Author: Paul Fraser

L’Enfant Terrible by Mark H. Huston

Posted on by Paul Fraser

L’Enfant Terrible by Mark H. Huston (F&SF, May-June 2022)1 begins by describing the plight of a creature who finds light painful and who isn’t used to time flowing in a linear fashion. After some more description about her attempts to orientate herself in this strange world, she is caught while hunting for rats in the area around her den:

Around her came entanglement. The light still assaulted her; the entanglement remained. She struggled. This was not like the hold of the Old Ones, or the gentle arms of the nest, these were tiny, strong entanglements, they smelled like the traps from yesterday/tomorrow.
Cage.
She remembered the word cage. How did she know that word? She was scooped up, she reached out to touch a mind and failed. She felt the cage confine her. Bite! Tear. But the cage was too strong. It smelled like the cage should smell, and she despaired.
The light went out, and the pain stopped.
Time made its way to tomorrow.  p. 189

She is questioned by a wizard, the master of the apprentice who claims to have caught her at the docks, and, after a brief interrogation, the wizard leaves through a portal to seek expert advice on what kind of creature she is (the claws suggest a sea creature but she has vestigial wings as well). After the wizard leaves the apprentice speaks to her and we learn, after he takes down a book from the shelves to show her a portal spell, that he was responsible for her arrival in this world. Then, as he approaches her cage to show her the book (spoiler), she uses a hooked claw to catch him by the nose. She discovers she can easily control his mind, and forces him to recast the spell. Eventually, after several failed attempts, he manages to open a huge portal that slices through the wizard’s rooms:

She looked through the portal and saw an Old One, floating nearby. She called to it, and she could see it responding. It came to the portal. Since her world was gray and featureless, there was nothing to reference the size of the Old One. It grew and grew and then grew more, still not making it to the opening. When it finally arrived, it dwarfed the circular portal. A tentacle reached, but hesitated. Instead, its body moved closer, and it placed its eye to the opening. She knew that from the Old One’s perspective, this looked like a tiny circle of light and strange vibrations suddenly appearing in its world. The Old One attended her request, responded to her call, and peered into the opening like a human looking into a telescope.
She was so happy that she briefly loosened her grip on the human, and of course he began to scream as his fear rose, unrestrained by her power.
“It’s a monster, it is huge! By the Gods and Goddess, I swear I will never perform a forbidden spell again!”
The eye of the Old One moved as it peered into the room. It shifted to the screaming boy, the books and bookcases, the table with the cage, and finally to her. “CTHYLLA!” Its voice shattered everything in the room. Glass bottles burst, their contents spilling out, bits of strange creatures and foul smelling fluids tumbling to the floor. The windows shattered, wood splintered, and the Earth itself shook. The human cried out, louder and louder.  pp. 196-7

At this point the wizard returns and launches a spell at the Old One that appears to use all his energies. Blinded, the creature retreats, and Cthylla then attempts to control the exhausted wizard. But, as she grapples with him, the apprentice kicks her back through the portal.
The story concludes with Cthylla talking to the gigantic Old Ones about what she has found, and how tasty the flesh and thoughts of the creatures on the other side of the (now closed) portal are. Then, as the story cuts to the wizard berating his apprentice and summoning a killing spell, a portal opens and an Old One looks in. . . .
This is a well told story, and I particularly liked the way that it goes from an intriguing, small-scale beginning to a titanic end (and one suggestive of a vastness that lies beyond the immediate world portrayed in the story).
***+ (Good to Very Good). 5,300 words.

1. This appears to be the first story that Huston has published outside Eric Flint’s 1632 alternate world franchise since he first staring writing in 2006. See ISFDB for further details.

Unready to Wear by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Unready to Wear by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.1 (Galaxy, April 1953) is set in a future where many humans are now “amphibious”, i.e. incorporeal, and when they need a human body they borrow one:

My old body, which [my wife] claims she loved for a third of a century, had black hair, and was short and paunchy, too, there toward the last. I’m human and I couldn’t help being hurt when they scrapped it after I’d left it, instead of putting it in storage. It was a good, homey, comfortable body; nothing fast and flashy, but reliable. But there isn’t much call for that kind of body at the centers, I guess. I never ask for one, at any rate.

