The Lincoln Train by Maureen F. McHugh (F&SF, April 1995) opens with the young female narrator and her mother on a train station platform waiting to be transported to Oklahoma in the mid-1800s. As the narrative unfolds we learn that, in this alternate world, Lincoln didn’t die but was seriously injured and incapacitated. Subsequently, his deputy Seward ordered that “recalcitrant Southerners” be deported (although it seems that the narrator and mother’s offence was to allow their slaves to remain living with them after emancipation).
When the train arrives there is a crush during which the narrator’s mother dies, but she is told by a soldier to leave the body behind and get on the train. On board she is befriended by a young woman who, when they arrive at their destination (spoiler), secrets her away through a door, but only after a madwoman runs down the platform screaming that the deportees are being starved on the reservations.
The narrator subsequently learns she has been saved by Quakers, who are running a version of the Underground Railroad for deported Southerners. They tell her they will help her get to her sister.
The final paragraphs of the story have her offer to help their organisation, but she is refused as she is a “slaver” and thus “evil”. I wasn’t entirely convinced that the Quakers would have been so explicitly judgemental about her.
This is a predominantly descriptive, slow-paced story, and feels a little like an extract from a longer work. It’s fairly good, I guess, but I’m mystified as to how it won a Hugo Award.
*** (Good). 5,500 words.
They by Robert A. Heinlein
They by Robert A. Heinlein (Unknown, April 1941) opens with a man in an asylum playing chess with Hayward, one of his doctors. During their conversation the man offers a strongly solipsistic worldview—that the reality he experiences is an artificial construct that “they” have put in place to stop him remembering what he is:
“It is a play intended to divert me, to occupy my mind and confuse me, to keep me so busy with details that I will not have time to think about the meaning. You are all in it, every one of you.” He shook his finger in the doctor’s face. “Most of them may be helpless automatons, but you’re not. You are one of the conspirators. You’ve been sent in as a troubleshooter to try to force me to go back to playing the role assigned to me!”
He saw that the doctor was waiting for him to quiet down.
“Take it easy,” Hayward finally managed to say. “Maybe it is all a conspiracy, but why do you think that you have been singled out for special attention? Maybe it is a joke on all of us. Why couldn’t I be one of the victims as well as yourself?”
“Got you!” He pointed a long finger at Hayward. “That is the essence of the plot. All of these creatures have been set up to look like me in order to prevent me from realizing that I was the center of the arrangements. But I have noticed the key fact, the mathematically inescapable fact, that I am unique. Here am I, sitting on the inside. The world extends outward from me. I am the center—” pp. 18-19 (The Dark Mind, edited by Damon Knight, 1965)
We also hear the man’s various observations about the meaningless of life, that “human striving is about as rational as the blind dartings of a moth against a light bulb,” and about his problems in having any meaningful relationship or interaction with other humans, etc.
Eventually, after about twenty pages of this, Hayward arranges for the man’s wife to see him. Afterwards (spoiler) she reports to other individuals (Dr Hayward is apparently “The Glaroon”; another is the “First for Manipulation”). They discuss running an improved “sequence”, improving the quality of the reality they are using to deceive him, and a Treaty by which they are bound.
This is an interesting piece, and an atypical one for the time, but the ending is a bit of a let-down.
** (Average). 5,900 words.
The Black Ferris by Ray Bradbury
The Black Ferris by Ray Bradbury (Weird Tales, May 1948) sees Hank taking his boyhood friend Peter to a carnival to show him a supernatural event involving the owner:
Mr. Cooger, a man of some thirty-five years, dressed in sharp bright clothes, a lapel carnation, hair greased with oil, drifted under the tree, a brown derby hat on his head. He had arrived in town three weeks before, shaking his brown derby hat at people on the street from inside his shiny red Ford, tooting the horn.
Now Mr. Cooger nodded at the little blind hunchback, spoke a word. The hunchback blindly, fumbling, locked Mr. Cooger into a black seat and sent him whirling up into the ominous twilight sky. Machinery hummed.
“See!” whispered Hank. “The Ferris wheel’s going the wrong way. Backwards instead of forwards!”
“So what?” said Peter.
“Watch!”
The black Ferris wheel whirled twenty-five times around. Then the blind hunchback put out his pale hands and halted the machinery. The Ferris wheel stopped, gently swaying, at a certain black seat.
