Tag: 2*

The Secret Place by Richard McKenna

Posted on by Paul Fraser 2 Comments on The Secret Place by Richard McKenna

The Secret Place by Richard McKenna (Orbit #1, 1966) has as its narrator a geologist called Duard Campbell, one of a team sent to a small town to search for a vein of uranium:

It began in 1931, when a local boy was found dead in the desert near Barker, Oregon. He had with him a sack of gold ore and one thumb-sized crystal of uranium oxide. The crystal ended as a curiosity in a Salt Lake City assay office until, in 1942, it became of strangely great importance. Army agents traced its probable origin to a hundred-square-mile area near Barker.  p. 31

After the team finds nothing (the whole area is overlaid by Miocene lava flows) Campbell is left behind to maintain a skeleton operation to keep the army happy. He is angry and feels betrayed by his boss, and decides he will find the vein to spite him. Then, one night at dinner, Campbell speaks to Old Dave, one of the townsmen, who tells him about a local myth of a lost mine, and how the deceased boy’s sister, Helen, might know something about its whereabouts.
Campbell then hires Helen (who is described in part as “elfin”) as his secretary, and the main part of the story concerns itself with Campbell’s manipulation of her to obtain the information he wants. Initially this proves unsuccessful, but one day he makes a breakthrough:

I was trying the sympathy gambit. I said it was not so bad, being exiled from friends and family, but what I could not stand was the dreary sameness of that search area. Every spot was like every other spot and there was no single, recognizable place in the whole, expanse. It sparked something in her and she roused up at me. “It’s full of just wonderful places,” she said.
“Come out with me in the jeep and show me one,” I challenged.

During this trip, and subsequent ones, Helen tells him of the “fairyland” that she and her brother used to play in, and talks about “big cats” that chase dogs, “shaggy horses with claws, golden birds, camels, witches, elephants and many other creatures,” “the evil magic of a witch or giant,” “sleeping castles,” “gold or jewels,” and “magic eggs” amongst other things. Throughout this Campbell sketches the topology of Helen’s fantasy land (noting that she is remarkably consistent with her descriptions) and later convinces her to show him the “magic eggs,” which turn out to be quartz pebbles that could never have originated in the basalt desert around Barker.
Throughout all this Helen becomes increasingly unhappy and unstable, and there is a crisis point where she says that her brother Owen stole the “treasure” and later died because of her family’s poverty (when he was found he had lacerations of his back consistent with a cougar attack, although there were no such animals in the area). Old Dave eventually intervenes, tells Campbell about the townfolk’s displeasure about Helen’s condition, and states that she needs to go home.
Before he can arrange this Campbell receives a map of the prevolcanic Miocene landscape of the area, and is stunned when he realises it is a point for point copy of the map he has made of Helen’s fairyland. All of a sudden he realises, “The game was real [. . .] All the time the game had been playing me,” and he rushes out to find Helen, only to come across Dave who says she is missing.
Campbell drives out to the desert in the jeep ahead of the search party and, when he finds her, declares his love:

“Wait for me, little sister!” I screamed after her. “I love you, Helen! Wait for me!”
She stopped and crouched and I almost ran over her. I knelt and put my arms around her and then it was on us.
They say in an earthquake, when the direction of up and down tilts and wobbles, people feel a fear that drives them mad if they can not forget it afterward. This was worse. Up and down and here and there and now and then all rushed together. The wind roared through the rock beneath us and the air thickened crushingly above our heads. I know we clung to each other, and we were there for each other while nothing else was and that is all I know, until we were in the jeep and I was guiding it back toward town as headlong as I had come.
Then the world had shape again under a bright sun.  p. 45

There is a minor confrontation with the townsfolk when they get back, but Helen says she is going away with Campbell to be his wife.
A short postscript takes place sixteen years later, where Campbell tells of his professorship and the son they have had. Campbell also says that they don’t have any books of fairy tales in the house, but goes on to quote a cryptic remark from the son:

