Terry Pratchett

by Craig Cabell

  ‘The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a pity it is you’re not a writer of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s shoulder.’

  HG Wells (The Time Machine)

  It is quite clear that fantasy and science fiction have their origins in different places, with different writers, clichés and expectations. The science fiction novel was an extension of the Industrial Revolution, when Victorians began to speculate about the advances of science from the imagination of their scientists and engineers and from discoveries in astronomy. It is a modern genre, as much as the air force is a modern arm of the military. You could go way back and say that the scientists of mediaeval times – the ones who became court physicians and were originally herbalists, druids, wizards and necromancers – were the fulcrum of science fiction/fantasy, and even of speculative fiction in its many forms, because couple all that with knights and romance and you get a fantasy base crying out for dragons and swashbuckling adventure. As Pratchett says: ‘Throw a dragon in a story and everyone will call it fantasy’ (witness Guards! Guards!). There’s truth in this statement, but the earlier genres of gothic, macabre and dark romance – now sub-genres of the wider remit of horror – are more applicable to fantasy than science fiction.

  Pratchett believes that science fiction is really a sub-genre of fantasy, but I disagree. One can see where perhaps one genre might split into two distinct genres – but two genres, not one below another. The 19th and 20th centuries constructed a distinct history for each genre, given depth by quality authors and the film industry. However, some Hollywood directors took their own interpretation of a genre and made it their own, thus creating a fractured genre through the film industry. There is no better example of this than the works of HP Lovecraft. In 1931 Lovecraft wrote a novella entitled At the Mountains of Madness. It concerned an expedition to the Antarctic, around the areas partially explored by Shackleton, Amundsen and Scott. Above some gigantic mountains is an ancient city buried beneath the ice. A team of scientists go in to explore it. They marvel at the ancient hieroglyphs and architecture, but as they venture deeper and deeper into the dark troglodyte city, an eerie tension is building all the time.

  ‘And now, when Danforth and I saw the freshly glistening and reflectively iridescent black slime which clung thickly to those headless bodies and stank obscenely with that new, unknown odour whose cause only a diseased fancy could envisage – clung to those bodies and sparkled less voluminously on a smooth part of the accursedly resculptured wall in a series of grouped dots – we understood the quality of cosmic fear to its uttermost depths. It was not fear of those four missing others – for all too well did we suspect they would do no harm again. Poor devils!’

  HP Lovecraft (At the Mountains of Madness)

  The above quote could be from any one of the Alien movies. As the reader, you know something is waiting in the darkness ahead for the main characters and, sure enough, a creature of unimaginable horror hurtles after the party and the whole thing becomes a chase novel back to civilisation. Again Alien.

  Although far from popular when first published, At the Mountains of Madness strongly influenced the science fiction genre and probably was the instigator of injecting true horror into it as well. There is no question that the broad body of Lovecraft’s work was influenced by the world’s first true horror writer, Edgar Allan Poe, but which films benefited from Lovecraft’s take on science fiction? A clear example would be The Thing from Another World (1951), which was remade by John Carpenter as the special-effects movie The Thing (1982). One of the important plot developments for this story was the gradual knocking-off of the main characters. Thirteen become 12, who then become 11, then ten, nine, eight… and there we see an echo in the movie franchise of Alien. But it doesn’t end there. Lovecraft introduced an extra wonder by using extreme – remote – locations on our own planet for his chilling settings. This continued in the science fiction film world with the Arctic in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (1953), progressing to the Amazon in The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954), and then on to the Himalayas in The Abominable Snowman (1957).

  The knock-on effect of the popularity of these movies, each a milestone within the science fiction genre, shows how much cross-pollination the genre has picked up from horror – i.e. HP Lovecraft with a dash of Poe, maybe – a prime example being The Quatermass Experiment (1953). Classic writers in each genre will influence good practice within the movie industry, for example HG Wells in science fiction, Bram Stoker in horror and L Frank Baum in fantasy (The Wizard of Oz is so important to the cinematographic evolution of fantasy on celluloid). But as Terry Nation (creator of the Daleks) once said: ‘When I used to go and see science fiction movies they used to have H certificates for Horror.’ The original 1950s version of The War of the Worlds is a good example of this bastardisation of the genre.