A ten-year-old boy stepped out. He walked off across the whispering carnival ground, in the shadows. p. 2 (The Dark Mind, edited by Damon Knight, 1965)
The kids follow the boy to Mrs Foley’s house (Foley is a widower who lost her son some time ago). Hank explains to Peter that Cooger is obviously the same person as an orphan called Pikes, who started living with the old woman the same time as the carnival came to town, and that Cooger/Pikes are up to no good. Hank and Peter then knock at Mrs Foley’s door and tell them what they have seen, but she doesn’t believe them, and throws them out. As they leave they see Cooger/Pikes in the window making a threatening gesture.
The story later sees Hank phone Pete to organise a second expedition to intercept Cooger—during which they fail to catch him, ending up on a chase through the town to the carnival. Cooger gets on the Ferris wheel to revert to his normal age but, in the middle of the process (spoiler), the boys attack the hunchback and prevent him stopping the wheel at the appropriate time. The wheel keeps on turning and, when it does eventually stop, all that is left of Cooger is pile of bones beside the loot he stole from Mrs Foley.
This has a pretty good gimmick at its core (and one, I believe, that Bradbury reused in his novel Something Wicked This Way Comes, 1962) but the piece is obviously an early work (the opening paragraph tries too hard, and he seems to be in a huge rush to get through the story).
Not bad though.
*** (Good). 2,800 words.
The Cold Solution by Don Sakers
The Cold Solution by Don Sakers (Analog, July 1991) is a direct response to an earlier story from the magazine’s history, The Cold Equations by Tom Godwin (Astounding, August 1954). If you have never heard of this latter story it involves a spaceship pilot discovering a stowaway on his ship during a trip to take vital medicines to a colony planet. If the (female) stowaway remains on board (extra mass) the pilot won’t make it as he doesn’t have enough fuel. So the choice is: (a) she goes out the airlock or (b) they both die in space, and the colonists die too. The story (spoiler) confounds reader expectation of the time by having the pilot put the stowaway out the airlock rather than finding an engineering solution.1
Reader reactions to the story often miss the Trolley Problem2 at its heart (which of these two awful choices do you choose?) and generally fall into one of two categories: (a) there are engineering or security or physical problems that can or should have been addressed, or (b) the piece is an intentional piece of misogyny because a woman is brutally killed (this latter ignores her sympathetic prior treatment in the story, the likely feelings of the readers—who were from a “woman and children first” generation—and the fact that if it was a man no-one would care. That said, the pilot could have shot her first, which would have been a quicker and less painful death.)3 As we shall see, the piece under consideration falls into the first category.
Saker’s story begins in a similar manner to Godwin’s original with a female spaceship pilot finding a young boy who has smuggled on board her ship. The next few pages are a clunky setup of the problem outlined above (along with in-jokes and references to the original—the boy had spoken to a “Technician Godwin,” and the pilot remembers an old story that she read at the Academy, etc.). Eventually, the ship gets closer and closer to the decision point (there are options that give her a little more fuel but not enough) and, just before they get there, she tells the boy she’d give anything to prevent his death—just before dialling up her laser knife to maximum.
The story (spoiler) then cuts to a hospital where both of them are having their limbs regenerated, and we find out that the pilot amputated various of their limbs with the laser knife, before putting them out the airlock to get down to the required mass (I think the amputations include her legs, and one of his arms and both of his legs, but I can’t remember).
This is a silly end to a story that either (a) misses the conundrum at the heart of the original story or (b) decides to dodge it. Or maybe thinks that there is no philosophical problem so large that it can’t be sorted with a big enough spanner.
Worth reading for the unintentionally hilarious ending.
* (Mediocre). 4,100 words.
1. For a longer review of Tom Godwin’s story see The Cold Equations at sfmagazines.com.
2. The Wikipedia page on The Trolley Problem, or the more entertaining The Good Life take on the matter.
3. For a story that responds to Godwin’s story as a misogynistic piece see my review of Think Like a Dinosaur by James Patrick Kelly at sfmagazines.com.
