Month: April 2021

See Me Not by Richard Wilson

Posted on by Paul Fraser

See Me Not by Richard Wilson (SF Impulse #12, February 1967) begins with the narrator, Avery, waking up and discovering he is invisible:

He lay on his back for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling. There was something different about the way it looked. No, it wasn’t the ceiling that was different, but his view of it. A perfectly clear, unobstructed view. Then he realized that what was missing was the fuzzy, unfocused tip of nose which had always been there, just below the line of vision, and which became a definite object only when he closed one eye.
Avery closed one eye. No nose. His hand came up in alarm and felt the nose. It was there, all right. That is, he could feel it. But he couldn’t see the fingers or the hand.  p. 9 (World’s Best Science Fiction 1968, edited by Donald A. Wollheim & Terry Carr)

The next seven pages describe his attempts to avoid his wife (who has just sent the kids off to school), but she eventually corners him in the shower. After she gets over her initial shock at his condition she calls Dr Mike.
This introductory section rather exemplifies the story’s main problem, which is that it is done at too great a length (and its mostly inconsequential light comedy produces few real laughs). That said there are one or two neat bits in this sequence—the inability to see his nose, his wife wanting to join him in the shower (more risqué than normal for genre SF of the time), and the fact he looks like a ghost when she sees his invisible body with water vapour coming off it). Slim pickings for seven pages though.
The next part of the story sees Dr Mike arrive, and some doctor-patient banter between him and Avery. Then Avery’s son turns up (more chatter), followed by his daughter (she faints). Then, when the family are having dinner that evening, they see what is happening to the food Avery is eating and he is forced to dress (apparently he has been wandering around naked because he is invisible). We are now twenty pages into the story.
The second half of this sees: Avery visible again the next morning; a disastrous trip out for breakfast where he becomes invisible again; crowds and the media following them home and waiting outside; an ill-judged attempt by Avery to go out and torment the crowd (which sees him caught before the police arrive to free him); the arrival of a specialist from a drug company called Lindhof, who manages to make part of Avery visible; and then a (baffling) argument between Avery and Dr Mike about the former’s refusal to see the specialist again. This all ends with his wife going to Lindhof—and when she returns she is invisible too. Avery changes his mind (and it later materialises that his invisibility was caused by the Lindhof-made pills he took the day before becoming invisible).
This story reminded me of one of those corny 1940’s movies or 1950’s sitcoms and, even though it is breezily told, it’s based on dumb science and is hugely bloated, mostly with endless and sometimes pointless conversations (the argument between Avery and Mike). If this was edited down to about three quarters of its length there might be a half-decent story here, but I got quite irritated with its flabbiness on the way through. More patient readers may have better luck.
* (Mediocre). 13,850 words.

Eye for Iniquity by T. L. Sherred

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Eye for Iniquity by T. L. Sherred (Beyond, July 1953) opens with a man called McNally showing his wife that he can produce a perfect copy of a ten dollar bill from an original. They use it to buy food, and then later on he creates another to buy parts for their car. After this the couple sit down to discuss whether there are any relatives of his with similar powers, but the conversation is inconclusive. They go on to talk about how they can use his new found ability to escape their straightened circumstances.
The next morning McNally gives up his job:

The next morning I was up before the kids, which, for me, is exceptional. The first thing I did after breakfast was to call up my boss and tell him what he could do with his job. An hour after that his boss called me up and hinted that all would be forgiven if I reported for work on the afternoon shift as usual. I hinted right back for a raise and waited until he agreed. Then I told him what he could do with his job.  p. 202 (The Dark Mind, edited by Damon Knight, 1965)

After creating a pile of money the couple then go on a spending spree, something that continues until McNally sees a counterfeit warning notice in a bar. He is considerably more cautious thereafter, and starts duplicating different notes of various denominations. The family’s prosperity continues to grow however, and this eventually leads to a new house and the good life.
The second half of the story sees a neighbour, who is in the IRS, tip off McNally that he is being investigated and that it would be better to go and see the IRS before they visit him. McNally does so, and tells the agent interviewing him that he has no income, as well as generally mouthing off. For the next year or so the IRS leave him in peace, but it doesn’t last, and during a later interview he is accused of being a bookie. When they say he can’t be “getting money out of thin air” he pulls out a wad of identical notes and tells them that if they want to know where he gets them from they should come to his house the next day.
When FBI and Secret Service agents turn up at McNally’s house the following morning he demonstrates his ability to them, and eventually their boss comes into the house. He then manages (spoiler) to fool them into thinking they can all duplicate money too (when they are willing the duplicates into existence so is McNally). When McNally suggests that the power isn’t in him but in the old coffee table the money is sitting on, they destroy it and leave. The narrator moves on to duplicating rare books, coins, cars, etc.
This piece has a neat central gimmick, and an entertaining story which is told by a larger than life/smart-aleck narrator. If I have a slight criticism it is that the coffee table misdirection in the final scene is slightly confusing, although I figured it out by the story’s end.
***+ (Good to Very Good). 9,750 words.