  So we understand the modern legacy of three fundamental genres in this book, but does Pratchett? No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t like the constraints of tight genres, because they restrict his imagination. For example, at the very start of The Dark Side of the Sun, he has the main character out fishing for Dagon.

  ‘The region was putrid with the carcasses of decaying fish, and of other less describable things which I saw protruding from the nasty mud of the unending plain.’

  HP Lovecraft (Dagon)

  In using Dagon, Pratchett is acknowledging HP Lovecraft, one of the great masters of horror. Lovecraft wrote a short horror story called Dagon, and this is echoed at the start of Pratchett’s science fiction novel. So here we have a mixture – not necessarily a confusion – of genres, because there should be no boundary to imagination. However, one should still be aware of what the genres are.

  So is The Dark Side of the Sun Pratchett’s vision of the science fiction genre? Indeed it is. It echoes his beliefs as to what science fiction is: a sub-genre of fantasy that includes some early horror fiction too. Remember, for Pratchett, Dr Who fits into the sub-genre of science fiction. So Pratchett’s ability to blend major influences from science fiction, fantasy and horror – whether motivated by the history of cinema or not – is unashamed and seamless.

  ‘Shortly Don heard a warm Cockney voice, “Don, my dear boy, are you there?”

  “Yes, Sir Isaac.”

  The dragon shrilled relief.’

  Robert A Heinlein (Between Planets)

  Robert A Heinlein was one of the greatest practitioners of science fiction. His novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) is one of the most important science fiction novels ever written, and was too far ahead of its time to be fully appreciated in the early 1960s. The above quote comes from an earlier Heinlein novel that actually used dragons (and something a little too upper class to be Cockney). This illustrates that most genre writers try to mix and match, but, as I stated earlier, the main influence on a book or film will be its driving – defining – genre: science fiction, horror or fantasy. Between Planets was exactly what it said on the tin: science fiction. Despite some genre cross-contamination, Pratchett’s The Dark Side of the Sun is exactly the same and based upon his take on the genre.

  ‘The Dagon fishermen under licence from the Board of Widdershins rode out by the hundred when the big bivalves rose up from the deep, to snatch the pearls of nacreous pilac by the light of the moon.’

  (The Dark Side of the Sun)

  Halfway through The Dark Side of the Sun, the science fiction purist is a little frustrated. There is no science embedded in the fiction thus far; everything is pure fantasy. The great practitioners of the genre – Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, Herbert – all had some science and often deep political problems (witness Foundation, Dune, Time for the Stars, even The War of the Worlds), but Pratchett’s science fiction has its soul in the fantasy genre. The upside to this is some beautiful writing: ‘Dom saw the huntsman on his black horse when he brushed through the wall of the drive cabin like bracken… For a moment he looked at Dom, who saw his eyes gleam momentarily like mirrors and a hand go
up protectively. Then the horse and rider were gone.’

  Pratchett takes in the illusions of space travel and improbability drives as abstractly as Douglas Adams in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but at least Adams questioned life, the universe and everything and did his improbability maths, eventually coming up with the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything as 42! Perhaps Pratchett’s rocky relationship with maths makes him ignore fiddly calculations and mind-blowing telephone numbers of digits, which explain how old your twin brother will be if he has travelled at the speed of light while you grew old over 50-odd years (see Heinlein’s Time for the Stars). Probably true, as Asimov, Heinlein and Clarke all loved playing with maths.