The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories by Gene Wolfe
The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories by Gene Wolfe1 (Orbit #7, 1970) is one of his ‘Archipelago’ series and opens with its child protagonist, Tackman Babcock, going to the store with Jason, a man who appears to be his ill mother’s boyfriend. When they get there Tackman sees a book he wants but Jason refuses to buy it. However, when they get back to the car, Jason takes the book out from under his jacket and presents it to the boy. Tackman is delighted, and flicks through the pages while Jason makes unsettling comments about his mother (he is told not to come into her room that evening, and that she is so soft that, when Jason climbs on her, “it’s just like being on a big pillow.”) This begins a thread of domestic unease that runs throughout the story.
The next section of the story is an extract from the book that Tackman has been given, which involves a Captain Philip Ransom floating alone on a raft in the middle of the sea. When he sees land in the distance he starts paddling towards the shore.
Then, when Tackman goes outside the next morning:
A life raft. You run to the beach, jump up and down and wave your cap. “Over here. Over here.”
The man from the raft has no shirt but the cold doesn’t seem to bother him. He holds out his hand and says, “Captain Ransom,” and you take it and are suddenly taller and older; not as tall as he is or as old as he is, but taller and older than yourself. “Tackman Babcock, Captain.”
“Pleased to meet you. You were a friend in need there a minute ago.”
“I guess I didn’t do anything but welcome you ashore.”
“The sound of your voice gave me something to steer for while my eyes were too busy watching that surf. Now you can tell me where I’ve landed and who you are.”
You are walking back up to the house now, and you explain to Ransom about you and Mother, and how she doesn’t want to enroll you in the school here because she is trying to get you into the private school your father went to once. And after a time there is nothing more to say, and you show Ransom one of the empty rooms on the third floor where he can rest and do whatever he wants. Then you go back to your own room to read. p. 200-201
The rest of the book mixes three layers of reality: the first is Tackman’s real world (we learn that his mother is separated from his father but she is shortly to be remarried to a Dr Black); the second is the book’s pulp story (Ransom is caught and held captive by Dr Death, a scientist who is undertaking Moreau-like2 experiments); and the third involves scenes where both the real and book worlds merge, such as the one where Tackman talks to Dr Death on a restaurant balcony when he goes out for a meal with his mother, two aunts, and Dr Black.
The rest of the piece sees the appearance (in the story thread) of, among others, Talar of the Long Eyes (a female love interest for Ransom) and Bruno (an uplifted dog), the latter of which later visits Tackman in his bedroom. The climax of the real world thread (spoiler) eventually sees Tackman finding his mother overdosed at a party in the house and calling the police. The culpability (or otherwise) of Jason and Dr Black in her drug use remains ambiguous.
The final paragraphs show that Tackman is probably a character in a story too:
[The police] go away and you pick up the book and riffle the pages, but you do not read. At your elbow Dr. Death says “What’s the matter, Tackie?” He smells of scorched cloth and there is a streak of blood across his forehead, but he smiles and lights one of his cigarettes.
You hold up the book. “I don’t want it to end. You’ll be killed at the end.”
“And you don’t want to lose me? That’s touching.”
“You will, won’t you? You’ll burn up in the fire and Captain Ransom will go away and leave Talar.”
Dr. Death smiles. “But if you start the book again we’ll all be back. Even Golo and the bull-man.”
“Honest?”
“Certainly.” He stands up and tousles your hair. “It’s the same with you, Tackie. You’re too young to realize it yet, but it’s the same with you.” p. 214
The last line arguably introduces a fourth level of reality into the narrative, that of the reader who is finishing Wolfe’s story.
I really liked this piece when I first read it but this time it struck me as a slighter effort—Tackman’s “real” life isn’t a particularly well-developed arc as much of the piece relates to what happens in the book and to Tackman’s interactions with the characters. That said, the story merges the various realities of the story in a highly accomplished (and for the time novel) manner, and I was attracted to the story’s evocation of the complete immersion of youthful reading—what a pity that seems to disappear with age.