“You know, Dad, it isn’t only space that’s expanding. Time’s expanding too, and that’s what makes us keep getting farther away from when we used to be.”  p. 47

When I first finished this story (I skimmed it again later) I found it a bit of a muddle to be honest, and wasn’t sure whether “The Secret Place” was located in a different time or in a different reality, or both.1 Part of this was down to expectation (I’d previously read a review—which I can’t now find—of McKenna’s Fiddler’s Green which states that the characters in the story generate their own reality to escape the current one), and part of it was McKenna’s execution of the story itself, which trowels in so much talk of fantasy and magic that it almost drowns out the evidence suggesting the children (and later Campbell and Helen) are actually playing make-believe games in another time: the gold, the uranium, the quartz pebbles, the topology map, and the comment by the son.
I also thought the sudden declaration of love by Campbell a bit unlikely, and have no idea what is happening in the earthquake scene above (is it really a timequake—“now and then all rushed together”—or is it just an emotional climax to the story?)
It’s a very mixed bag and by no means a worthy Nebula winner. Bob Shaw’s Light of Other Days should have won that year, but was probably pipped by this as McKenna had recently died, and the film of his best-selling book, The Sand Pebbles, was in the cinemas.
** (Average). 6,150 words.

1. It took me a couple of days of scratching my head, Algis Budry’s October 1966 Galaxy review (“a minor story by a major writer,” “about time travel, love and maturation”), and reading the other comments on my Facebook group read thread before I could make sense of the story.

The Best We Can by Carrie Vaughn

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The Best We Can by Carrie Vaughn (Tor.com, July 2013) starts with the narrator discussing the discovery of UO1, an unidentified alien craft that is discovered in our solar system, and the bureaucracy that delays the an announcement to the world:

In the end, the discovery of evidence of extraterrestrial life, and not just life, but intelligence, got hopelessly mucked up because no one wanted to take responsibility for confirming the findings, and no one could decide who ultimately had the authority—the obligation—to do so. We submitted the paper, but peer review held it up for a year. News leaked—NASA announced one of their press conferences, but the press conference ended up being an announcement about a future announcement, which never actually happened and the reporters made a joke of it. Another case of Antarctic meteorites or cold fusion. We went around with our mouths shut waiting for an official announcement while ulcers devoured our guts.

Eventually, the narrator releases the news, and the rest of the story is about her further struggles to get a mission to go to the object and drag the (apparently dead) ship into a more manageable orbit so humanity can investigate. She is (spoiler) completely unsuccessful in her various efforts, to the extent she doesn’t even manage to get a JPL probe retasked to take better photographs. By the end of the piece she is reduced to writing a proposal for a Voyager-type probe to be sent to the origin of the object.
This well enough done examination of the inertia and bureaucracy of big organisations, but it is fatally flawed in at least three ways: first, it beggars belief that the militaries of both the USA and China, and perhaps others, wouldn’t be all over the craft; second, it is ultimately a story where nothing happens; third, the back end of the piece seems to be as much about her finding meaning in her life as much as it is about the UO1, and so splits the story’s focus.
** (Average). 4,500 words.

Humans and Other People by Sean William Swanwick

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Humans and Other People by Sean William Swanwick1 (Asimov’s SF, January/February 2021) opens with Mitchell and a robot called Simone (“Simone Lucie Ernestine Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir”) in a boat, with Mitchell diving down to a drowned Atlantic City Municipal Court to retrieve various documents. When he surfaces, Simone gives him news of an apartment fire. The pair are soon back on land and at the site of the blaze, where they manage to finagle matters so they are the only ones permitted to enter the “unsafe” building. This is followed by a meeting where they shake down the residents to get the salvage contract for their possessions.
The main part of the story (spoiler) sees the pair at work in the building, in which, the guard warns them, there may be an “anthroform” lurking. They soon find out that it is a robot when it physically attacks Mitchell and then Simone. During this episode they realise that it is made from standard parts, speaks Chinese, and its power levels are low (the only thing the creature says during the scuffle is that it has 6% power remaining). This encounter leads to more robots in the attic, where Mitchell gives them batteries and then rigs a solar panel to give them a permanent power supply. Then he and Simone leave.
The plot is by far the weakest part of this piece: not only is it relatively uncomplicated, but the idea of giving experimental robots of an unknown origin (one of whom has previously attacked you) a power supply and leaving them to it seems rather foolhardy. However, the story is fluently told, and there is a lively relationship between Mitchell and Simone that results in some sparky and/or quirky conversation. This isn’t limited to the exchanges between the pair however, as the apartment owners discover:

“No, wait, hold on,” said one of the interchangeable three. “So, we’re paying, what, you? And, er, your—” they paused, confused. “F. . . friend? Employee? The robot?” Simone turned a featureless head toward the speaker and said nothing. “And they’re going to help you retrieve things?”
“She is going to help.”
“Excuse me?”
“She is going to help.” Simone’s tone had grown clipped. “Not they. There is only me.”
The marks practically fell over one another in a confused torrent of explanation. “I thought robots were theys instead of its—” “You’re definitely displaying a gender neutral—” “Wait, is robot wrong? I’ve heard people saying Mobile Anthroform—”
Simone played an audio file of a sharp handclap as two sets of metal fingers came together, silencing the table. “No offense is taken,” Simone said. “If you find yourself struggling with the nomenclature, please feel free to ignore me completely.”
Mitch cursed inwardly—Simone had been getting worse and worse at handling the clients. In Pittsburgh, a recent argument about the nature of identity had ended with the clients never calling again.  p. 117

It is a mixed bag of a story, but a very promising debut: I look forward to further stories from this writer.
** (Average). 5,300 words.

1. The introduction to the story mentions Gardner Dozois (whose office manager Swanwick was) shaking a baby toy at the author when he was an infant, so I presume he is the son of Michael Swanwick.

Table Etiquette for Diplomatic Personnel, in Seventeen Scenes by Suzanne Palmer

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Table Etiquette for Diplomatic Personnel, in Seventeen Scenes by Suzanne Palmer (Asimov’s SF, January/February 2021) opens with Station Commander Ennie Niagara of Kenlon Station having dinner with the Ijt ambassador, an avian like alien. Niagara listens to the Ijt’s account of the previous commander’s fall from grace (a food related incident involving the serving of ghost peppers), and learns that his actions were designed to get rid of the Joxto, a troublesome race of aliens, from the station. The conversation closes with the ambassador’s news that the Joxto are on their way back.
Multiple plot elements and characters are then introduced to the story: two aliens, Qasi and Baxo, set off the fire alarms when they try the human custom of fondue (the latter creature is unknown to the rest of the station, and lurks in the air ducts); then a spaceship arrives with a Captain Vincente, who comes with official news of the Joxto’s imminent arrival; meanwhile, a body is found in engineering, which turns out to be the previous station commander . . . .
After this the stories trundles along while the investigation proceeds. More characters are introduced (two security officers, Mackie and Digby, as well as a Dr Reed). There is an alien fruit ceremony that Ennie attends before later going to her office and finding a piece of fruit that Bako, the “ghost alien” has left there. Then Vincente gets news from Earth that there is an assassin on the station looking to kill the Joxto.
After the fruit left in the commander’s cabin is identified as a particularly delicious one from Tyfse, a planet destroyed previously by the warring Joxto and Okgono, this all eventually resolves (spoiler) in the station’s garden ring. There we find out that Fred the gardener is plotting with the remaining surviving Tyfsian to sell the fruit it has saved from its planet, in return for assisting it to kill both the Joxto and Okgono. The story closes with Ennie confronting both races about the genocide.
This is an okay story, I guess, but it’s plodding as its title, goes on too long, and generally felt like a dull “Sector General”1 story with trendy pronouns:

“That is because I have not yet added the [fondue] heat source,” Qasi said. “I wished to test my understanding of the processes and equipment, and also refine my selection of sauces, before I invite an entire party to participate in the experience. I will even invite the commander!”
“What is the heat source, though?” Bako asked. Ey rotated eir head upside down so ey could peer at the underside of the pot, long whiskers bent back. “Some sort of thermal pod?”
“No!” Qasi said, her long tail twitching behind her from the excitement. “This is the very best part.”
She pulled out a small metal can, took the lid off, and slipped it between the legs of the stand under the pot. Then she grasped the small pull-tab on the side between two claws and pulled.
Flame jetted out of the top of the can, engulfing the pot. Bako skittered away on all eir two dozen legs, screeching in alarm. “It’s supposed to be able to be modulated,” Qasi said, trying to get close enough to see without burning her own whiskers. “I probably should have read the instructions.”
“Fire!” Bako shouted. “You made a fire! On a space station! This was a terrible idea, Qasi!”  p. 79

I can see why you might use these pronouns for a human character, but why use them for (to our view) a genderless alien instead of “they” or “their” or “its”? It’s an unnecessary distraction.
Another thing that irritated me by the end of the story was the continuous mention of food. There are numerous occasions where various characters are eating, and one of these, where a minor character is stuffing a burrito into his cakehole, just destroyed my suspension-of-disbelief. I thought, ‘They are still eating burritos on a distant space station hundreds of years from now?’
I also didn’t much care for the lazy contemporary dialogue and thoughts that the characters sometimes express. Apart from the likes of “Holy shit that’s good” and “crap ton of energy,” we also have twaddle like this:

The coffee machine was, in one of humanity’s oldest and most sacred covenants, fair game, with the caveat that if you finished the pot, you set it to make another.  p. 84

I usually look forward to Palmer’s work but this was disappointing.
** (Average, barely). 15,150 words.

1. The ‘Sector General’ series, by James White, were stories about a hospital in space which treated different types of aliens. There is a list on ISFDB—read those instead.

Microbe by Joan Slonczewski

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Microbe by Joan Slonczewski (Analog, August 1995) is one of the author’s ‘Elysium Cycle’ stories, and opens with an exploration team discussing the biochemistry of the alien planet, IP3, that they are orbiting. The team are Andra, a human female; Skyhook, a sentient space shuttle AI; and Pelt, a sentient nanoplast AI who also serves as a protective suit for Andra.
Their discussion, in particular, focuses on the alien cell structure of life on the planet, and they watch as an alien cell splits into three. Unfortunately these discussions (there are more later on in the story) tend to result in writing like this:

“The usual double helix?” asked Skyhook. The double helix is a ladder of DNA nucleotide pairs, always adenine with thymine or guanine with cytosine, for the four different “letters” of the DNA code. When a cell divides to make two cells, the entire helix unzips, then fills in a complementary strand for each daughter cell.  p. 372 (Year’s Best SF, edited by David Hartwell)

The second act of the story sees Andra, Pelt and Skyhook exploring the surface, where they discover a herd of strange rolling aliens which are later attacked by a much larger one. Then Pelt starts malfunctioning, and Andra (spoiler) barely makes it back to the shuttle before Pelt shuts down. There is some further discussion about the way that the alien microbes attacked Pelt’s nanoplast structure, and the crew’s solution.
This reads like part science lecture, part story, and has an open ending that suggests it is the first chapter of a novel. I’d have preferred a longer piece that was more of a story, but overall this is okay, I guess.
** (Average). 4,200 words.