Then the narrator later recalls the time he got conned into borrowing Konigwasser’s body (the inventor of the amphibious process) to lead the annual Pioneers’ Day Parade:

Like a plain damn fool, I believed them.
They’ll have a tough time getting me into that thing again—ever. Taking that wreck out certainly made it plain why Konigswasser discovered how people could do without their bodies. That old one of his practically drives you out. Ulcers, headaches, arthritis, fallen arches—a nose like a pruning hook, piggy little eyes and a complexion like a used steamer trunk. He was and still is the sweetest person you’d ever want to know, but, back when he was stuck with that body, nobody got close enough to find out.
We tried to get Konigswasser back into his old body to lead us when we first started having the Pioneers’ Day parades, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it, so we always have to flatter some poor boob into taking on the job. Konigswasser marches, all right, but as a six-foot cowboy who can bend beer cans double between his thumb and middle finger.

This last passage basically summarises the thrust of the story, which is that most human bodies are unsuitable for the minds that inhabit them—an idea which is examined in a quirky way during the first part of the story (along with the advantages of not having a body, and how Konigwasser discovered the process).
The second part of the story then introduces the “enemy”, the people who have stayed behind in physical form:

Usually, the enemy is talking about old-style reproduction, which is the clumsiest, most comical, most inconvenient thing anyone could imagine, compared with what the amphibians have in that line. If they aren’t talking about that, then they’re talking about food, the gobs of chemicals they have to stuff into their bodies. Or they’ll talk about fear, which we used to call politics— job politics, social politics, government politics.

The enemy manage to trap the narrator and Madge in two bodies that they have taken from the storage centre, and the pair are subsequently tried for desertion. After some witty back and forth between the two sides at the trial, the narrator manages to bluff their way out.
This piece is more quirk and wit than story, but it has an interesting—and sometimes Laffertyesque—perspective on the subject.
*** (Good). 5,400 words. Story link.

1. There was some speculation about the Unready to Wear title when we did the group read of this in one of my Facebook groups: a composite suggestion is that the title is a play on “ready to wear”, and that either humans are either not ready (or willing) to wear bodies, or the bodies themselves are not ready for human use.
The “amphibious” description comes from a reference at the very end of the story about the lack of interest among the young for the bodies available at the storage centres:

So I guess maybe that’ll be the next step in evolution—to break clean like those first amphibians who crawled out of the mud into the sunshine, and who never did go back to the sea.

Exit the Professor by Henry Kuttner & C. L. Moore

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Exit the Professor by Henry Kuttner & C. L. Moore (Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1947) is one of “Hogben” series,1 a handful of tales about a mutant hillbilly family in Kentucky. Saunk is the narrator (and Gallagher-like inventor2 of extraordinary devices), and his relations are Paw (who is invisible), Maw, Uncle Les (who can fly), Little Sam (a baby who has two heads and lives in a tank), and Grandpa (a monstrosity who lives upstairs). They have a wide range of paranormal powers.
In this story we see the family pestered by a Professor Thomas Galbraith, a biogeneticist who has heard rumours about the family after the Hogben’s recent altercation with the Hayley boys ended up in the news (the brothers said Little Sam had three heads, so Saunk rigged up a shotgun gadget that “punched holes in Rafe as neat as anything”—the coroner’s verdict was that the Hayley boys died “real sudden”).
Although Saunk tries to get rid of Galbraith, the professor becomes insistent after (a) Little Sam’s sub-sonic crying knocks him out, (b) he sees Uncle Les fly away, and (c) he examines the shotgun-gadget. Saunk reluctantly agrees to go to New York with Galbraith if he will keep the family’s secret.
The night before Saunk is to meet Galbraith in town, the family get together:

That night we chewed the rag. Paw being invisible, Maw kept thinking he was getting
more’n his share of the corn, but pretty soon she mellowed and let him have a demijohn. Everybody told me to mind my p’s and q’s.
“This here perfesser’s awful smart,” Maw said. “All perfessers are. Don’t go bothering him any. You be a good boy or you’ll ketch heck from me.”
“I’ll be good, Maw,” I said. Paw whaled me alongside the haid, which wasn’t fair, on account of I couldn’t see him.
“That’s so you won’t fergit,” he said.
“We’re plain folks,” Uncle Les was growling. “No good never came of trying to get above yourself.”
“Honest, I ain’t trying to do that,” I said. “I only figgered—”
“You stay outa trouble!” Maw said, and just then we heard Grandpaw moving in the attic. Sometimes Grandpaw don’t stir for a month at a time, but tonight he seemed right frisky.
So, natcherally, we went upstairs to see what he wanted.  p. 85

The next passage is hugely entertaining, and hints at the family’s extraordinary backstory:

He was talking about the perfesser. “A stranger, eh?” he said. “Out upon the stinking knave. A set of rare fools I’ve gathered about me for my dotage! Only Saunk shows any shrewdness, and, dang my eyes, he’s the worst fool of all.”
I just shuffled and muttered something, on account of I never like to look at Grandpaw direct. But he wasn’t paying me no mind. He raved on.
“So you’d go to this New York? ’Sblood, and hast thou forgot the way we shunned London and Amsterdam—and Nieuw Amsterdam—for fear of questioning? Wouldst thou be put in a freak show? Nor is that the worst danger.”
Grandpaw’s the oldest one of us all and he gets kinda mixed up in his language sometimes. I guess the lingo you learned when you’re young sorta sticks with you. One thing, he can cuss better than anybody I’ve ever heard.
“Shucks,” I said. “I was only trying to help.”
“Thou puling brat,” Grandpaw said. “ ’Tis thy fault and thy dam’s. For building that device, I mean, that slew the Haley tribe. Hadst thou not, this scientist would never have come here.”
“He’s a perfesser,” I said. “Name of Thomas Galbraith.”
“I know. I read his thoughts through Little Sam’s mind. A dangerous man. I never knew a sage who wasn’t. Except perhaps Roger Bacon, and I had to bribe him to—but Roger was an exceptional man. Hearken.
“None of you may go to this New York. The moment we leave this haven, the moment we are investigated, we are lost. The pack would tear and rend us. Nor could all thy addle-pated flights skyward save thee, Lester—dost thou hear?”
“But what are we to do?” Maw said.
“Aw, heck,” Paw said. “I’ll just fix this perfesser. I’ll drop him down the cistern.”
“An’ spoil the water?” Maw screeched.
“You try it!”
“What foul brood is this that has sprung from my seed?” Grandpaw said, real mad.
“Have ye not promised the sheriff that there will be no more killings—for a while at least? Is the word of a Hogben naught? Two things have we kept sacred through the centuries—our secret from the world, and the Hogben honor! Kill this man Galbraith and ye’ll answer to me for it!”  p. 85-86

This initial setup is the best of the story, and the rest is more formulaic fare that sees Saunk alter the shotgun-gadget (which Galbraith has taken away with him) before the professor test fires the device. When he does, everyone in town who has a gold filling gets a toothache. Galbraith gets arrested. The now-invisible Saunk modifies the gun again, and on the next firing the sheriff’s toothache disappears. Saunk modifies the gun once again, and then, when all the townpeople are assembled in the town hall to have their toothache cured, their fillings disappear—along with everything else non-natural in and on their bodies, including their clothes.
The story ends with Uncle Les rescuing Galbraith from the mob. In return he agrees to leave the family alone—but Grandpa reads his mind and sees he is lying, so Paw puts Galbraith in a small bottle which he never leaves.
A weak end to a story that has a highly entertaining first half.
**+ (Average to Good). 5,550 words. Story link.

1. There are five stories in the Hogben series but the first appears to be a mainstream piece only loosely related to the others. See ISFDB for more details.

2. See ISFDB for details of Kuttner’s solo series of stories about Gallagher, an inventor who often can’t remember the purpose or operation of the creations he makes while drunk.

The True Meaning of Father’s Day by John Wiswell

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The True Meaning of Father’s Day by John Wiswell (F&SF, May-June 2022) is a short-short that starts off at an annual lunch for time travellers:

They only ever had it in 1984, always traveling to meet each other in the same place and the same time. Pele, Jordansko, Marissa, and Merc sat at their own table. Plentiful versions of the foursome sat at plentiful versions of their own tables; they occupied every table in the Filipino restaurant, and all the tables on the curb outside. Rumor had it that their final party from the farthest flung future was having brunch on the rooftop.  p. 254

The shenanigans start when Pele pays for brunch, and the others then try to retrospectively beat him to the check with their time-travel tricks. Jordansko tells him Pele he wired the money to him ten years ago; Marissa says she loaned the family who own the restaurant the money to buy it in 1939; Merc shows them photos of a trip back to the dawn of civilization where he invented the idea of the dining industry.
Pele has the last word, however, when (spoiler) he asks them why they think they meet at the restaurant on Father’s Day.
An amusing conclusion to a clever idea.
*** (Good). 850 words.