***+ (Good to Very good). 6,050 words. Story link.
1. Gene Wolfe was on the Nebula Award final ballot with this story and was initially announced as the winner—until the master of ceremonies, Isaac Asimov, was told that it had placed second to No Award. Gardner Dozois picks up the story in Jo Walton’s An Informal History of the Hugo Awards (Tor, 2018):
I was there, sitting at Gene Wolfe’s table, in fact. He’d actually stood up, and was starting to walk toward the podium, when Isaac was told about his mistake. Gene shrugged and sat down quietly, like the gentleman he is, while Isaac stammered an explanation of what had happened. It was the one time I ever saw Isaac totally flustered, and, in fact, he felt guilty about the incident to the end of his days. It’s bullshit that this was the result of confusing ballot instructions. This was the height of the War of the New Wave, and passions between the New Wave camp and the conservative Old Guard camp were running high. (The same year, Michael Moorcock said in a review that the only way SFWA could have found a worse thing than Ringworld to give the Nebula to was to give it to a comic book.) The fact that the short story ballot was almost completely made up of stuff from Orbit [Damon Knight’s anthology series] had outraged the Old Guard, particularly James Sallis’s surreal “The Creation of Bennie Good,” and they block-voted for No Award as a protest against “nonfunctional word patterns” making the ballot. Judy-Lynn del Rey told me as much immediately after the banquet, when she was exuberantly gloating about how they’d “put Orbit in its place” with the voting results, and actually said, “We won!”
2. The book appears to reference H. G. Well’s The Island of Doctor Moreau and Richard Shaver’s ‘Lemuria’ stories, but I have no idea where Tala of the Long Eyes comes from.
The Man Who Lost the Sea by Theodore Sturgeon
The Man Who Lost the Sea by Theodore Sturgeon (F&SF, October 1959) opens with a boy annoying a man who is half-buried in sand with explanations about how his helicopter works:
He doesn’t want to think about flying, about helicopters, or about you, and he most especially does not want explanations about anything by anybody. Not now. Now, he wants to think about the sea. So you go away.
The sick man is buried in the cold sand with only his head and his left arm showing. He is dressed in a pressure suit and looks like a man from Mars. Built into his left sleeve is a combination time-piece and pressure gauge, the gauge with a luminous blue indicator which makes no sense, the clock hands luminous red. He can hear the pounding of surf and the soft swift pulse of his pumps. One time long ago when he was swimming he went too deep and stayed down too long and came up too fast, and when he came to it was like this: they said, “Don’t move, boy. You’ve got the bends. Don’t even try to move.” He had tried anyway. It hurt. So now, this time, he lies in the sand without moving, without trying. p. 259 (The Year’s Best SF #5, edited by Judith Merril, 1961)
After this we learn that the man isn’t, for an unspecified reason, able to think straight, and his inchoate thoughts wander from a childhood concussion in a gym class to observations of his local environment—these include what he thinks is the sea in front of him—before moving on to an attempt to calculate the period of an overhead satellite. During these various thought processes (spoiler) it seems he may be somewhere other than Earth.
The next long section is a formative episode from the man’s youth, when he got into difficulties in the sea while snorkelling and almost drowned—all because he panicked but was reluctant to call for help. He then thinks about the kid with the helicopter, which makes him recall another model, one of a spacecraft that had several stages. Then he notices that the satellite is just about to disappear, and his final calculation of its period confirms where he is.
In the last section of the story he recalls the spacecraft again, but the real thing this time and not the model, and how the final two stages, Gamma and Delta, crashed onto the surface, ejecting a man to lie among radioactive graphite from the destroyed engine. Then the sun rises, and he realises that there isn’t a sea in front of him:
The sun is high now, high enough to show the sea is not a sea, but brown plain with the frost burned off it, as now it burns away from the hills, diffusing in air and blurring the edges of the sun’s disk, so that in a very few minutes there is no sun at all, but only a glare in the east. Then the valley below loses its shadows, and like an arrangement in a diorama, reveals the form and nature of the wreckage below: no tent-city this, no installation, but the true real ruin of Gamma and the eviscerated hulk of Delta. (Alpha was the muscle, Beta the brain; Gamma was a bird, but Delta, Delta was the way home.) p. 269 (The Year’s Best SF #5, edited by Judith Merril, 1961)
He realises that this is his spaceship, and it crashed on Mars. He also realises that he is dying but, in his last moments, he rejoices that “we made it.”
This story may appear to have a slight narrative arc but a plot synopsis isn’t much use in an appreciation: what we really have here are a number of well-written and intensely evocative memories and scenes that are slowly brought into focus to reveal what has happened to the man. It’s an accomplished piece and, in terms of technique, atypical for the period.