  What Pratchett does well is play with words, approaching the mysteries of the universe from a completely different viewpoint. He looks at the absurdities that actually exist in life and takes a moment to talk about them. A good example of this in The Dark Side of the Sun is where the subject of horse racing is discussed: ‘… on Earth there was a creature called a horse. Long ago it was realised that if a number of these animals were raced over a set distance one must surely prove faster than the others, and from this there was…’ Gambling!

  Pratchett does not believe in God, but he believes in an order to the universe. He is intrigued by the absurdity of life and the creations of mankind – he is a humanist – but as he admits nowadays, he is getting a little disillusioned with mankind and his cruelty to his fellow creatures. This is detectable in The Dark Side of the Sun, just as it would be later in the Discworld series and books such as Johnny and the Dead and Nation.

  ‘They stared into the screen. On maximum magnification it showed a pyramid tumbling deceptively slowly through space, flashing faintly as starlight caught its polished faces.’

  (The Dark Side of the Sun)

  The above scene could be from any episode of the original Star Trek, another hit 1960s science fiction show of Pratchett’s acquaintance. It acts as both a parody and a tribute to genre fiction past. He would do this time and time again in the Discworld series to a lesser or greater extent.

  Personally, I believe Pratchett sums up his belief in God (or, rather, lack of it), the wider universe and the ‘quest’ of mankind in one specific quote from The Dark Side of the Sun:

  ‘Understanding is the first step towards control. We now understand probability.

  If we control it every man will be a magician. Let us then hope that this will not come to pass. For our universe is a fragile house of atoms, held together by the weak mortar of cause and effect. One magician would be two too many.’

  Charles Sub-Lunar, Cry Continuum

  (The Dark Side of the Sun)

  Towards the end of The Dark Side of the Sun, Pratchett discusses the omnipresence of God, and the possibility of man actually finding Him. He then explains that if a ‘Director of the Universe’ were actually found it would cause chaos on Earth, because: ‘He would have ceased to become a matter of comforting Belief but a matter of fact.’ Pratchett goes further and explains that mankind ‘can’t live and know of such greatness’, and he makes a very good point here. Mankind’s lust for knowledge and power would destroy itself, because the passion and panic of discovering God would cause a conflict with all variations of religion preached around the planet. (A good old conflict of interests, but who would come out on top?)

  ‘Next to her the electric toad flopped and rustled in its box; she wondered what it “ate”… Artificial flies, she decided.’

  Philip K Dick (Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?)

  There are many controlling robots and sub-levels of robot in The Dark Side of the Sun, and when one sees metallic insects, one cannot but think of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? The questioning of one’s beliefs displayed by Pratchett in his first science fiction novel is not dissimilar to the paranoia and desires and self-analysis displayed in Philip K Dick’s novel. Not that I’m suggesting that Pratchett copied the style in any way; what it illustrates is Pratchett’s ability to question the existence of a supreme being and then discuss the consequences of being confronted with Him, which was done so brilliantly by Arthur C Clarke in Childhood’s End when faced by an alien race resembling the Devil.

  ‘There was no mistake. The leathery wings, the little horns, the barbed tail – all were there. The most terrible of all legends had come to life, out of the unknown past. Yet now it stood smiling, in ebon majesty, and with a human child resting trustfully on either arm.’

  Arthur C Clarke (Childhood’s End)

  There are some nice pieces within The Dark Side of the Sun, but its heart and soul are embedded too far in the fantasy genre for it to have substance as a great science fiction novel. What it is – and where it has importance – is an exercise in what the Discworld novels won’t become. Pratchett doesn’t seem comfortable with the constraints of the science fiction novel, and he discovered that through writing this book. There are Discworld moments, such as the first mention of Hogswatch, and one can detect a fantasy novel screaming to come out, but it would take another book for Pratchett to realise that science fiction was not his genre. That would come five years later, in the more complete Strata (1981).

  Strata is an intriguing book for anyone wishing to analyse Pratchett’s life and works, because a) it predicts Discworld more fully than The Carpet People, and b) it says a little about the thinly documented job he was doing at the time.

