Was survival the end, and all? What about all these noble aspirations of man? How quickly he discarded them when his survival was threatened. What were they then but luxuries of a self-adulation which he practiced only when he could safely afford it?
How was man superior to the goonie? Because he conquered it? Had he conquered it? Through my ranching, there were many more goonies on Libo now than when man had first arrived. The goonie did our work, we slaughtered it for our meat. But it multiplied and throve.
The satisfactions of pushing other life-forms around? We could do it. But wasn’t it a pretty childish sort of satisfaction? Nobody knew where the goonie came from, there was no evolutionary chain to account for him here on Libo; and the pal tree on which he depended was unlike any other kind of tree on Libo. Those were important reasons for thinking I was right. Had the goonie once conquered the universe, too? Had it, too, found it good to push other life-forms around? Had it grown up with the universe, out of its childish satisfactions, and run up against the basic question: Is there really anything beyond survival, itself, and if so, what? Had it found an answer, an answer so magnificent that it simply didn’t matter that man worked it, slaughtered it, as long as he multiplied it?
And would man, someday, too, submit willingly to a new, arrogant, brash young life-form—in the knowledge that it really didn’t matter? But what was the end result of knowing nothing mattered except static survival?
To hell with the problems of man, let him solve them. What about yourself, MacPherson? What are you trying to avoid? What won’t you face?
To the rest of man the goonie is an unintelligent animal, fit only for labor and food. But not to me. If I am right, the rest of man is wrong—and I must believe I am right. I know.
And tomorrow is slaughtering day.
I can forgive the psychologist his estimation of the goonie. He’s trapped in his own rigged slot machine. I can forgive the Institute, for it is, must be, dedicated to the survival, the superiority, of man. I can forgive the Company— it must show a profit to its stockholders or go out of business. All survival, all survival. I can forgive man, because there’s nothing wrong with wanting to survive, to prove that you can do it.
And it would be a long time before man had solved enough of his whole survival problem to look beyond it.
But I had looked beyond it. Had the goonie, the alien goonie, looked beyond it? And seen what? What had it seen that made anything we did to it not matter?
We could, in clear conscience, continue to use it for food only so long as we judged it by man’s own definitions, and thereby found it unintelligent. But I knew now that there was something beyond man’s definition.
All right. I’ve made my little pile. l can retire, go away. Would that solve anything? Someone else would simply take my place. Would I become anything more than the dainty young thing who lifts a bloody dripping bite of steak to her lips, but shudders at the thought of killing anything?
Suppose I started all over, on some other planet, forgot the goonie, wiped it out of my mind, as humans do when they find reality unpleasant. Would that solve anything? If there are definitions of intelligence beyond man’s own, would I not merely be starting all over with new scenes, new creatures, to reach the same end?
Suppose I deadened my thought to reality, as man is wont to do? Could that be done? Could the question once asked, and never answered, be forgotten? Surely other men have asked the question: What is the purpose of survival if there is no purpose beyond survival?
Have any of the philosophies ever answered it? Yes, we’ve speculated on the survival of the ego after the flesh, that ego so overpoweringly precious to us that we cannot contemplate its end—but survival of ego to what purpose?
Was this the fence across our path? The fence so alien that we tore ourselves to pieces trying to get over it, go through it?
Had the goonies found a way around it, an answer so alien to our kind of mind that what we did to them, how we used them, didn’t matter—so long as we did not destroy them all? I had said they did not initiate, did not create, had no conscience—not by man’s standards. But by their own? How could I know? How could I know?
Go out to the stars, young man, and grow up with the universe!
All right! We’re out there!
What now, little man?
* * * *
ME by Hilbert Schenck, Jr.
from Fantasy and Science Fiction
* * * *
Me
I think that I shall never see
A calculator made like me.
A me that likes Martinis dry
And on the rocks, a little rye.
A me that looks at girls and such,
But mostly girls, and very much.
A me that wears an overcoat
And likes a risky anecdote.
A me that taps a foot and grins
Whenever Dixieland begins.
They make computers for a fee,
But only moms can make a me.
* * * *
THE YEAR’S S-F A Summary
I should not like to have it thought, from my earlier comments, that I take exception to everything Kingsley Amis says. On one point at least I am very much in agreement with him, and that is the urgent need for a new name for this field.