***+ (Good to Very Good). 4,950 words. Story link.
Make a Prison by Lawrence Block
Make a Prison by Lawrence Block (Science Fiction Stories, January 1959) gets off to a pretty good start with two Alteans discussing a prisoner—the murderer of three of their kind, the first such crime in thirty generations—who is about to be imprisoned in a tall tower. They talk about the security precautions (the curved, unclimbable walls, the pneumatic delivery tubes, etc.) and then watch as the shackled prisoner is sent up to the accommodation at the top.
Several minutes later the prisoner throws his shackles down (the key was at the top of the tower), and then (spoiler) he climbs the rail and flies away.
This latter event broke the story for me as there is no build up to this surprising event—it just happens. I presume the twist might work for those who were assuming that the prisoner is a human.
* (Mediocre). 1,000 words. Story link.
Plenitude by Will Mohler
Plenitude by Will Mohler (F&SF, November 1959, as by Will Worthington) starts with a four-year-old boy called Mike asking his narrator father various questions while they garden. As a result of these—why don’t they live in the “Old House in the Valley” anymore, are the “funny men” broken (explained by the narrator as a reference to derelict robots in the city), etc.—the story soon establishes itself as a post-collapse one.1
Then, when the narrator and son Mike return to their house for supper, he learns from his wife that his other son, a twelve-year-old called Chris, has gone hunting. It later becomes apparent that there has been a falling out between the two (and possibly an estrangement with a neighbouring family) as a result of a trip to the city where the narrator killed someone.
The rest of the story then flashbacks to a previous day of gardening, but this time with the elder son Chris, who is also questioning the father about why they live as they do and how society ended up in its present state. The narrator tries to answer these more involved and challenging questions but eventually becomes exasperated with his son and says he will take him into the city so he can see things for himself.
The climactic section (spoiler) sees the pair moving through a mostly derelict urban landscape until they come to a fence surrounding a group of large fluid-filled bubbles. Inside these people float seemingly unaware, connected up to various leads and hoses. The narrator cuts the perimeter fence and the pair go inside for a closer look:
I do not know the purpose of all the tubes and wires myself. I do know that some are connected with veins in their arms and legs, others are nutrient enemata and for collection of body wastes, still others are only mechanical tentacles which support and endlessly fondle and caress. I know that the wires leading to the metal caps on their heads are part of an invention more voracious and terrible than the ancient television—direct stimulation of certain areas of the brain, a constant running up and down the diapason of pleasurable sensation, controlled by a sort of electronic kaleidoscope.
My imagination stops about here. It would be the ultimate artificiality, with nothing of reality about it save endless variation. Of senselessness I will not think. I do not know if they see constantly shifting masses or motes of color, or smell exotic perfumes, or hear unending and constantly swelling music. I think not. I doubt that they even experience anything so immediate and yet so amorphous as the surge and recession of orgasm or the gratification of thirst being quenched. It would be stimulation without real stimulus; ultimate removal from reality. I decide not to speak of this to Chris. He has had enough. He has seen the wires and the tubes. pp. 253-254 (The Year’s Best SF #5, edited by Judith Merril, 1961)
Then one of the occupants opens his eyes and sees the pair, and a guard robot quickly arrives. The narrator destroys it and then, in his rage, goes on to slash open the bubbles:
The corn-knife was not very sharp, but the skin of the sphere parted with disgusting ease. I heard Chris scream, “No! Dad! No!” . . . but I kept hacking. We were nearly engulfed in the pinkish, albuminous nutritive which gushed from the ruptured sac. I can still smell it.
The creatures inside were more terrible to see in the open air than they had been behind their protective layers of plastic material. They were dead white and they looked to be soft, although they must have had normal human skeletons. Their struggles were blind, pointless and feeble, like those of some kind of larvae found under dead wood, and the largest made a barely audible mewing sound as it groped about in search of what I cannot imagine.
I heard Chris retching violently, but could not tear my attention away from the spectacle. The sphere now looked like some huge coelenterate which had been halved for study in the laboratory, and the hoselike tentacles still moved like groping cilia.