Seeding the Mountain by M. L. Clark

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Seeding the Mountain by M. L. Clark (Analog, September-October 2020) has an overly long and discursive start that sees Luis watch a dove die while he waits outside Medellín airport in Columbia. The body of the dove is subsequently disposed of by a woman using nanotech.
The rest of the story suffers from the same long-windedness as it goes on to tell the story of Luis and his partner Elena’s attempt to stabilize a over-mined and potentially hazardous mountain (also using, I think, nanotech). However, there have been problems elsewhere in the world with this technology:

Luis took a second to process the metaphor.
He knew that among the Embera-Katio animalism connected three realms of existence, with serpents and other critters of the soil sometimes taking mythopoetic revenge upon mankind by dragging sinners to the lands below. Rarely, though, did others refer similarly to the Six-Cities incident: twelve days when hacked nanotech, the likes of which had been developed to process rare-earth metals with greater ease, devoured cities whole—people, pets, cars, buildings—while the rest of each affected country scrambled to contain the spread. Japan. Indonesia. Benin. Colombia. Madagascar. France. The UN Accord against private access to whole bodies of nanotech research had come swiftly, with only the U.S. and Bangladesh holding out in the initial rush of militarized search-and-seizure, at least until scares hit them in turn. (A prank, as it turned out, in the midwestern U.S.—but near enough the home of an online celebrity that the famed musician had rallied his fan base through social media: enough, for once, to turn the political tide.)  p. 115

Luis later goes out to talk to a holdout on the mountain, an old man called Bidø. The man tells him about a piece of rogue nanotech that killed an ocelot, and he also says that he wants to die on the mountain.
There are other events that occur, and these include, variously: the discovery of the bones of a baby near one of the probe holes; continued funding problems for the project; the disappearance of a young worker and his girlfriend; the arrival of the Feds when illegal nanotech (or somesuch) is discovered on the mountain, etc. etc. Matters are eventually wrapped up (spoiler) when the couple are found on the mountain with Bidø, and we discover there is a family connection. The girl is pregnant, so Bidø finds a new lease of life and agrees to leave.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve got some of this detail wrong (especially about whether Luis and Elena are using nanotech or another technology to stabilise the mountain) because the story, although well enough written on a sentence and paragraph level, just has too much ephemeral detail and no sense of tension or pacing—so it is very easy to become bored and tune out. And even when the story does come together at the end it seems to be as much a family soap opera as science fiction.
A short story buried in a very long novelette.
* (Mediocre). 14,800 words.

Still You Linger, Like Soot in the Air by Matthew Kressel

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Still You Linger, Like Soot in the Air by Matthew Kressel (Lightspeed, August 2020) opens with a holy man called Gil finishing his meditation to find that Muu (an incorporeal alien “God”, I think) has “already removed the body of Demi”, a pupil of Gil’s who was also his lover. Apparently, Demi “isn’t dead exactly”, but Gil will never see him again.
Shortly after Gil’s loss another pupil turns up on Gilder Nefan (I am not sure why the planet has a similar name). Tim is female—she had previously changed gender several times but “but ultimately chose female because she felt it suited her temperament”—and she subsequently spends most of her time running errands for Gil when not annoying him with a thousand questions. When Gil gets some time to himself, he thinks about Demi and feels sad.
Eventually (spoiler) Tim convinces Gil to let her join him in taking “jithmus” (some sort of alien weed). He warns her of the dangers, but she insists.
During Gil’s trippy experience, he sees Demi and talks to Muu:

Demi—oh, lovely Demi—stood on a precipice in an endless white desert, while the horizon behind him stretched to infinity. Beyond the cliff’s edge spread an infinite blue sky. Demi, bright-eyed and eager. Demi, smiling and reaching out his hand. Gil floated down, down toward the hand, ready to grasp it and never let go. But he was just a photon. And as he raced toward Demi’s palm, the molecules of Demi’s hand spread into their constituent atoms, and the atoms spread into quarks, and each of these minuscule bundles of smeared energy drifted as far apart from each other as stars in a galaxy.
We are all empty, Muu said to him, in thought pictures. Demi was never anything at all, nor will he ever be anything again. The thoughts you have of him are like waves that ripple in a turbulent sea. Sometimes they form shapes and sense impressions. You ascertain meaning in them, but in reality they are just waves in a stormy sea. You mourn his loss, but why mourn when Demi was never anything at all? He has more life in death than you do in life, because now he is infinite.
But, but, but . . . Gil struggled to say. His photon energy leaped from orbital to orbital like stones across a pond. I felt something real, he said, and that was enough . . .
You are a bird, trapped in a room with a single half-open window, Muu said. The escape is just an inch below you, where the window lies open, yet you keep flying headfirst into the glass.
Can I see him? Gil said. Can I speak to Demi, as he was?
But you are him, now, Muu said. You are the photon which reflected off his eye and wound its way into space, where it has been speeding away from Gilder Nefan for eighty million years. All of your senses of him were nothing more than reflected photons and electrostatic pressure.
And what of my feelings? Gil said.
Just waves on a stormy sea, said Muu.
Why do you hurt me? Gil said. Why do you make me suffer so?
It is you who make yourself suffer.

