawned, rubbed her eyes, rolled over, and stood up. The covering that should have been there, however, wasn’t. Neither was the garment she had on when she had gone to sleep. She assumed the conventional position of a woman who is astonished to find herself unclad without her knowledge or consent.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Athyl. I’m not a voyeur myself. Still, I think you should get some clothing on.” Most of the colonists were awake now. Executive Hafner turned to them. “If you haven’t any suitable clothing in the ship, the commissary will issue you some. Explanations will be given later.”
The colonists scattered. There was no compulsive modesty among them, for it couldn’t have survived a year and a half in crowded spaceships. Nevertheless, it was a shock to awaken with no clothing on and not know who or what had removed it during the night. It was surprise more than anything, else that disconcerted them.
On his way back to the spaceship, Executive Hafner paused. “Any ideas about it?”
Dano Marin shrugged. “How could I have? The planet is as new to me as it is to you.”
“Sure. But you’re the biologist.”
As the only scientist in a crew of rough-and-ready colonists and builders, Marin was going to be called on to answer a lot of questions that weren’t in his field.
“Nocturnal insects, most likely,” he suggested. That was pretty weak, though he knew that in ancient times locusts had stripped fields in a matter of hours. Could they do the same with the clothing of humans and not awaken them? “I’ll look into the matter. As soon as I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Good.” Hafner nodded and went into the spaceship.
DANO MARIN walked to the grove in which the colonists had been sleeping. It had been a mistake to let them bed down there, but at the time the request had been made, there had seemed no reason not to grant it. After eighteen months in crowded ships everyone naturally wanted fresh air and the rustle of leaves overhead.
Marin looked out through the grove. It was empty now; the colonists, both men and women, had disappeared inside the ship, dressing, probably.
The trees were not tall and the leaves were dark bottle-green. Occasional huge white flowers caught sunlight that made them seem larger than they were. It wasn’t Earth and therefore the trees couldn’t be magnolias. But they reminded Marin of magnolia trees and thereafter he always thought of them as that.
The problem of the missing clothing was ironic. Biological Survey never made a mistake—yet obviously they had. They listed the planet as the most suitable for Man of any so far discovered. Few insects, no dangerous animals, a most equitable climate. They had named it Glade because that was the word which fitted best. The whole land mass seemed to be one vast and pleasant meadow.
Evidently there were things about the planet that Biological Survey had missed.
Marin dropped to his knees and began to look for clues. If insects had been responsible, there ought to be a few dead ones, crushed, perhaps, as the colonists rolled over in their sleep. There were no insects, either live or dead.
He stood up in disappointment and walked slowly through the grove. It might be the trees. At night they could exude a vapor which was capable of dissolving the material from which the clothing had been made. Farfetched, but not impossible. He crumbled a leaf in his hand and rubbed it against his sleeve. A pungent smell, but nothing happened. That didn’t disprove the theory, of course.
He looked out through the trees at the blue sun. It was bigger than Sol, but farther away. At Glade, it was about equal to the Sun on Earth.
He almost missed the bright eyes that regarded him from the underbrush. Almost, but didn’t —the domain of biology begins at the edge of the atmosphere; it includes the brush and the small creatures that live in it.
He swooped down on it. The creature fled squealing. He ran it down in the grass outside the grove. It collapsed into quaking flesh as he picked it up. He talked to it gently and the terror subsided.
It nibbled contentedly on his jacket as he carried it back to the ship.
EXECUTIVE Hafner stared unhappily into the cage. It was an undistinguished animal, small and something like an undeveloped rodent. Its fur was sparse and stringy, unglamorous; it would never be an item in the fur export trade.
“Can we exterminate it?” asked Hafner. “Locally, that is.”
“Hardly. It’s ecologically basic.”
The executive looked blank. Dano Marin added the explanation: “You know how Biological Control works. As soon as a planet has been discovered that looks suitable, they send out a survey ship loaded with equipment. The ship flies tow over a good part of the planet and the instruments in the ship record the neural currents of the animals below. The instruments can distinguish the characteristic neural patterns of anything that has a brain, including insects.
“Anyway, they have a pretty good idea of the kinds of animals on the planet and their relative distribution. Naturally, the survey party takes a few specimens. They have to in order to correlate the pattern with the actual animal, otherwise the neural pattern would be merely a meaningless squiggle on a microfilm.
“The survey shows that this animal is one of only four species of mammals on the planet. It is also the most numerous.”
Hafner grunted. “So if we kill them off here, others will swarm in from surrounding areas?”
“That’s about it. There are probably millions of them on this peninsula. Of course, if you want to put a barrier across the narrow connection to the mainland, you might be able to wipe them out locally.”
The executive scowled. A barrier w
as possible, but it would involve more work than he cared to expend.
“What do they eat?” he asked truculently.
“A little bit of everything, apparently. Insects, fruits, berries, nuts, succulents, and grain.” Dano Marin smiled. “I guess it could be called an omnivore—now that our clothing is handy, it eats that, too.”
Hafner didn’t smile. “I thought our clothing was supposed to be verminproof.”
Marin shrugged. “It is, on twenty-seven planets. On the twenty-eighth, we meet up with a little fella that has better digestive fluids, that’s all.”
Hafner looked pained. “Are they likely to bother the crops we plant?”
“Offhand, I would say they aren’t. But then I would have said the same about our clothing.”
Hafner made up his mind. “All right. You worry about the crops. Find some way to keep them out of the fields. Meanwhile, everyone sleeps in the ship until we can build dormitories.”
Individual dwelling units would have been more appropriate in the colony at this stage, thought Marin. But it wasn’t for him to decide. The executive was a man who regarded a schedule as something to be exceeded.
Spectrum 5 - [Anthology] Page 1