Collapse by Nancy Kress

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Collapse by Nancy Kress (XPrize, 20171) was a recent group read choice of the Science Fiction Book Club FB group (they’ve just gone private so you’ll need to join to see the comments in that link), and the story is set in a future where a 2017 Flight 008, from Tokyo to San Francisco, passes through a wrinkle in space-time and lands in 2037. (Kress’s piece is one a number that share this initial premise.)
The story sees Matthew McAllister, the occupant of seat 12C, experience the first glimmerings of future shock as odd looking airport security staff move through the cabin in their fuchsia uniforms retinally scanning the passengers. The next morning, matters are worse:

By mid-morning, it was major news: The Flight From the Past. Lost for twenty years, no wreckage ever found. Interviews with the “miracle survivors,” bewildered or furious or terrified, frequently all three. Tearful reunions, mothers staring in disbelief at grown sons last seen as toddlers. Then the harder reunions: husbands facing wives now married to someone else, people whose elderly parents had died.
I’m the lucky one, McAllister thought, not without irony. He had no wife, children, parents, girlfriend; he’d always preferred it that way. He’d escaped the swarms of newspeople, government officials, and scientists tormenting the other Flight 008 passengers. He had cash in his briefcase from the currency exchange in Tokyo. He had hefty bank and brokerage accounts, and without instructions to the contrary, those went on forever. He had—
He had hysteria rising in his throat like bubbles of carbonation. He forced it down. Control. It was what would get him through, what had always gotten him through. He could do this.

McAllister then takes the maglev to Sacramento and spends the journey observing the changed world, the holo-TVs in the train, building roofs covered by green-white material he later learns is climate cooler, VR parlours, etc., but the thing that shocks him more than anything is a field of cucumbers. This plot element reappears at the end of the story (and also as section headings which give a time line of the exponential price rise of Dill Pickles: “2027: 40-Ounce jar of whole dill pickles, $7.99”)
The rest of the piece sees McAllister unable to access his apartment or funds (he is thrown out of the bank as an imposter), and when he tracks down his cousin, the beneficiary of his estate, he finds that he has died and the money has gone to a hostile wife. McAllister’s next move is a journey to see an old acquaintance called Erik, a cucumber farmer, and there we get a climactic SFnal data dump where we learn (a) McAllister was in Japan to sell a pollinating drone that was intended as a cure for Colony Collapse Disorder in bees and (b) that his device is been superseded by tiny FCO pollinating robots that no-one operates (FCO=fast, cheap, and out of control).
The story ends with McAllister staying the night and contemplating his future.
This is an interesting and readable enough piece, but it’s more futurology than story, and it fizzles out at the end.
** (Average). 3,350 words.

1. There have been at least a couple of these X-Prize digital anthologies. Another that I’m aware of is 2019’s Current Futures: A Sci-fi Ocean Anthology, edited by Ann VanderMeer.  ●

For White Hill by Joe Haldeman

Posted on by Paul Fraser

For White Hill by Joe Haldeman (Far Futures, edited by Gregory Benford, 1995) opens with the (unnamed) narrator stating that he is writing this memoir in English, a language from “an ancient land of Earth.” In the story’s leisurely opening chapters we find that he and a woman called White Hill are part of a group of twenty-nine artists that has gone to Earth to take part in a competition to design and build a commemorative artwork that will serve as a reminder, after the Earth is reterraformed, of the devastation caused by the Fwyndri. This alien race, with whom humanity are still at war, released a nanoplague on Earth which turned most plant and animal DNA into dust.
All this background information is given in little snippets though, and initially the story is mainly concerned with the developing relationship between the two characters, their sexual attraction, and the differing sexual mores of their two cultures (although, to be honest, they seem pretty much like an ordinary 20th Century couple1). There is also quite a lot of discussion about art as they wander around their base in Amazonia (and this is the kind of thing you would find in endless 1970’s artist colony stories):

She scraped at the edge of the sill with a piece of rubble. “It’s funny: earth, air, fire, and water. You’re earth and fire, and I’m the other two.”
I have used water, of course. The Gaudi is framed by water. But it was an interesting observation. “What do you do, I mean for a living? Is it related to your water and air?”
“No. Except insofar as everything is related.” There are no artists on Seldene, in the sense of doing it for a living. Everybody indulges in some sort of art or music, as part of “wholeness,” but a person who only did art would be considered a parasite. I was not comfortable there. She faced me, leaning. “I work at the Northport Mental Health Center. Cognitive science, a combination of research and . . . is there a word here? Jaturnary. ‘Empathetic therapy,’ I guess.”  p. 215 (Year’s Best SF, edited by David Hartwell)