Not to carry the sweetness and light too far—his feeling that “ ‘Science fiction’ is every day losing some of its appropriateness as a name for science fiction,” seems to me typical of his failure to understand what science fiction is— but for quite different reasons, I do share his conclusions.
* * * *
The Sunday Herald Tribune, a few weeks ago, published a longish and most favorable review which began:
“This is a curious and original and very serious book, and it will be so satisfactory to the right reader that I think a warning is in order: though the action takes place in the future, and though a space ship takes off on the final page, this should not be confused with what is usually called science fiction...What he has really written is a highly imaginative, and basically joyous, celebration of humankind’s instinct to keep going.”
The book under discussion was Walter M. Miller, Jr.’s A Canticle for Liebowitz (Lippincott, 1959), the work of a skilled, experienced, popular s-f author, first published as a series of long novelettes in Fantasy and Science Fiction.
Now “science-fiction” books by science-fiction authors are simply not reviewed seriously in the major critical outlets. (These days, they are rarely reviewed at all.) But the canny jacketeers at Lippincott have gotten around this taboo several times now by the simple expedient of not labeling their books as s-f. In this case they went a step further: the jacket flap biography explains that Mr. Miller “compromised between art and engineering by writing science-fiction, until this, his first novel.” (My italics—J.M.)
Then they took care to plaster the jacket with quotes from “respectable literary” names—all clearly “non-science-fiction” people, except the acceptable exception, Bradbury— saying, “It falls into no genre, certainly not science fiction,” and “It is not, really, a ‘futuristic’ novel.” (Plus one from old friend Amis, who says, “... a serious and imaginative novel....”)
Thus freed of the Curse of the Tag, an excellent novel became eligible for consideration on the level on which it was written—instead of the usual fast paragraph at the space-opera stand.
Well, if this is what it takes to persuade “literary” folk to read a good book and enjoy it—down with “science fiction,” sez I. Let’s have a new label. Or none at all. Who knows? That way, Sturgeon might outsell Pat Frank.
* * * *
I should confess here, also, that I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Amis. The wildly improbable circulation figures he quotes in his book led me to get down to a long-postponed job of research on the cross-the-counter condition of health of what we still do call science fiction—and I emerged unexpectedly reassured.
Last year I reported here th
at the number of magazine titles in the combined fantasy and s-f fields had dropped from twenty-one to ten. As of the start of 1960, we are down two more, to eight titles—less than at any time since before the big boom of the early fifties—since 1946, to be exact. But—
Of these eight titles, six are monthlies, and two bimonthly. In 1945-46, with eight titles, there was an average of four magazines a month issued; now there are seven. In 1949, when there were also seven magazines a month on the stands, they comprised 17 titles. In the peak year for s-f magazine publishing, 1953, there were four times as many titles as now—but only twice as many magazines.
It would be easy—and gratifying—to adduce from this that the publications surviving today are the solid, sound, worthy ones: to some degree it must even be true. But to generalize from that to the notion that “science fiction is maturing” (which I keep hearing, hopefully) would be inaccurate. The reason for all these healthy-looking regular monthly magazines has virtually nothing to do with either publishers or buyers; it is the work of the distributors, who last year began putting pressure on the publishers to go monthly or quit. Two who tried to make twelve books a year pay off, failed; two others “suspended” indefinitely without trying.
There is then less cause for alarm than one might think, but small cause for joy either, in the condition of the specialty magazines. In two other fields, however, s-f is thriving: paperback books, and general fiction magazines.
For the past five years the number of paperback books in the combined fantasy and science-fiction fields has held to a remarkably steady all-time high of 70 to 80 per year. From the looks of things, it will rise sharply this year. In short, we may expect more individual paperback books than issues of magazines this year—but the fact is that for the past two or three years, p-bs have been outselling magazines in total quantity. 60,000 copies is an exceptionally good circulation for an s-f magazine these days, I understand; but very few book publishers will issue a p-b without being able to sell at least that many. The average paperback sale is probably somewhere between 90 and 100 thousand.
In the first volume of S-F, reporting on 1955, I pointed out with some pride that as many as 50 or 60 s-f stories had appeared in “slick,” quality, and other non-s-f magazines. Last year more than that number was accounted for in the “Playboy-type” magazines alone. With what appeared in the slick and quality magazines, there were, I should estimate, upward of 200 stories (fantasy and s-f) published in non-s-f periodicals in 1959—equal to the contents of at least three more full digest-size magazines, but with circulations (in many cases) in the hundreds, instead of tens, of thousands.
