Harry Harrison! Harry Harrison!

by Harry Harrison

  The money wasn’t exactly rolling in, but we kept our heads above the water. The Anglia worked as well in the snows of Denmark as it had in the deserts of Mexico—though it needed a little TLC. A blanket over the hood at night kept in the heat from the kerosene heater under the sump. A few turns of the hand crank in the morning, to loosen the oil, and away it went.

  And I was still writing Flash Gordon strips (I did the daily and Sunday scripts for ten very long years) which meant that I could turn my back on the men’s adventure and confession magazines and be a full-time science fiction writer. Probably only the second one in the world at these pre-boom times; Bob Heinlein was the other. (Every other SF writer edited, taught school, worked at some other job—or lived off his wife.) The money from the Flash Gordon scripts was just about enough to pay the rent, plus a bit of the food bill. It took me about three months to write a year’s worth of scripts; which meant I had nine months annually to write SF. Dan Barry and I kept in touch by mail and in person when it could be arranged. He had left Capri not long after us, had upgraded his Škoda for a Mercedes, and Kitzbühel was the proper place for him. He drove to Denmark for a visit; we stopped off in Kitzbühel on the way to Italy in the summer.

  Looking back through the telescope of time I am amazed at the amount of work I got done—and the busy life we led on what was a very small income. Of course we spent every cent as it came in. Americans living abroad were exempt from United States income tax up to some impossible figure like fifty thousand dollars a year. If I made five thousand it was a good year. I developed a specialty of avoiding excessive income tax and, best of all, the dollar was strong in those days. We went to Italy in the summer; I took the typewriter and banged out my Flash Gordon scripts. We even managed some skiing trips to Norway in the winter. We traveled overnight on the ferry from Copenhagen, the four of us in a compartment well below the waterline with ice floes banging along the hull outside as we made our way up the fjord to Oslo. Then we took the train to Lillehammer or Donbos and seven nights there, with full room and board. A week later we took the ferry home. Today’s skiers will see a lot of dollar signs rolling by when they estimate the cost of this trip. In the early ’60s it was one hundred dollars, all-in, for an adult, including ferry, train, hotel, and meals. Half price for children, or three hundred dollars for a family’s weeklong skiing holiday.

  We made one trip to Lillehammer at Christmastime on a Christmas Special that was really fun. Santa came in a horse-drawn sleigh with gifts for all the kids. The ski instructors took care of all ages. Moira was just starting to learn with miniskis—like all the others in her class. And no ski poles! Eye-poking was out. And I did admire the young instructor’s sorting-out technique. When one of them fell—not far to go!—she would grab them by the back of the collar—then lift and shake. Eventually skis, arms, and legs came right and she put the ski-let back on the ground.

  Every room was taken, every table full with a mixed clientele of Norwegians and Danes. After hundreds of years of Danish occupation Norwegian sounds very much like Danish. So we all talked away in our own language and had a wonderful time.

  To complete the international scene the waitresses were English, student nurses hired in to fill the seasonal gap. All went well with these international arrangements until one evening in the middle of dinner. The nurses were talking to each other—and the last thing they were expecting to find was a bilingual four-year-old. They talked in English about the evening meal and they were overheard. A moment later a terrible cry of pain went up—

  “Jeg vil ikke spise Bambi!”

  I won’t eat Bambi!

  A moment later and a concerted cry of agony went up from the united non–Bambi eaters. There were parental pleadings, the thud of an occasional blow. We shrunk in our seats. Eventually the screams died down and peace was restored but it was definitely our daughter’s day.

  In addition to all the fun and games there was the work—and I was writing like fury. Only SF now, and selling everything that I wrote. A novel every year, hopefully serial rights sold to John W. Campbell before book rights. My third novel was serialized as Sense of Obligation in Astounding in 1963, and a year later by Bantam with a jazzier title, Planet of the Damned. In those days not only didn’t the author have the right to pick the title of a book—but many times never knew the title until the book was published.