White Hill’s occupation surfaces again at the end of the story.
After a couple chapters of these two mostly just talking to each other, the story finally gets going when they get a visitor who helps them plan their travel itinerary, at which point the story changes from an extended conversation into a travelogue. They go to Giza and the pyramids, and then by airship to Rome (which is now encircled by a wall of bones collected by the local monks). Then they learn they have to go back to Amazonia because “the war is back.”
At this point the story changes direction completely, and the pair return to discover that the Fwyndri have tampered with the sun’s internal processes and that it will become progressively hotter—eventually turning into a red giant. Earth will become increasingly uninhabitable and, when the sun finally expands, destroyed. The couple also learn that there is no way off-planet as all ships have been requisitioned (and ships from elsewhere will take too long to arrive). The pair decide to stay in Amazonia and continue with their work. They eventually sleep together.
The rest of the story charts their developing relationship and their projects. While they work on these latter, terraforming machines cool the Earth so much that snow ends up covering what was originally a desert. Then, when they are caught in one of the storms that frequently occur, White Hill is badly injured—she loses and eye and suffers serious facial injuries—and the narrator has to tend to her until she heals enough to undertake a “purge” and re-enter the safe underground areas for surgery.
After a couple more chapters about her recovery and their relationship, there is another right angle plot turn, which has him come back to find she has left to do “Jaturnary” work for a hundred people who are going off in a spaceship to cold sleep through the expansion of the sun. There is a place for him, but he knows that the therapy she will provide to keep the cold-sleepers sane will eradicate her personality (no, me neither), so he does not go.
If this synopsis seems all over the place, it is because the story is little more than a collection of deus ex machina plot developments (which are there because, I believe, the story is handily based on Shakespeare’s 18th sonnet2). There is also a considerable amount of flab here (there is endless chatter about the couple’s relationship), and a kitchen sink full of SF furniture (aliens, nano-plagues, exploding suns, cold-sleep, etc.) All in all, it struck me as very much the kind of story you would expect to see in a collection edited by another writer (which it was) and where, I suspect, the brief was, “write what you want!”
There are parts of this that are readable enough, but it is a mess, and average at best.
** (Average). 16,600 words.

1. These boy-meets-girl love stories clutter up quite a lot of Haldeman’s work, if I recall correctly.
2. Shakespeare’s 18th sonnet is here, along with explanatory notes.

The Three-Day Hunt by Robert R. Chase

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The Three-Day Hunt by Robert R. Chase (Asimov’s Science Fiction, January/February 2021) starts with an Afghanistan veteran called Hammond going to investigate a flying saucer that has crashed near to his cabin in the woods. When he and Tripod, his three-legged dog, get to the craft the pilot is missing, so they start tracking it.
The rest of the story has the pair following the alien through the wood for the next couple of days, during which we get Hammond’s military and domestic backstory as well as the dog’s (their paths crossed in Afghanistan, just before a bomb went off and injured them both). Later, the military contact him by phone to try to get him to stop his pursuit, but Hammond ignores them and carries on.
Then (spoiler), when Hammond stops to treat the dog’s bleeding paws, he finally sees the alien. As Hammond approaches it, the alien gestures towards the dog—at which point the story dissolves into a mini-lecture about how humanity’s domestication and/or symbiosis with dogs makes it more likely that we will be able to successfully establish a relationship with aliens.
More a notion than a story, but okay, I suppose.
** (Average). 4900 words.