The agony of the creatures in the “grape” (I cannot think of them as People) when they were first exposed to unfiltered, unprocessed air and sunlight, when the wires and tubes were torn from them, and especially when the metal caps on their heads fell off in their panicky struggles and the whole universe of chilly external reality rushed in upon them at once, is beyond my imagining; and perhaps this is merciful. This, and the fact that they lay in the stillness of death after only a very few minutes in the open air.
Memory is merciful too in its imperfection. All I remember of our homeward journey is the silence of it. pp. 255-256 (The Year’s Best SF #5, edited by Judith Merril, 1961)
The remainder of the story returns to the present day, and sees a returned Mike and a neighouring family joining the narrator, wife and youngest son for supper. Mike appears reconciled, even unconcerned, about what happened.
This isn’t a perfect piece by any means (the conflict set up between the father and son fades away rather than being resolved in any meaningful or cathartic way) but it has some superior qualities. Not only is the story well written, with some good characterisation and vivid description, but the narrator’s reflective commentary also puts the reader right inside his head. This rich mixture transcends the slightness of the plot.
I’ll be tracking down more of Mohler’s work.
***+ (Good to Very Good). 5,100 words. Story link.
1. This story reminded me a little, in places, of the novel Earth Abides by George Stewart.
Dream Atlas by Michael Swanwick
Dream Atlas by Michael Swanwick (Asimov’s SF, March/April 2021) has a scientist studying dreams meet her future self while having one. She is subsequently told that the dream continuum stretches through space and time and can be used to see the past and future. Future scientist then tells her the eighteen principles she needs to complete her work and earn a Nobel Prize, much wealth, and fame. However, (spoiler) before future scientist can finish her spiel, far-future beings1 interrupt the process and tell the present day scientist it would be too hazardous for the people of her time to have that knowledge.
This is an entertaining enough squib but it is slight, and doesn’t really make any sense if you think about it too much: how would the future scientist come into existence if the far-future beings intervene?
** (Average). 2,100 words.
1. The far-future beings sound like the same kind of deal as The Unchanging in his story Scherzo with Tyrannosaur (Asimov’s SF, July 1999), reviewed here recently.
Day at the Beach by Carol Emshwiller
Day at the Beach by Carol Emshwiller (F&SF, August 1959) begins with two (hairless) parents discussing, over their oatmeal, the dangers in commuting to the city to get food. Thereafter we get other hints that this is a post-holocaust or post-Collapse future when a discussion about a possible trip to the beach has mention of the boardwalk having been used for firewood and, when the couple’s three-year old comes in from outside, he is described as having down growing along his backbone (the woman wonders “if that was the way the three year olds had been before”). The child also bites a small chunk out of his mother’s shoulder when she chastises him for knocking over his oatmeal.
After this setup the couple decide—partly because they think it’s Saturday, partly because it’s a nice day—to go to the beach: they fill the car with only enough petrol to get there, and take a can’s worth for the return trip (which they plan to hide while they are on the beach). They also take weapons: a wrench for her, and a hammer for him.
On the drive there they see only a solitary cyclist and then, when they get to the beach, no-one at all. Later on, however, three men appear and threaten them, saying they want the couple’s gasoline. There is then an altercation during which the husband kills the leader with his hammer and the other two run off. Then the couple realise that the child has disappeared.
The remainder of the story sees the couple searching for the kid, and the husband eventually bringing him back. At this point the wife notes that they have time for one last swim (this with the attacker’s body still lying nearby). Then, on the way home:
He fell asleep in her lap on the way home, lying forward against her with his head at her neck the way she liked. The sunset was deep, with reds and purples.
She leaned against Ben. “The beach always makes you tired,” she said. “I remember that from before too. I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
They drove silently along the wide empty parkway. The car had no lights, but that didn’t matter.
“We did have a good day after all,” she said. “I feel renewed.”
“Good,” he said.
[. . .]
“We had a good day,” she said again. “And Littleboy saw the sea.” She put her hand on the sleeping boy’s hair, gently so as not to disturb him and then she yawned. “I wonder if it really was Saturday.” p. 174 (The Year’s Best SF #5, edited by Judith Merril, 1961)
This is an effectively dystopian piece, but its impact will probably be blunted for most readers by the many similar tales that have appeared since. I suspect, however, this story was notably grim for the time, and it foreshadows later new wave stories.
*** (Good). 4,100 words. Story link.