  In 1980 Pratchett quit journalism and joined the Central Electricity Generating Board, becoming press officer for three (or four, according to Pratchett’s friend Sam Farr) nuclear power stations. He has notoriously said that he would write a book about his experiences if he thought anyone would actually believe them. Indeed, there are rumours of a character he calls Fred, who once tipped nuclear waste down the toilet and caused all sorts of problems until someone brave enough – or experienced enough – was found to clear out the plant’s septic tank. If indeed this story is true – and it probably vindicates Pratchett’s fears that no one would believe the truth if he told it – it could have repercussions in the public arena as to how safe our nuclear power stations are. Pratchett spent eight years in the job (until 1987), when he suddenly realised that he was making more money from his Discworld novels than as a press officer.

  In an online talk with the author (‘Book World’, The Washington Post), Pratchett summarised his time at the Central Electricity Generating Board: ‘Let us be clear that I was no nuclear physicist. I was a press officer for a whole slew of power stations, but it was the three nuclear sites that always got the public interest. I fear many things more than I do nuclear power, at least in the hands of the Western democracies. I was once berated by a citizen who was worried about the existence of a power plant some 30 miles from where he lived. He lived extremely close to an automobile tyre manufacturing company and I wondered if he would sleep safe in his bed if he knew all the chemicals that they used. This all segues into the global warming debate, but surely in essence it is quite simple. Either we really are Homo sapiens, in which case we should be able to think, talk and negotiate ourselves out of the problem, or we are simply still Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee. It’s time for us to use our big brains.’

  So, with this in mind, let us now take a look at Pratchett’s second – and final – science fiction novel. Strata was published in June 1981 in a print run of 3,001 copies: 2,000 copies being issued in the United States by St Martin’s Press and 1,001 in Britain under the Colin Smythe imprint. Of these, 850 copies were sold to the Readers’ Union, so the intentions for the book were modest.

  Strata opens with a man and a woman being caught by their corporation for placing a plesiosaur in the wrong stratum holding a placard, which reads ‘End Nuclear Testing Now’. Clearly, the new job was giving Pratchett some inspiration. But Strata is a more important novel than that. It is a book of discovery – for Pratchett. It’s as though you are allowed to glimpse the Eureka moment of the cre
ation of the Discworld series.

  To begin with, Strata is influenced by the great NEL science fiction paperback onslaught of the 1970s and early 1980s. You can witness influences from Heinlein, Van Vogt and Clarke, to name but three, but then the book takes a sharp turn. A Discworld with 35,000-mile-long waterfalls around it, where the sea literally falls over the edges, a bar called the Broken Drum, a whimsical magic purse that makes one think of the walking Luggage (in the very next novel) – there are many comparisons to be made, but then everything suddenly falls into place. This is due to the arrival of the character called Sphandor, who speaks in capital letters, just like Death will throughout the Discworld series. When Sphandor arrives, the banter, the fun, the effortless sending characters on their merry way to risk life and limb to do their best (or worst) are there, almost completely out of the blue.

  Strata is largely overlooked, and that’s a great shame. Just as albums such as The Man Who Sold the World and Born to Run shaped the future of rock ‘n’ roll for Bowie and Springsteen, Strata shaped the future for Terry Pratchett and ultimately the fantasy genre. It is a science fiction novel that changes genres halfway through, which is an interesting concept.

  I never find the use of swearing valid in a Terry Pratchett novel, as it conflicts with the delicacy of the humour. There is a little of it in Strata along with a little homage to the great comedian and iconoclast Spike Milligan. When one of the characters says ‘We must handle this carefully’, Kin Arad (the main character) replies ‘I like the we.’ This pays homage to the opening page of Spike’s first war biography, Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall – when the prime minister speaks on the radio and says: ‘As from 11 o’clock today we are at war with Germany.’ Spike replies: ‘I loved the WE.’