Deep.
Gil wakes to find that the drug has had no effect on Tim and, because of this, she decides to leave the planet. She tries to convince Gil to go with her but he remains and, after she has gone, he eats all his remaining jithmus stash in one go (about a millions times the usual amount).
A tedious and sometimes pretentious piece that offers moping and cod-transcendence instead of a story. The only time this comes alive is during the back and forth between Gil and Tim.
* (Mediocre). 5,650 words. Story link.

Sundance by Robert Silverberg

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Sundance by Robert Silverberg (F&SF, June 1969) opens with this:

Today you liquidated about 50,000 Eaters in Sector A, and now you are spending an uneasy night. You and Herndon flew east at dawn with the green-gold sunrise at your backs and sprayed the neural pellets over a thousand hectares along the Forked River. You flew on into the prairie beyond the river, where the Eaters have already been wiped out, and had lunch sprawled on that thick, soft carpet of grass where the first settlement is expected to rise. Herndon picked some juiceflowers, and you enjoyed half an hour of mild hallucinations. Then, as you headed toward the copter to begin an afternoon of further pellet spraying, he said suddenly, “Tom, how would you feel about this if it turned out that the Eaters weren’t just animal pests? That they were people, say, with a language and rites and a history and all?”
You thought of how it had been for your own people.

We learn that the protagonist, Tom Two Ribbons (a Native American from a long line of unsuccessful men), is having doubts about the liquidation operation on this alien planet—he recalls the historical slaughter of bison and the Sioux on Earth. Later, we see he is in an open relationship with Ellen, another team member, and find out that he previously had a “personality reconstruct” after the collapse of a previous business (not his first failed venture, and he has also had two failed marriages).
The rest of the story sees Tom apparently witness ritual eating behaviour among the Eaters, and he later begins to believe they are intelligent. He withdraws into his research (to the concern of the other team-members), and eventually ends up out in the field, intoxicated on one of the local plants, dancing and, he thinks, communicating with the aliens:

We move in holy frenzy.
They sing, now, a blurred hymn of joy. They throw forth their arms, unclench their little claws. In unison they shift weight, left foot forward, right, left, right. Dance, brothers, dance, dance, dance! They press against me. Their flesh quivers; their smell is a sweet one. They gently thrust me across the field to a part of the meadow where the grass is deep and untrampled. Still dancing, we seek the oxygen-plants and find clumps of them beneath the grass, and they make their prayer and seize them with their awkward arms, separating the respiratory bodies from the photosynthetic spikes. The plants, in anguish, release floods of oxygen. My mind reels. I laugh and sing. The Eaters are nibbling the lemon-colored perforated globes, nibbling the stalks as well. They thrust their plants at me. It is a religious ceremony, I see. Take from us, eat with us, join with us, this is the body, this is the blood, take, eat, join. I bend forward and put a lemon-colored globe to my lips. I do not bite; I nibble, as they do, my teeth slicing away the skin of the globe. Juice spurts into my mouth while oxygen drenches my nostrils. The Eaters sing hosannas. I should be in full paint for this, paint of my forefathers, feathers, too, meeting their religion in the regalia of what should have been mine. Take, eat, join. The juice of the oxygen-plant flows in my veins. I embrace my brothers. I sing, and as my voice leaves my lips it becomes an arch that glistens like new steel, and I pitch my song lower, and the arch turns to tarnished silver. The Eaters crowd close. The scent of their bodies is fiery red to me. Their soft cries are puffs of steam. The sun is very warm; its rays are tiny jagged pings of puckered sound, close to the top of my range of hearing, plink! plink! plink! The thick grass hums to me, deep and rich, and the wind hurls points of flame along the prairie. I devour another oxygen-plant and then a third. My brothers laugh and shout. They tell me of their gods, the god of warmth, the god of food, the god of pleasure, the god of death, the god of holiness, the god of wrongness, and the others. They recite for me the names of their kings, and I hear their voices as splashes of green mold on the clean sheet of the sky. They instruct me in their holy rites. I must remember this, I tell myself, for when it is gone it will never come again. I continue to dance. They continue to dance. The color of the hills becomes rough and coarse, like abrasive gas. Take, eat, join. Dance. They are so gentle!
I hear the drone of the copter, suddenly.