Gossamer by Stephen Baxter

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Gossamer by Stephen Baxter (Science Fiction Age, November 1995) has a good opening hook that sees a two woman spaceship prematurely come out of a wormhole near Pluto and crash-land on the planet. During their approach, Lvov, the scientist of the two, has a brief (and story telegraphing) vision of a web between Pluto and one of its moons, Charon.
Both of the women survive the crash although the ship is wrecked, and Cobh the pilot tells Lvov that it’ll be twenty days or so before they are rescued, and that it won’t be via the wormhole (there is some handwavium here about the wormhole anomaly that spat them out of hyperspace).
The central section of the story then sees Lvov exploring the surface of Pluto and, as she flies along, we get some personal backstory. There is also further discussion between the pair (Cobh is off doing something else) about the unstable wormhole. Then Lvov finds what looks like eggs in a burrow:

Everywhere she found the inert bodies of snowflakes, or evidence of their presence: eggs, lidded burrows. She found no other life forms—or, more likely, she told herself, she wasn’t equipped to recognize any others.
She was drawn back to Christy, the sub-Charon point, where the topography was at its most complex and interesting, and where the greatest density of flakes was to be found. It was as if, she thought, the flakes had gathered here, yearning for the huge, inaccessible moon above them. But what could the flakes possible want of Charon? What did it mean for them?  p. 129 (Year’s Best SF, edited by David Hartwell)

When the pair realise that they may have discovered alien life there is a discussion about what they should do—if they signal Earth then the rescue will be called off as any rocket exhaust will damage the environment. Lvov (spoiler) feels strongly that if they have to die to preserve the Plutonian ecosystem then so be it and, when she realises that Cobh has figured out another way to get them home, she sends a message to Earth about her discovery.
The final part of the story has the pair going to the wormhole on Cobh’s salvaged and modified GUTdrive, the (presumably not ecosystem destroying) heat of which activates the Pluto-Charon ecosystem: the burrows open, the eggs hatch, and an interplanetary web forms between Pluto and its moon. Then the drive activates, and causes a distorted space wave which flicks the pair to Earth (or something like that).
This is a well enough put together story (apart from the telegraphing, which is repeated again later on), and it has a good sense-of-wonder finale—the problem is, though, that the piece as a whole does not convince. Part of the reason is the exotic ecosystem, which is interesting but rather far-fetched, and the other thing is Cobh’s rather unlikely invention of a new type of space drive amid the wreckage of their ship (this rather smacks of Star Smashers of the Galaxy Rangers, and cobbling together a star-drive out of a six-pack of used beer cans). There is also the minor problem (in practical if not narrative terms) of being trapped in your suit for twenty odd days, with no discussion of how you are going to eat or go to the toilet.
Normally, you can get away with one fantastic thing in a story; two or three is pushing it. Too far-fetched.
** (Average.) 6,100 words.

Wonders of the Invisible World by Patricia A. McKillip

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Wonders of the Invisible World by Patricia A. McKillip (Full Spectrum #5, 1995) begins arrestingly with a “angel” (a time-traveller) visiting a man called Mather:

I am the angel sent to Cotton Mather. It took me some time to get his attention. He lay on the floor with his eyes closed; he prayed fervently, sometimes murmuring, sometimes shouting. Apparently the household was used to it. I heard footsteps pass his study door; a woman—his wife Abigail?—called to someone: “If your throat is no better tomorrow, we’ll have Phillip pee in a cup for you to gargle.” From the way the house smelled, Phillip didn’t bother much with cups.  p. 30 (Best Science Fiction of the Year, David Hartwell)

The angel records Mather’s comments for the researcher she works for before returning to her own cyberpunk future,1 and her child. There she contemplates the dreadful past she has returned from, and agonises about the fact that she didn’t change anything for the better (although her employer reminds her that if she did she would have been left there). When she watches her kid play a VR game later on, she sees the image of a trapped angel.
This gets off to a good start but doesn’t subsequently go anywhere. A notion, not a story.
** (Average). 3,850 words.

1. Earlobe CD players are mentioned at one point.