Tag: 1971

Sober Noises of Morning in a Marginal Land by Brian W. Aldiss

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Sober Noises of Morning in a Marginal Land by Brian W. Aldiss (SF: Authors’ Choice 3, 1971) opens with the narrator, who has been brutally interrogated, being taken back to his room. After he recovers a little he manages to escape through a trapdoor in the roof—only to be recaptured some time later by three horsemen.
As this story unfolds we discover that (a) this is set in a 38th Century Kazakhstan (although his surroundings are little different from today’s); (b) there is One State ruling the Earth; (c) the narrator has actually booked into this prison for a one month course of suffering (apparently he has “a tendency towards guilt”); and (d) that mankind is in the process of developing a shared consciousness:

“The State recognises that human consciousness is changing. That a quantal step is being taken by the human animal. That we are coming into a period when more and more individuals—finally the whole race—will . . . evolve into a being with a greater capacity for consciousness.”
The word eluded me. Then I got it out in a whisper. “Supermen?”
“It’s not a term I would use. We know there are different levels of awareness. Not just the conscious. The below-conscious as well, with more than one level. They are merging into a new integrated consciousness.”
“. . . And the State wants individuals with such awareness to be on its side. . . . “
“It wants to be on their side.”

There is further discussion about this concept, and also the divisions that separate individuals from one another—but it’s all rather gnomic. The point of the story remained unclear.
** (Average). 6,600 words. Story link.

The Human Operators by Harlan Ellison & A. E. Van Vogt

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The Human Operators by Harlan Ellison & A. E. Van Vogt (F&SF, January 1971) opens1 with the narrator completing a task in space outside what we later find is a generation spaceship. He is the only inhabitant, essentially the slave of the controlling AI, which keeps him in line by the use of electric shocks.
The story later sees the narrator repair one of the modules in the ship’s intermind (where he hears voices—I can’t remember if this is ever adequately explained) so the ship can lower its “defractor shield” (shades of Star Trek) and dock with one of the other ships in the fleet (there is some backstory about a Starfighter revolt before the AIs took over the various ships in the fleet).
After the narrator completes his task, a female from one of the other ships comes on board to mate with him (the humans on the ship only live until their thirties—his father dies when he was fourteen, and his father’s father likewise).
Eventually, (spoiler) the telegraphed revolt occurs when the narrator goes to the control room and fights the AI (which fights back by accelerating and decelerating the ship). He wins—then the woman reveals that she is free too, and they should free the others in the fleet. However, after further discussions, they decide to go and settle on an alien planet instead.
Interesting start but, even though the individual scenes are competently enough done, the rest of the story never really convinces or coheres, especially the intermind/talking voices part. And the final section, where they land on the alien planet and meet the natives, seems like it belongs to a different story.
** (Average). 7,850 words. Story link.

1. There is a short note before the story:

[To be read while listening to Chronophagie, “The Time Eaters’’: Music of Jacques Lasry, played on Structures Sonores Lasry-Baschet (Columbia Masterworks Stereo MS 7314).]

Pretentious twaddle like this doesn’t improve your clunky space opera.

Good News from the Vatican by Robert Silverberg

Posted on by Paul Fraser 1 Comment on Good News from the Vatican by Robert Silverberg

Good News from the Vatican by Robert Silverberg (Universe #1, 1971) has a group of tourists awaiting the election of a new pope:

“Every era gets the pope it deserves,” Bishop FitzPatrick observed somewhat gloomily today at breakfast. “The proper pope for our times is a robot, certainly. At some future date it may be desirable for the pope to be a whale, an automobile, a cat, a mountain.” Bishop FitzPatrick stands well over two meters in height and his normal facial expression is a morbid, mournful one. Thus it is impossible for us to determine whether any particular pronouncement of his reflects existential despair or placid acceptance.
[. . .]
We have been watching the unfolding drama of the papal election from an outdoor cafe several blocks from the Square of St. Peter’s. For all of us, this has been an unexpected dividend of our holiday in Rome; the previous pope was reputed to be in good health and there was no reason to suspect that a successor would have to be chosen for him this summer.

Most of the rest story comprises (a) the conversational exchanges that the group have about the desirability of a robot pope and (b) detail about the characters and the papal election process. Readable as this is, however, it seems to be a set-up for the droll final scene, where (spoiler) white smoke appears and the robot Pope finally appears on the balcony:

Yes, and there he is, Pope Sixtus the Seventh, as we now must call him. A tiny figure clad in the silver and gold papal robes, arms outstretched to the multitude, and, yes! the sunlight glints on his cheeks, his lofty forehead, there is the brightness of polished steel. Luigi is already on his knees. I kneel beside him. Miss Harshaw, Beverly, Kenneth, even the rabbi all kneel, for beyond doubt this is a miraculous event.
The pope comes forward on his balcony. Now he will deliver the traditional apostolic benediction to the city and to the world. “Our help is in the Name of the Lord,” he declares gravely. He activates the levitator jets beneath his arms; even at this distance I can see the two small puffs of smoke. White smoke, again. He begins to rise into the air. “Who hath made heaven and earth,” he says. “May Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, bless you.” His voice rolls majestically toward us. His shadow extends across the whole piazza. Higher and higher he goes, until he is lost to sight. Kenneth taps Luigi. “Another round of drinks,” he says, and presses a bill of high denomination into the innkeeper’s fleshy palm. Bishop FitzPatrick weeps. Rabbi Mueller embraces Miss Harshaw. The new pontiff, I think, has begun his reign in an auspicious way.

This is a pleasant enough read (Silverberg could make a telephone book entertaining) but it is plotless piece of fluff, and the story’s subsequent Nebula Award is a little baffling.
*** (Good). 3,200 words.