It by Theodore Sturgeon

Posted on by Paul Fraser

It by Theodore Sturgeon (Unknown, August 1940) starts with a creature that was “never born” coming into existence in the forest:

It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mold into the cool of the morning. It was huge. It was lumped and crusted with its own hateful substances, and pieces of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and lay writhing, and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.
It had no mercy, no laughter, no beauty. It had strength and great intelligence. And—perhaps it could not be destroyed. It crawled out of its mound in the wood and lay pulsing in the sunlight for a long moment. Patches of it shone wetly in the golden glow, parts of it were nubbled and flaked. And whose dead bones had given it the form of a man?  p. 144

Later the beast encounters a dog called Kimbo, which it fights and kills. Then, when the dog does not return to its owner, we are introduced to two farmers, Alton and his brother Casey. When Alton goes off to look for the dog the brothers fall out about the chores that have to been done on the farm, an argument that is continued later between Cory and his wife Clissa. Later on that night, after Cory has given up on the outstanding chores, he goes out into the wood to find his brother, and they end up having an even more serious argument. During this, Cory unknowingly stands on part of the creature, which is lying quiescent in the dark.
Matters become more complicated the next day when Cory hears multiple gunshots in the forest. He gets his shotgun and manages to pellet a stranger in the wood, who binds up his hand and leaves the area while thinking about a man he is looking for called Roger Pike. At the same time that this is happening, Cory’s young daughter Babe (who we have been introduced to earlier) also goes into the forest looking for her uncle Alton.
This fast paced and tightly plotted story eventually comes to a head (spoiler) with Cory finding Alton’s body, which has been torn apart, and Babe in a cave with the briefcase and papers the stranger dropped (the man he was looking for carries a substantial reward). Then the creature approaches the mouth of the cave . . . .
In the climactic scene, Babe rushes through the thing’s legs and, when it pursues her, she throws a stone and hits the creature. It trips, and topples over into the stream . . . to be washed away by the flowing water. The skeleton that remains is that of the missing man, Roger Pike, and the family get the reward.
This is a very good piece—it’s tightly plotted, has a number of well-drawn characters, and has a neat, if ultimately bittersweet, ending. I’d also add that Sturgeon’s prose style is much clearer and easier to read than other writers from this period (as was Heinlein’s and de Camp’s) and the well done multiple point of view technique (which includes that of the young girl Babe) is probably original for the time as well.
**** (Very Good). 9,950 words.

The Man Who Never Grew Young by Fritz Leiber

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The Man Who Never Grew Young by Fritz Leiber (Night’s Black Agents, 1947) has a narrator who stays the same age as time flows backwards around him. Various events are described, and the most striking of these is a passage where a grieving widow waits for her husband to be disinterred and come back to life:

There were two old women named Flora and Helen. It could not have been more than a few years since their own disinterments, but those I cannot remember. I think I was some sort of nephew, but I cannot be sure.
They began to visit an old grave in the cemetery a half mile outside town. I remember the little bouquets of flowers they would bring back with them. Their prim, placid faces became troubled. I could see that grief was entering their lives.
The years passed. Their visits to the cemetery became more frequent. Accompanying them once, I noted that the worn inscription on the headstone was growing clearer and sharper, just as was happening to their own features. “John, loving husband of Flora. . . .”
Often Flora would sob through half the night, and Helen went about with a set look on her face. Relatives came and spoke comforting words, but these seemed only to intensify their grief.
Finally the headstone grew brand-new and the grass became tender green shoots which disappeared into the raw brown earth. As if these were the signs their obscure instincts had been awaiting, Flora and Helen mastered their grief and visited the minister and the mortician and the doctor and made certain arrangements.
On a cold autumn day, when the brown curled leaves were whirling up into the trees, the procession set out—the empty hearse, the dark silent automobiles. At the cemetery we found a couple of men with shovels turning away unobtrusively from the newly opened grave. Then, while Flora and Helen wept bitterly, and the minister spoke solemn words, a long narrow box was lifted from the grave and carried to the hearse.
At home the lid of the box was unscrewed and slid back, and we saw John, a waxen old man with a long life before him.
Next day, in obedience to what seemed an age-old ritual, they took him from the box, and the mortician undressed him and drew a pungent liquid from his veins and injected the red blood. Then they took him and laid him in bed. After a few hours of stony-eyed waiting, the blood began to work. He stirred and his first breath rattled in his throat. Flora sat down on the bed and strained him to her in a fearful embrace.
But he was very sick and in need of rest, so the doctor waved her from the room. I remember the look on her face as she closed the door. I should have been happy too, but I seem to recall that I felt there was something unwholesome about the whole episode.  pp. 233-235 (The Dark Side, edited by Damon Knight, 1965)