Granted that most of this non-specialty material is of low quality—so far. So was most of the stuff in Amazing and Wonder in the early ‘thirties. It’s being bought by editors who don’t know the field, and often as not from writers not much better informed. (As witness: Jack Kerouac’s pretentious “City,” in Nugget.)
But it is being bought and printed. S-f—or whatever we don’t call it—is being read and enjoyed more widely than ever before.
The new popular interest in what is still best described as “science-fiction thinking” is evidenced, again, in the really enormous quantity of speculative non-fiction appearing on all sides. As with the fiction in the unfamiliar media, much of this wordage is only by courtesy of subject matter “speculative,” and when a generally thoughtful or imaginative piece does appear, it is immediately rehashed in a dozen other publications till the last drop of new-think has been squeezed out of it. But the titles alone indicate the latent interest on the part of the mass readership:
“This Is Living in 2000,” appeared in Newsweek a few months ago. The title approximates Gernsback’s old series in the Air Wonder of the ‘twenties, and the subject matter (subheadings—”Ersatz Coffee,” “Climate Control,” and “Mining the Ocean Floor”) was not much fresher to hardened old readers of s-f. To Newsweek readers it was ahead of the news. About the same time (the turn of the decade) The New York Times Magazine published “Brave World of the Year 2000,” and This Week produced a pushbutton-happy two pages called “Get Set for the Happy New Decade.” And Esquire, in its fat gold Christmas issue for 1959, included an article by David Schoenbrun called “1960: Birth of a Century,” which was as thoughtful and comprehensive a piece of extrapolative writing as one would wish to see these days.
Then there were the “Adventures of the Mind” series in The Saturday Evening Post; the series of articles on ESP, space travel, and chemical warfare, in Harper’s; and the increasingly fruitful “SR/Research—Science and Humanity” monthly section in the Saturday Review.
People—the general public—are getting used to the idea that hurt so hard when the first Sputnik blew the roof off: that there is precious little we know, and precious much to be learned; and that science is a method—not an authority.
Because the academicians, politicians, and spokesmen in general always learn more slowly (being already so stuffed with knowledge), it may seem that this kind of “s-f thinking” is making slow headway; but watch the cartoons in your newspaper or weekly magazine—listen to the new gags— check the number of fantasy or s-f themes in TV shows—in pop songs—
That mass readership is going to be ready for good (but don’t call it) science fiction sooner than most of us have believed.
* * * *
The changes in this year’s S-F are obvious—or some of them are. The title, date of publication, size, and price, you’ll have noticed by now; also the dropping of the controversial special non-fiction section. There will be more changes next year, I hope; this year, the change in publishing arrangements came too late to do much about adding some of the material I hope to use hereafter.
Special mentions for 1959, besides those regularly included in the short-story honor roll, should be given:
For verse and poetry: to F&SF, especially the contributions by Hilbert Schenck, Jr., and Gordon Dickson; and to Prof. Theodore R. Cogswell and his confrères in the Publications of the Institute of Twenty-First Century Studies.
For novels in the magazines: to Gordon Dickson’s explosive “Dorsai!” (Ast, May-July), Everett E. Cole’s “The Best Made Plans,” (Ast, Nov.-Dec.); and the magazine version of Pat Frank’s “Alas, Babylon” (Good Housekeeping, March).
For novels in book form: to Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan (Dell); John Brunner’s Echo In the Skull (Ace); and Theodore Sturgeon’s Cosmic Rape (Dell).
For the short story reprints in the Kornbluth Marching Morons (Ballantine); Sturgeon’s Aliens 4 (Avon); and Anthony Boucher’s giant two-volume anthology, A Treasury of Great Science Fiction (Doubleday).
And above all, for well-worded clear thinking about the troubles, needs, and satisfactions of the (science fiction?) field, the volume, The Science Fiction Novel (Advent), edited by Basil Davenport, and with papers by Robert A. Heinlein, C. M. Kornbluth, Alfred Bester, and Robert Bloch.
—J. M.
* * * *
The Year's Best Science Fiction 5 Page 33
