The youthful E. E. Smith logged in the winter, swamped brush, felled trees, worked in sawmills, did stretches as a lumberjack, and floated lumber down the river. His grammar school education was in the Spokane schools and he began high school at Priest River, five miles from home, where he was regarded as an outsider by the other children and had to pulverize every other boy in the school pugilistically to achieve minimal toleration, let alone friendship.
There might have been no education beyond that had the father been less of an emotional disciplinarian. The break came at the age of 18 in a near-violent disagreement over the fine points of fertilizing a potato field with a load of manure. Young E. E. stormed off to Spokane for a brief stint as a conductor on a horse-drawn streetcar.
There had been great closeness and affection between E. E., his two brothers, and his two sisters. His older brother, Daniel, soon teamed up with him to haul asphalt for a street-paving job. The profits from this enterprise, together with contributions from his older sister Rachel, were used to send him to prep school at the University of Idaho.
After the first year, he decided he wanted to be a civil engineer. At the age of 19, he helped run a railroad line north from Belton, Montana, into Canada, but seven months of life in the wilderness changed his mind about civil engi-neering. He went to work in a mine to get enough money to re-enter school. One night he awoke in his room on the fourth floor of a boarding house to find that his bed was afire. In a single convulsive leap he was out through the window, sash and all. He broke five ribs and a leg, but the worst damage was to his wrist, which couldn't be used for a year and hurt for ten years more. Manual labor was now out of the question and home he came.
The resourceful brother, Daniel, soon afterward emerged from a Saturday-night-to-Monday-morning poker game with the pot, $310.50 in winnings. "You," he said, gesturing at E. E., "with your gimpy wing can't earn much. Take this money and go back to college." Not only sister Rachel, but sister Mary Elizabeth, as well, sent money to help him through.
Their confidence was justified. Majoring in chemical engi-neering, he secured a junior year scholarship for the highest scholastic rating. The schedule called for 160 credits to graduate and he got "A" in all 160
credits. Before gradua-tion, he had taken a civil service examination for junior chemist in Washington, D.C., and had been offered the posi-tion. He had no money, so Daniel, who was now working as a railroad clerk, collected $150 in five minutes from his fellow employees for the fare.
There was one piece of unfinished business to take care of before he left. During his senior year, roommate Allan MacDougall had shown him pictures of a sister, Jeanne Craig MacDougall, back in Boise, Idaho. Bowled over, Smith started a correspondence with her. He went to Washington, D. C, via Boise, where he met Jeanne for the first time. He discov-ered that a contributing reason for the superlative photos of her was that Jeanne worked as a photographer's model. They were engaged within 10 minutes of their meeting.
Working for the U.S. Bureau of Standards in Washington, D.C., Smith helped establish tolerances on the weight of commercially sold butter. He established standards for oys-ters in New England in a laboratory on the prow of a ship at the price of perpetual seasickness. By the fall of 1915 he had saved enough money to marry and bring his wife to Washing-ton, D.C. It appeared, though, that his ambition of obtaining a doctorate would have to be sacrificed to the responsibility of supporting a family. But Jeanne went to work as a stenographer to help out, and in 1919 he got his Ph.D. from George Washington University. Smith's writing career started at a men's smoker in 1915. It was a hot, humid night and a discussion ensued with a former classmate of his, Carl D. Garby, Ph.D., who now lived across the hall from him, on what the temperature was in outer space. Others present contributed their ideas on the subject. That night, Carl told his wife, Lee Hawkins Garby, about the conversation. She thought the idea was intriguing and urged Smith to write a story based on it. He was dubious because he felt a story had to have love interest and he doubted his ability to handle that part of the plot. She suggested a collaboration in which Smith handled the science and action and the love element could be left to her.
It wasn't necessary to twist Smith's arm too hard to get him to agree. A regular reader of argosy, he was particularly fond of that magazine's science fiction. In book form, he cherished everything published of H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, H. Rider Haggard, Edgar Allan Poe, and Edgar Rice Bur-roughs. Beyond that, his reading enthusiasms included poetry, philosophy, ancient and medieval history, and all of English literature.
The two worked at the novel industriously through 1915 and 1916, finishing about one-third of it. Then interest waned, and the work was put aside.
At the end of the war Smith became chief chemist for F. W. Stock & Sons, Hillsdale, Michigan, a position he was to occupy until 1936. His specialty was the infant field of doughnut mixes, the formulation of which is regarded as a specialized art by cereal chemists.
One evening late in 1919, bored with baby sitting while Jeanne was out to a movie, he took up the unfinished novel and continued where it had been left off. He kept Garby informed about his progress, but wrote the remainder of the story himself, including the love interest. In the spring of 1920, the completed story began to make the rounds of the publishers.
The consistency of rejections was ego-shattering. The only encouragement he received in eight years of submissions was a three-page letter from Bob Davis, editor of argosy, in 1922. Davis liked the story immensely, but felt it was just too "far out" to be accepted by his readership.
"Every" book publisher in the country had a look at the manuscript and turned it down. Whenever a new magazine appeared, Smith hopefully sent it out. Finally, one day he picked up the April, 1927, amazing stories at a newsstand, read a few pages on the spot of the first story, The Plague of the Living Dead, by A. Hyatt Verrill, dashed home, got the manuscript, and mailed it out.