There is then reference to the reversal of world events, starting with what may be a nuclear holocaust (which may have caused time to start flowing backwards in the first place), before the narrator describes the unwinding of time back to the Egyptian era. The story concludes with the narrator and his wife setting out with their flock, as he reflects on what lies ahead:

Maot is afire with youth. She is very loving.
It will be strange in the desert. All too soon we will exchange our last and sweetest kiss and she will prattle to me childishly and I will look after her until we find her mother.
Or perhaps some day I will abandon her in the desert, and her mother will find her.
And I will go on.  p. 241 Ibid.

This brief piece has some striking passages, but I’m not sure it’s much more than a very well written notion.
***+ (Good to Very Good). 2,650 words.

Casey Agonistes by Richard McKenna

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Casey Agonistes by Richard McKenna (F&SF, September 1958) has a narrator who has just arrived in a Tuberculosis ward for terminal patients and, from the very beginning, he tells his story in a strange, nihilistic and anti-authoritarian voice:

You can’t just plain die. You got to do it by the book.
That’s how come I’m here in this TB ward with nine other recruits. Basic training to die. You do it by stages. First a big ward, you walk around and go out and they call you mister. Then, if you got what it takes, a promotion to this isolation ward and they call you charles. You can’t go nowhere, you meet the masks, and you get the feel of being dead.  p. 182 (The Dark Mind, edited by Damon Knight, 1965)

I found out they called the head doc Uncle Death. The fat nurse was Mama Death. The blond intern was Pink Waldo, the dark one Curly Waldo, and Mary was Mary. Knowing things like that is a kind of password.
They said Curly Waldo was sweet on Mary, but he was a poor Italian. Pink Waldo come of good family and was trying to beat him out. They were pulling for Curly Waldo.  p. 184, Ibid.

We got mucho sack time, training for the long sleep.  p. 185, Ibid.

On the ward the narrator meets a former shipmate called Slop Chute (a sailor who could have come out of the writer’s later mainstream novel The Sand Pebbles), and next to him is Roby who, later on, “doesn’t make it,” i.e. he recovers enough to go back into the main ward in the hospital.
The other significant character in the story is Carnahan, who tells the narrator that he can see an ape:

“He’s there,” Carnahan would say. “Sag your eyes, look out the corners. He won’t be plain at first.
“Just expect him, he’ll come. Don’t want him to do anything. You just feel. He’ll do what’s natural,” he kept telling me.
I got where I could see the ape—Casey, Carnahan called him—in flashes. Then one day Mama Death was chewing out Mary and I saw him plain. He come up behind Mama and—I busted right out laughing.
He looked like a bowlegged man in an ape suit covered with red-brown hair. He grinned and made faces with a mouth full of big yellow teeth and he was furnished like John Keeno himself. I roared.
“Put on your phones so you’ll have an excuse for laughing,” Carnahan whispered. “Only you and me can see him, you know.  p. 186, Ibid.

Eventually all the men in the ward are sharing what appears to be a consensual hallucination and laughing at Casey’s antics, mostly when the medical staff appear on their rounds. Later, however, the ape seems to take on some sort of reality, something that becomes apparent when arrangements are made to move one of the men to a quiet side room to die. At this point Casey appears and apparently causes the head doctor to stagger. Then, when Slop Chute’s condition worsens and the staff try to move him, the ape’s intervention prevents this from happening.
Over the next few days Slop Chute deteriorates and has a series of haemorrhages, which the men clean up to hide from the staff. Finally (spoiler), in the climactic scene, the narrator sees “a deeper shadow high in the dark” start to descend on Slop Chute. Casey fights the darkness and initially manages to push it back up to the ceiling, but it eventually envelops both him and Slop Chute. Slop Chute passes away, and Casey disappears—but reappears on the ward a couple of days later wearing Slop Chute’s grin.
This is an interesting piece—it has a distinctive narrative voice, and the subject matter is very different from the other SF of the time—but I’m not sure that the story ultimately amounts to much. Still, a noteworthy piece for its anti-authoritarian characters and bleak, inverted view of death (which I suspect would have been quite transgressive at the time).
***+ (Good to Very Good). 4,200 words.