  Deathworld had worked very well and a companion volume with the same cast of characters seemed very much in order. I wrote it at the usual sixty thousand words—to be broken into a three-part serial. John bought it and titled it The Ethical Engineer. I was happy indeed when Bantam bought the paperback rights and, after much suffering, and first considering bringing it out as Planet of the Slaves, they published it as Deathworld 2. Deathworld 3 was written and sold on the same terms. All four of these first novels—the Rat book and the Deathworlds—were fast-paced, futuristic action adventures.

  I even did a bit of ghostwriting. Hans Stefan Santesson made me an offer I did not want to refuse. He was editor of The Saint magazine and they were inaugurating a new department. “We’re going to start reviewing new detective novels. Are you interested in writing the reviews under Leslie’s name?” I surely was. A regular supply of new thrillers to read, a short review of the good ones under Leslie Charteris’s name, a small check to cash. Plus a smaller check from a bookseller who bought the still-mint book.

  I had ghostwritten plenty of fiction—and nonfiction—so was no stranger to this kind of supernatural writing. Writing the reviews was fun and my work with Leslie expanded. There was also a syndicated Saint comic strip and, considering my comic background, I began writing the scripts as well. The stories were quite long, up to twelve weeks, just about enough plot and action for a complete novel. I soon discovered the open secret that a French translator was expanding each comic story to novel length, in French.

  This relationship continued for a number of years—until the syndicate killed the strip. Leslie—with good reason—was grumpy over the decision. I agreed with the syndicate—although I did not say so out loud. The stories were just too long to keep the comics readers’ attention. Leslie and his wife, Audrey, were living in Windsor Great Park at the time. When I visited London on business he invited me for dinner at a very good restaurant in nearby Maidenhead. (He was ever a good host—and always picked up the tab.)

  We had been working ahead on the comic and an outline for the next adventure was well plotted out. With the comic strip dead it would be a shame if all this work went to waste. It was then that Leslie asked me if I could write a Saint novel from the plot—in English!—to ghostwrite a novel for him. This took some thinking about. I had ghosted a lot of things in the past—but never a novel. It was something new for me, if not for Leslie, since the last Saint novels had been ghostwritten. It would be cash-on-the-line and no credit for the writing given.

  I talked to Joan about it and we soon nodded in agreement. We could use the cash—and I had plenty of writing credits for my SF novels now getting into print. Thus began Vendetta for the Saint. My debut mystery novel; always start at the top, I say. And it really was fun to do. I bought all the Saint books I could find and had a massive read-in. Leslie wrote simple, declarative prose, which would be no problem to emulate. Nor did he tend toward the purple—which would be a pleasure after my labors at the galley oars of confessions. And I could use the same descriptive phrases: the Saint’s “teak fist” and “teak brown fist” did manage to mash many a villain’s jaw. He was a good, solid commercial writer and a ghost job should present no problems.

  Thankfully his politics did not have to be dealt with, because his firm stance was somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan. My faded liberal beliefs presented the worst kind of commie liberal—which he often told me I was. Leslie did not like Italy or things Italian; I had lived there and loved the place, which worked out fine. The Saint was a great traveler so this Italian trip filled in a possible gap.

  Writing a book—particularly
a ghosted book—is not easy. Problems in story come up which entail story conferences. This was always fun with Leslie, since they involved meeting at a new restaurant each time. There were gustatory failures—Leslie had heard that a new hotel at Heathrow Airport had an excellent restaurant. We went, we ate: it was terrible. And it was always a pleasure hearing Leslie telling the manager just what was wrong with the meal. He was a good cook, wrote a restaurant column, and really knew his beans. As recompense later in the week we went to the carvery at the Piccadilly Hotel in London, which proved an excellent feast.

  Our working relationship lasted a good many years and covered many countries. Circumstance found us both in New York City in 1965 when the World’s Fair opened there. There was a brand-new Thai restaurant that Leslie had to try out; Joan and I joined them. It was very ethnic with clanking gamelan music in the background, the waiters all wearing Thai longyis. An aperitif to start, of course, and we raised our glasses in a toast.

  “Salud—or skol—doesn’t fit in here,” he said.

  “Or nazdarovya.”

  We had to know.