Editor T. O'Conor Sloane replied with high enthusiasm and a low offer of $75 for the 90,000 word novel. Smith accepted (though he had spent more than that on postage through the years), but by the time the novel appeared, amazing stories had examined its conscience and a check arrived for $125. He split the sum with Mrs. Garby and The Skylark of Space was published as a collaboration. The first installment had not been on sale a month when Sloane wrote asking for a sequel. Mrs. Garby wasn't inter-ested in participating further, so Smith started on his own.
The sequel, Skylark Three, was in every sense a continuation of the first novel. As science fiction it was also a better novel. The story was unified and the pace sustained. Most important, Smith showed that, whatever his weaknesses at dialogue and love interest, his ability to develop suspenseful action grippingly on a cosmic scale was limited only by the scope of his imagination. He was probably the only writer alive who could weave a thousand words of scientific explanation into a battle scene and not slow the pace for an instant.
Skylark Three, upon its appearance in the August, Septem-ber, and October, 1930, issues of amazing stories, did more than even its predecessor to change the paraphernalia of science fiction. Tremendous battles of conflicting forces with an assortment of offensive rays and defensive force screens were popularized by the new novel. Spaceships miles in length and a fabulous array of bizarre aliens which justified the novel's subtitle: "The tale of the galactic cruise which ushered in universal civilization," became standard science-fiction fare. Science-fiction writers would never again be bound to their solar system. Smith had sold all rights to The Skylark of Space but he released only magazine privileges for its sequel, amazing stories voluntarily paid him 3/4 of a cent a word for that second story, 1/4 of a cent more per word than they had paid any author up to that time.
The Skylark stories had been carried as far as Smith planned, and he now proceeded on what he thought would be a new series. The Spacehounds of IPC began in the July, 1931, issue of amazing stories, before the letter column had ceased ringing the praises of Skylark Th
ree. It was an excit-ing, imaginative story depicting space battles, stupendous scientific discovery, and ingeniously conceived alien intelli-gences, every bit as good and as well-sustained as Skylark Three. It even predicted the ion drive for spaceships decades before Herman Oberth proposed it in radio electronics magazine in the early fifties. Nevertheless, letters tem-pered praise with protest because Smith had stayed within the confines of our solar system in the development of the story. Editor Sloane sided with the readers and made a point of suggesting that Smith make the setting of his next story far out in the Milky Way.
Smith was angered at Sloane, not only for the reprimand but for unauthorized changes in the published story, so when Harry Bates, editor of Clayton's astounding stories, dan-gled the carrot of 2 cents a word on acceptance for first look at his next story, he agreed. A sequel to The Spacehounds of IPC was now impossible, since the new story must be offered to a competing magazine. Instead, Smith wrote Triplanetary, a novel of the unified worlds of Earth, Mars, and Venus attacked by an amphibian menace from a distant star. Though much of the action appeared to advance the plot but little, Smith's writing had improved over even The Spacehounds of IPC and he had once again ventured out into far places, so the story was great fun. Scientifically, it introduced the notion of the "inertialess" drive to attain speeds faster than light, which while not provable, cannot be disproved and therefore is considered the best device ever proposed to conquer the light-speed limit.
The problem here turned out to be with the market. By the time Smith submitted Triplanetary to astounding stories, that magazine had become a bimonthly and was paying on publication instead of acceptance. An announcement that the story was forthcoming appeared in its January, 1933, issue, and the cover illustration of the March, 1933, number (the last under the Clayton chain's ownership) was taken from a situation in Triplanetary. But the company was being dis-banded so the manuscript was returned to Smith.
Still not talking to amazing stories, he decided to give wonder stories a look at Triplanetary. To his humiliation, he not only received a rejection, but the editor, Charles D. Hornig, later bragged about it in an article titled Stories We Reject—in the science fiction fan magazine fantasy maga-zine (December, 1934-January, 1935). Now there was no alternative but to submit Triplanetary to amazing, by whom it was accepted and published in four parts beginning with the January, 1934, number; but Smith's rates were ignominiously dropped to a half-cent a word.
Further to embitter his cup of hemlock, shortly after the sale to amazing, Smith received a letter from F. Orlin Tremaine, new editor of astounding stories, which had been bought and revived by Street & Smith Publications in the interim, offering a cent a word for Triplanetary. When Tremaine learned that it was already scheduled for amazing stories, he suggested a third story in the Skylark series. All winter of 1933-4, Smith worked away on The Skylark of Valeron. With each succeeding chapter, the concepts grew increasingly grandiose. In over his head, the story out of his control, Smith collected his first draft, typed on an assorted mass of pink, blue, and white sheets of paper, and sent it to Tremaine with a distraught note explaining that he couldn't handle the theme and would welcome any suggestions. Tremaine wrote to say that he had only one suggestion: that Smith cash the enclosed check for $850. What happened then makes one of the most remarkable chapters in the history of science-fiction magazine publishing. Tremaine, a crack editorial hand, veteran of top posts at smart set, true story, and the Clayton pulp chain, had been building a dramatic and exciting new team of authors. The Smith name was just what he needed. The full-page editorial in the June, 1934, astounding stories was titled "The Skylark."