Tom watches the helicopter drop pellets: the Eaters consume them and die, and their bodies dissolve into the ground. Then the helicopter picks him up and takes him back to base. We find out (spoiler) that the team hasn’t been killing the Eaters but that Tom has been experiencing a fantasy that is part of his psychological reconstruction, something designed to ameliorate his anger about the treatment of the Sioux.
After this Tom goes outside again and dances (he thinks) with generations of his people, and the story finishes with him switching between delusion and reality.
This is an interesting and generally absorbing piece about a man’s descent into madness, but it doesn’t quite work for a number of reasons: first, it is hard to accept that someone would still be so conflicted about what had happened to their forefathers—fathers or grandfathers perhaps, but once you get beyond that it is difficult to accept the idea of serious psychological problems (especially if you are so removed, i.e. on another planet, from that reality); second, it is ridiculous to think that making someone help with a massacre on another planet is going to help them come to terms with their own people’s trauma; third, you wouldn’t include someone with serious mental problems as part of a colonisation crew; and fourth, the shuttling between the first, second and third person has a distancing effect—a story about someone losing their mind would be more engaging if it was all written in the first person (and these point of view changes seem little more than a performative writing trick designed to make the story look like literature1).
Still, worth a look for the parts that are done well (the stream of consciousness delusions, etc.).
**+ (Average to Good). 5,700 words. Story link.

1. This story was nominated for that year’s Nebula Award (no surprise there: point of view changes, tick; near stream of consciousness writing, tick; indeterminate ending, tick; drug-taking, tick; Native American protagonist, tick) but was withdrawn in favour of Passengers (Orbit #4, 1968), which won.
Robert Silverberg has this to say about the story in his To the Dark Star: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Two:

I was still living in rented quarters [in 1968]—in exile, as I thought of it then—but I had begun to adapt by now to the changed circumstances that the fire had brought, and I was working at something like the old pace. I was working at a new level of complexity, too—sure of myself and my technique, willing now to push the boundaries of the short-story form in any direction that seemed worth exploring. Stretching my technical skills was something that had concerned me as far back as 1955 and “The Songs of Summer”—but I had been a novice writer then, still a college undergraduate, and now I was in my thirties and approaching the height of my creative powers. So I did “Sundance” by way of producing a masterpiece in the original sense of the word—that is, a piece of work which is intended to demonstrate to a craftsman’s peers that he has ended his apprenticeship and has fully mastered the intricacies of his trade. Apparently I told Ed Ferman something about the story’s nature while I was working on it, and he must have reacted with some degree of apprehensiveness, because the letter I sent him on October 22, 1968 that accompanied the submitted manuscript says, “I quite understand your hesitation to commit yourself in advance to a story when you’ve been warned it’s experimental; but it’s not all that experimental….I felt that the only way I could properly convey the turmoil in the protagonist’s mind, the gradual dissolution of his hold on reality, was through the constant changing of persons and tenses; but as I read it through I think everything remains clear despite the frequent derailments of the reader.” And I added, “I don’t mean to say that I intend to disappear into the deep end of experimentalism. I don’t regard myself as a member of any ‘school’ of s-f, and don’t value obscurity for its own sake. Each story is a technical challenge unique unto itself, and I have to go where the spirit moves me. Sometimes it moves me to a relatively conventional strong-narrative item like ‘Fangs of the Trees,’ and sometimes to a relatively avant-garde item like this present ‘Sundance’; I’m just after the best way of telling my story, in each case.” Ferman responded on Nov 19 with: “You should do more of this sort of thing. ‘Sundance’ is by far the best of the three I’ve seen recently. It not only works; it works beautifully. The ending—with the trapdoor image and that last line—is perfectly consistent, and just fine.” He had only one suggestion: that I simplify the story’s structure a little, perhaps by eliminating the occasional use of second-person narrative. But I wasn’t about to do that. I replied with an explanation of why the story kept switching about between first person narrative, second person, third person present tense, and third person past tense. Each mode had its particular narrative significance in conveying the various reality-levels of the story, I told him: the first-person material was the protagonist’s interior monolog, progressively more incoherent and untrustworthy; the second-person passages provided objective description of his actions, showing his breakdown from the outside, but not so far outside as third person would be—and so forth. Ferman was convinced, and ran the story as is.

You could argue that if you cannot “properly convey the turmoil in the protagonist’s mind, the gradual dissolution of his hold on reality” in a first person story then you haven’t “fully mastered the intricacies of [your] trade”.
Perhaps I should run a poll to see who agrees with Ferman, and who with Silverberg.