  “Waiter,” Leslie said to the olive-skinned attendant. “What kind of a drinking toast do you use in Thai?” The waiter stopped and frowned. “I don’t know, sir, I’m a Puerto Rican myself.”

  I would like to say that we fared better, linguistically, in France. It was the summer in Cannes and boiling hot. I, and my family, had traveled south from Denmark and were staying in the Pension Esperanto on a hill above the city. We soon discovered that the Esperantist who had founded the pension was long vanished and the present owner only spoke an incomprehensible Provençal dialect. Luckily his wife was from Madrid so our Mexican went down very well.

  With the arrival of the cocktail hour I joined Leslie in the super-posh Georges V Hotel on la Croisette. He was waiting in the cool bar. “What do you usually drink in France at this hour?” he asked.

  “Dubonnet.”

  “Filthy stuff. You can’t really like it.”

  “I don’t.”

  His quick temper flared. “Then why on Earth do you drink it?”

  “Because I really like a digestif called Byrrh but whenever I order it I get a beer.”

  He sighed tremulously at my linguistic failing. “The accent, you must always watch the accent in French and you’ll stay out of trouble.” He made sure that I could hear the difference between be-AIR and b-rrrr. Then demonstrated how it should be done. “Garçon, s’il vous plait. Je voudrais un Campari avec un Byrrh.”

  I did my best to remain invisible when the waiter brought the Campari—and a glass of beer.

  * * *

  I was very pleased when Anthony Boucher wrote a review for The New York Times calling Vendetta for the Saint the best Saint novel yet. There was plenty of action—and a plot, for a change. So in addition to being a science fiction novelist I was now a detective novelist as well.

  In the back of my mind there was a book of a totally different kind itching to get out—my army novel. I loathed—and still loathe—the military, the military mind, and everything to do with militarism. This wasn’t any abstract feeling, but something that had grown stronger every year that I had spent in the service. Although I hated the army I had done my job very well. I was a sergeant when I got out of the army—and I hated it all the more. I had read all the relevant and satiric military novels, back to Candide and up to the Erich Maria Remarque books. Also Good Soldier, Schweik—and then, in 1962, I read Catch-22 when it was published.

  This was it, the clue I needed. Black humor and surrealism, that was the way to write about war. The realistic war novelists had shed gallons of blood, hung miles of entrails from the trees—and had said “shit” and “fuck” so often that the reader was bludgeoned and numb. This was going to be a new writing experience for me, and a disquieting one. I was a writer of action and adventure. At least that was the only kind of fiction I had written and sold so far. But I reminded myself that I was also a novelist who had sold five books. I experimented. I wrote the opening chapter of a never-to-be-written novel entitled If You Can Read This You Are Too Damn Close. I thought it was new and funny—and the technique sure was experimental. Joan read it and agreed.

  What next? Of all the editors that I knew, only Damon Knight was interested in the avant-garde in writing. Why, hadn’t he spelled his name “damon knight” for years, in the style of e. e. cummings? And wasn’t Damon now working as consulting editor to Berkley Books, buying SF for them? I would do it! I wrote some character sketches and a rough outline for my planned novel, gave it the title Bill, the Galactic Hero, bundled it up with the Too Damn Close copy, and sent it off to him.

  Damon liked it. On the strength of the copy and outline he extracted a contract and a $1,500 advance from Berkley, $750 on signing and the balance on delivery. Only $750 for a year’s work? My spirits sank when I realized I was going to tie up all that time writing a book that might not even sell. My last novel had been serialized in Astounding and published by Bantam and had brought in $3,700. But reality had to be faced. There was no possibility of submitting the planned novel as a serial for Astounding. John Campbell and I got along very well, but our politics were light-years apart. With no serial sale in sight—and the chance the new book would be bounced as unsuitable—we were on the way to the poorhouse if I did not change my mind. I was about to write a novel that, if accepted, would earn $1,500 for a year’s work. If it bounced I would have no money at all, other than the Flash income. I quail back as I say this.…

  Nevertheless I started the novel. What a pleasure to do! I would laugh all day at the witty copy I was writing. Then suffer all night realizing it was not funny at all. And it was a hard slog; I couldn’t get more than fifteen hundred words done a day of first draft—some days only a thousand, whereas I could write a steady two thousand words, sometimes three thousand, a day of adventure. I was sorely tempted to give it up and write Deathworld 4 and continue right on through to Deathworld 69, which I knew I could sell. I would have too, if Joan hadn’t had the faith that the book was good, that it was working, and it would be great when it was finished.