"For six long years, readers of science fiction have talked about the 'Skylark' stories," it began. "They have been called the greatest science fiction ever written. There were two, you remember, both pointing toward a culminating story which never appeared. . . . The Skylark of Valeron starts in the August issue of astounding stories!"
Not only did the editorial cover a full page, but there was another three-quarter-page announcement of the virtues of The Skylark of Valeron in the same issue. The following month, he announced that a new type style would increase wordage by 25,000 so readers would get the "Skylark" in addition to everything else. He exhorted each reader to introduce one new friend to astounding. "We have kept faith with you," he told the readers, "now you keep faith with us."
They did. The circulation of astounding stories leaped 10,000 with the first installment of The Skylark of Valeron (which ran in no less than seven parts) and the magazine showed a profit for the first time in its history. Before the novel was finished, both competitors, amazing and wonder, were financially on the ropes. Within a year, the two of them were skipping issues. Eventually they had to sell out. As much as he accomplished for himself, Tremaine accom-plished even more for Smith. Great as had been Smith's reputation after Skylark Three, it was incomparably greater now. But Smith was unable to take immediate advantage of the situation. Personal problems interfered with his writing. Though he was one of the few doughnut mix specialists in America (running a $5,000,000
annual doughnut mix busi-ness) he found after years of effort there was a low ceiling on his salary. He shifted to Dawn Doughnut, Jackson, Michi-gan, in January, 1936, on a salary plus share-of-the-profit arrangement. To get his new firm out of the red, he worked 18 hours a day, seven days a week, for almost a year, even designing new machinery to implement his plans. Once the company was over the hump, he sat down and wrote an 80-page outline for a 400,000-word novel divided into four segments: Galactic Patrol, The Grey Lensman, Second Stage Lensman, and Children of the Lens. He actually wrote the last chapter of Children of the Lens after completing the rough draft of Galactic Patrol. This outline was submitted to Tre-maine, who told him to go ahead; he would buy the entire package. Galactic Patrol (astounding stories, September, 1937, to February, 1938) shares with Olaf Stapledon's The Star Mak-er (published earlier in 1937) the distinction of popularizing the "community of worlds" or galactic empire backdrop in science fiction. Edmond Hamilton had presented the idea eight years earlier, but Smith and Stapledon appear to have brought its potentialities into focus. The Galactic Patrol is an interstellar police force organized to combat the piracy and lawlessness threatening the struc-ture of galactic civilization. Behind the scenes, dimly seen, are prime movers. The Arisians, whose spores, projected through the galaxy, caused life to form in their image on many worlds, manipulate events for good. The Eddorians, creatures from another space continuum, in their lust for power are the cause of most ills. Good and evil are sharply defined and the battle is joined. While the allegory seems obvious, the device of the prime mover shows up in a slightly more sophisticated form in a number of A. E. van Vogt's novels, including Slan, The Weapon Shops, and World of A. The idea of a prime mover is implied in references to a Second Foundation in Isaac Asimov's stories. These are but two of many authors who demonstrate that Smith has been influential on several levels, shaping not only the background but the plot structure of modern science fiction. Kimball Kinnison is the hero of the novels that would become known as the "Lensman" series. The lensmen are a group of men and women from many worlds, trained to mental and physical attainment so high as to mark them as the beginning of a superior race. Ultimately, through selec-tive mating, they will achieve a point of development where they can replace the Arisians as guardians of the galaxy. The lens itself is a communication device worn on the wrist of a lensman, so attuned to the personality of the wearer that it is virtually artificially alive. If worn by anyone but its owner it proves deadly. The Grey Lensman is probably best of the series, with Galactic Patrol running it a close second. When Fantasy Press decided to publish all of Smith's works in hard covers, he rewrote Triplanetary, adding six chapters in the process, to make it part of the series. Several of the new chapters, each of which is a complete story in itself, are quite as good as anything Smith ever did, but the interpolation of Arisian and Eddorian influences into the
body of the original Triplan-etary removes much of the zest from the work. Writing Triplanetary into the series made necessary a bridge novel, The First Lensman, to link it with Galactic Patrol. The First Lensman was published in hardcover by Fantasy Press in 1950, never appearing in magazine form. It deals vividly with the events that required the organization of a Galactic Patrol and the training experiences of the first lensman.
It was partially because serialization of The Grey Lensman in astounding science-fiction began in October, 1939, that Edward E. Smith, was invited to be guest of honor at the Second World Science Fiction Convention, held in Chi-cago, September 1 and 2, 1940. Few of his audience listening to him deliver a speech on "What Does This Convention Mean?" in the style of the most active and rabid science-fiction fan, realized that Smith was in trouble. Because of the war, any company selling products containing sugar and flour needed no formulation specialist, least of all one who re-ceived a percentage of the profits. Smith found himself out of a job. He tried to do some writing, but couldn't seem to con-centrate. Meanwhile, he lived on his savings.
Seekers of Tomorrow Page 2