Kaleidoscope by Ray Bradbury

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Kaleidoscope by Ray Bradbury (Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1949) begins with an explosion on a spaceship which spills its crew into space “like a dozen wriggling silverfish”. The men move in different directions, some towards the sun, others out to Pluto. The main character, Hollis, ends up drifting towards Earth, and re-entry. They are all in radio contact, but there is no chance they will be rescued: some of the men say nothing at all, some let the veneer of civilization slip away, and one of them just screams endlessly (until Hollis grabs hold of him and smashes his faceplate).
During the various conversations that take place over the radio, Hollis becomes jealous of Lespere, who has been talking about his three wives on as many planets, how he once gambled away twenty thousand dollars when he was drunk, etc.:

“You’re out here, Lespere. It’s all over. It’s just as if it had never happened, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“When anything’s over, it’s just like it never happened. Where’s your life any better than mine, now? While it was happening, yes, but now? Now is what counts. Is it any better, is it?”
“Yes, it’s better!”
“How!”
“Because I got my thoughts; I remember!” cried Lespere, far away, indignant, holding his memories to his chest with both hands.
And he was right. With a feeling of cold water gushing through his head and his body, Hollis knew he was right. There were differences between memories and dreams. He had only dreams of things he had wanted to do, while Lespere had memories of things done and accomplished. And this knowledge began to pull Hollis apart, with a slow, quivering precision.  p. 132

This is more reflectively existential than you would expect from a twenty-nine year old writer appearing in Thrilling Wonder Stories, and there is similar material earlier in the story, in a conversation Hollis has with Applegate:

“Are you angry, Hollis?”
“No.” And he was not. The abstraction had returned and he was a thing of dull concrete, forever falling nowhere.
“You wanted to get to the top all your life, Hollis. And I ruined it for you. You always wondered what happened. I put the black mark on you just before I was tossed out myself.”
“That isn’t important,” said Hollis. And it was not. It was gone. When life is over it is like a flicker of bright film, an instant on the screen, all of its prejudices and passions condensed and illumined for an instant on space, and before you could cry out. There was a happy day, there a bad one, there an evil face, there a good one, the film burned to a cinder, the screen was dark.  p. 131

Eventually (spoiler), Hollis achieves a painful self-awareness about his (“terrible and empty”) life, and realises the only good he can do now is for his ashes to be added to the land below. He wonders if anyone will see him burn on re-entry—and the story ends with a short paragraph where a small boy and his mother wish upon a falling star.
This is an uncharacteristically bleak and reflective story for the time, and it shows a distinct lack of the sentimentality that spoiled some of Bradbury’s later work.
**** (Very Good). 3,400 words. Story link.

Knock, Knock Said the Ship by Rati Mehrotra

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Knock, Knock Said the Ship by Rati Mehrotra (F&SF, July-August 2020) opens with Kaalratri, a spaceship AI, asking Deenu a knock-knock joke on a neural link that no-one else can overhear. We then learn that Deenu is on the bridge of the ship trying to work out a course to their destination beyond the asteroid belt (Captain Miral likes to train his crew in various skills). Then, as Captain Miral needles Deenu about her performance, we learn she has been bonded for three years after one of the Kaalatri’s drones rescued her from the wreckage of the colony on Luna.
Deenu is spared further torment when a Peace ship hails them, and its commander, Captain Zhao, tells Miral that they intend to board his ship. When Zhao and his party do so, Miral quickly realises that they are imposters—and he is shot for his trouble. Then, after some backchat, Miral is shot again, but not before he puts the ship into lockdown:

“Override the ship,” snapped Zhao. “You’re next in command, aren’t you?”
“That would be me,” said Lieutenant Saksha, straightening and speaking with an effort. “But I cannot override her. It was the captain’s last order before you…before she…” She paused to swallow. “The ship will lift the lockdown only when she deems the threat is over. You could kill us, but it will serve no purpose.”
“Hey, Ship, can you hear me?” shouted Zhao.
“Yes,” said Kaalratri, her voice remote.
“Would you like me to kill the rest of your crew? We can start here, with these officers. Then we’ll break down your door and go for the rest of them. Would you like that, eh?”
“Would you like to hear a joke?” said Kaalratri.
“What?”
“Knock knock,” said the ship.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” screamed Zhao.
“You are supposed to say, who’s there,” said the ship.  p. 17

The rest of the story sees Deenu overhear Zhao talk to the rest of his crew in Lunarian, and she realises they are refugees like herself. Deenu pretends to sympathise with them, and takes the group to the supplies they want. As they walk to the main bay (spoiler), Deenu hatches a plan with Kaalatri on her neural link and the latter organises an ambush. They are successful, the Captain and First Officer are still alive and are treated, and Deenu is rewarded by having her debt written off.
The plot of this is too straightforward, and the story also tries to have its violence cake and eat it (the gunshot injuries to the Captain and First Officer are severe but both recover), but, that said, the interaction between Deenu and the joke-telling computer is quite entertaining, and the story has an interesting setting.
*** (Good). 5,700 words.