  Some months later, with a happy sigh I typed THE END, and sent the book off to Damon. Who, fulfilling my gloomiest thoughts, instantly bounced it. No good, he said. Not funny. You are an action writer, Harry, and an ex-comic book artist, not a humorist, and this is basically a war book. Go through and take out the jokes and then I will buy it as an SF war novel.

  Depressing news indeed and money was running short. Should I do what Damon said? No! I couldn’t agree. The book, good or bad, was a unit and would not be changed. I rejected his advice, withdrew the book from Berkley—and ignored their pleas to return the advance. Writers do not give money back to publishers, never.

  Some fingernail-biting months later I was more than pleased to discover that I was not the only one who saw some merit in the book. Fred Pohl was now editor of Galaxy and If. I had sold him some short stories. I knew he didn’t buy serials but I sent him the book anyway. What did I have to lose? There was also Mike Moorcock. An old friend and drinking companion, he was now editing New Worlds in England and had turned this very staid and old-fashioned magazine into a journal of the avant-garde. Mike also didn’t print serials, but what the hell, maybe he could find something here to use. I was getting desperate and the bank balance was hitting the bottom. I sent him a copy as well and lightning struck. Joan was right and Damon was wrong. Fred would publish a large chunk of the book in Galaxy, retitled (by him) “The Starsloggers.” (Unfortunately when he ran an ad for the story in the issue before it was published, a typo crept in and the title became “Starloggers.” Sort of interstellar lumberjacks, I guess.) Blessedly, Mike Moorcock liked the book as well and wanted to buy it. Since the novel was already divided into three parts, the last two being “E = mc2 or Bust” and “A Dip in the Swimming Pool Reactor,” he pretended that they were three different stories and used those titles in separate issues. It was good news for me tha
t, in those days of literary provincialism, Americans did not read British SF magazines and vice versa. When, horrified, I realized they would both be publishing at the same time, I wrote the two editors and warned them. Gentlemen, as well as editors, they brushed my worries aside and soldiered on. I cashed their checks and we kept on eating. And they were both right about their markets being completely different; not one letter of complaint was ever received.

  I hadn’t been back to New York for some years and knew how important it was in publishing to press the flesh, get the latest gossip—and remind the editors that Harry was alive and well and still writing. I counted the pennies and found enough for plane fare as long as I flew Icelandic Airways. This was a bargain airline in those days that managed to take twenty-four hours to flap its way across the Atlantic. At least they fed you continuously and kept you drunk with unlimited free cognac so no one was sober enough—or awake enough—to notice how long the trip was taking. Of course I had no money for a hotel once I got to New York. I had to rely yet once again on the Old Boys network. Bob Sheckley had stayed with us in Mexico. Now he had an immense apartment on West End Avenue that boasted a tiny maid’s room behind the kitchen. I moved in. I couldn’t sponge food off Bob so I made it a point of having lunch with a different editor every day. I made sure I stuffed myself at lunch so I could last until the next day. I didn’t have enough editors I had sold books or stories to to fill the week—but I always could rely on Don Wollheim. I had never sold a book to Ace, where he was editor and publisher, but our friendship went back to fan days. Still a fan at heart, Don wanted to hear all the fan and publishing news from Britain. I simply wanted to eat. So, lodging with Bob, eating off editors’ expense accounts, I got through the week seeing as many editors as I could—manuscripts under arm. At that time Doubleday was putting out a successful SF line and I submitted the Bill novel to the new editor, Tim Seldes. I had never had a hardback book published in the States and thought it was about time. So did he and it was accepted. And the editor at Berkley, Tom Dardis, who had bounced the book on Damon’s say-so, now agreed to publish the paperback edition, his spine and his resolve strengthened by Doubleday’s acceptance.