Exile’s End by Carolyn Ives Gilman

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Exile’s End by Carolyn Ives Gilman (Tor.com, 12th August 2020) opens with Rue Savenga, a museum curator at on the planet Sarona, receiving an unexpected visitor just before closing time. The man tells Rue that his name is Traversed Bridge, and that he has been sent by the Whispering Kindom of the Manhu to find their ancestors.
It materialises that Bridge’s people are descended from a Saronan tribe called the Atoka (long thought extinct) who, after being persecuted on both Sarona and another planet called Radovani, ended up on Exile. When Bridge says he wants to see his ancestors, Rue takes him instead to see a painting of a woman called Aldry:

People called it a painting, but it was actually an elaborate mosaic, made from pieces so small it took a magnifying glass to see them. Rue had commissioned a scientific analysis that had shown that the colors were not, strictly speaking, pigments; they were bits of bird feather, beetle carapace, butterfly wing-anything iridescent, arranged so as to form a picture. And what a picture it was: a young girl in an embroidered jacket and silver headdress, looking slightly to one side, lips parted as if about to speak. Operas had been written about her. Volumes of poetry had speculated on what she was about to say. Speeches invoked her, treatises analyzed her, children learned her story almost as soon as they learned to speak. She was the most loved woman on Sarona.
“We call her Aldry,” Rue said.
Traversed Bridge looked transfixed, as if he were falling in love. He whispered, “That is not her name.”
“What do you call her?” Rue asked.
“She is Even Glancing.”

After some more small talk, Bridge collapses. While they are waiting for help to come, he tells Rue that the painting spoke to him, and that the woman in the picture said she was lonely and wanted to return home—and see an Immolation. Rue explains, after Bridge recovers, the rules and regulations governing the return of artefacts are complicated.
The second part of the story sees Rue learn that the painting was “rescued” from an Atoka Immolation—apparently the tribe’s customs dictated they should periodically burn all their possessions and start again from scratch. Then Bridge tells her that the Manhu are going to court to reclaim the painting because “there is a ghost imprisoned in it”, and that they intend to release it by holding an Immolation.
The matter eventually ends up in court and Rue tells Bridge, just before the verdict:

“This is not an ordinary object. At some point, great art ceases to be bound to the culture that produced it. It transcends ethnicity and identity and becomes part of the patrimony of the human race. It belongs to all of us because of its universal message, the way it makes us better.”

The verdict is decided (spoiler) on a narrow point of property law, and the object is put on a slower than light ship that will take almost sixty years to get to Exile (it and the other reclaimed pieces cannot go by the faster wayport “because what would arrive at the other end would be mere replicas of the originals”).
Fifty years later, the ninety-five-year-old Rue decides to go to Exile to be there for the arrival of the painting and the other artefacts (ten years will elapse while she travels, although it will appear instantaneous to Rue). When she arrives she meets Bridge, who is now a grandfather and has built a huge dam in the hills to improve life for the Manhu.
Rue spends the night in his house, and the next day they go to unpack the painting. There is then a procession to the village where the painting is put on a pyre and all the members of the Manhu add possessions of particular value. Then (after a token back and forth about what is about to happen between Rue and Bridge), they light the fire. After the blaze starts to die down, the Manhu leave the village and Rue follows them. Once they have reached a spot on the mountain overlooking the village, Rue sees and then hears the dam being blown up.
The story ends with some suitable humbug about the past not feeding anyone, “only the future does that”.
This is quite well done for the most part, an interesting examination of the issues affecting archaeological artefacts that were created by one culture but are now in the contested possession of another. However, the final actions of the Manhu are so mind-numbingly and nihilistically stupid that I suspect many readers will be hugely irritated not only by those but by what is a dramatically unsatisfying conclusion. Apart from this the story’s other shortcomings are the unconvincing “ghost” idea, and reader realisation that the survival chances of a civilization that periodically destroys everything are probably non-existent (and what a legacy to leave your children).
A good story about stupid people, so a mixed bag.
** (Average). 13,400 words. Story link.