Electronic OtherRealms #19 Winter, 1987 Part 10 No Prisoners! Reviews by Laurie Sefton lsefton@amdahl.com Copyright 1987 by Laurie Sefton Reviewed in this issue: Intervention Julian May [*****] The Fionavar Tapestry The Summer Tree The Wandering Fire The Darkest Road Guy Gavriel Kay [****+] Caught in Crystal Patricia C. Wrede [***+] Arrow's Flight Mercedes Lackey [****] Every once in a while it's good to have an enforced vacation. You get a chance to think and do things that you either would have put off or have never gotten around to. My enforced vacation was a case of pneumonia that had me flat on my back for two weeks. Since I had a lot of time, and not a lot of energy, I worked through my overflowing "in-box" of books. My lungs' loss were my mind's gain; I came across some gems that would have otherwise gathered dust. Intervention, by Julian May [Houghton Mifflin, $18.95, 546 pp, 0-395-43782-2], the "bridge" novel between the Pliocene Exile series, and the coming Galactic Milieu books. It is essentially the autobiography of Rogatien Remillard, with others' viewpoints interspersed throughout the book. The force behind the books is a friendly "ghost", from the Galactic Milieu, who, besides Rogatien, is the only common character throughout the book. It turns out that the Galactic Milieu has been watching Earth longer than we had thought. The first time we see them is just after World War II. They realize that humans have the capability to become members of the Milieu, but they are waiting to see if Earth will survive the appearance of operant psychics. They have developed some interesting habits during their mission; they're quite fond of Scotch Whisky and jazz. This is one of the methods that May uses to describe the characters and their settings. The food that each is eating is lovingly described to the point where I brought out my cookbook collection, just to see if I could cook what was being eaten. The descriptions of what is being eaten and when gives more information on that character than a chapter of expository dialogue. Beyond the descriptions of food, the descriptions of each of the characters is so vivid that I expected to be able to find Denis Remillard's Psi lab, along with Rogatien's book shop. This is much harder than it sounds; since a large portion of the book occurs in current time, it would be a lot easier to disbelieve what is happening. Especially since, if you've already read the Pliocene exile series, you know what's going to happen. From the first meeting of Rogatien and his "friendly ghost", to the last stand of the operants, under siege from Denis's younger brother, I didn't want to put the book down. Don't wait for the paperback: Intervention is one of the best books of the year. I can't wait for the Galactic Milieu trilogy. I was prepared to actively dislike the Fionavar Tapestry [Arbor House, Unwin Hyman, #10.95]; the last two years have been big ones for Celtic fantasy, and there has been a lot of dross emerging as the publishing cycle reaches its peak., when I read the first book, The Summer Tree, I had just finished with a spate of mediocre pseudo-Celtic adventure novels. Celtic overdose clouded my judgement, and the book ended up in the "who cares?" stack. However, after hearing enough glowing reports about the book, I decided to get the last book of the trilogy, and attempt to read them all at once. The second reading, not clouded by my previous perceptions, revealed a classic. The theme, the ultimate battle of good and evil, isn't stilted or trite, and Kay is able to use his modern characters as a foil and to give a different viewpoint from the legendary characters. However, even the modern characters become part of the legend. Fionavar is the "first of all worlds", the primary focus from which all the other worlds descend. Using this, Kay is able to give understandable versions of common archetypes; the sacrificial king, the exiled prince, the wild hunt, and the ultimate evil under the mountain coming to life. In all this he even manages in inject, and even more importantly, resolve, the story of Arthur, Guenivere, and Lancelot. This is quite a package for any author to tackle, and Kay is not only able to control it, but to guide and shape it to a glorious end. Kay is also able to tackle an area that stymies a lot of fantasy writers: where does all this stuff come from? I like the explanation of each wizard having a power source, and that power source being finite. And oh, yes, that power source is another sentient being. All the fantastic elements of Fionavar work, whether it's wizardry, curses, or pre-cognizance. There is a rational explanation for each occurrence. I'd recommend that you buy all three volumes of the Fionavar Tapestry, and spend a long weekend reading them. You won't be disappointed. Besides the overdose of Celtic adventure, another part of the current crop of fantasy that annoys me is the emergence of the stupid but stacked female warrior. While she's shortchanged in the intelligence department, she looks like a graduate student of the Mark Eden school of bust development. You know the type; she's young, vicious, and wears low cut chain mail in the dead of winter. Fortunately for us, there's a remedy for all that, Patricia Wrede's Caught in Crystal [Ace Fantasy, $2.95, 293 pp, 0-441-76006-6]. Kayl, the warrior is none of the stereotypes. She's heading toward forty, the mother of two, and she's bulging in the wrong places. However, she has brains to spare, and a master strategist. Here we meet Kayl, she is running an Inn, having left the Sisterhood of Stars, a fellowship of warriors and magicians many years before. The reason for her departure, a disastrous mission to the Twisted Tower, comes back to haunt her. For it seems that the Sisterhood's magic is failing, and they trace it back to the Tower. Joining her and the Sisterhood on the new mission to the Tower is Glydon, a wizard from the original mission who has suffered from fits since his brush with the Tower's evil. Wrede has set this in the world of Lyra, where there once co-existed four races; humans, the Wyrds, who look somewhat like anthropomorphic cats, the Nereids, a fish race, and the Shee, a race of fair folk. There is tension between the races, and between the humans. Even the Sisterhood has the social dynamics of any corporate board.. It's refreshing to see a questing group that isn't all fair rosy cheeks and singing. Caught in Crystal is a good introduction to Patricia Wrede's works. Once you've read one of Wrede's books, you'll be back for more. Arrow's Flight, by Mercedes Lackey [Daw Fantasy, $3.50, 318 pp, 0- 88677-222-2], is the second book in a trilogy about Talia, a Herald in the Kingdom of Valdemar. The Heralds are the "Arrows of the Queen", people who listen to disagreements among the populace, direct the army, and oversee the running of the kingdom. Each has a Companion, horse-like magic creatures who choose and bond with their riders. Each Herald has at least one form of psychic ability; most have some level of telepathy, while others are clairvoyant. Talia is a projective and receptive empath. While this ability isn't unheard of in court, the healers are empathic, it is unknown among the Heralds. Talia is assumed to have control over her abilities, and isn't trained as the other are. The lack of training, coupled with a plot by the nobles to ruin Talia's reputation as the Queen's Herald, bring Talia troubel, and are the main plot of the book. Mercedes Lackey creates a believable world, close enough to our own to be understandable. Even in this world, where there are magic Companions, the same everyday troubles wander in; mix-ups over who's in love with who, grumpy feelings with your partner at the end of a long day, and exasperation with people who just don't seem to be getting the point. Enough of Talia's background is given so you can see things from her perspective. She's been abused and belittled by an small minded family, she still can't quite believe that this is all happening to her, and in the back of her mind, she fears of losing it all. You don't need to read the first book of the trilogy, Arrows of the Queen, to enjoy Arrow's Flight, but reading both will more than double your enjoyment. I'm looking forward to the third book, Arrow's Fall, with sadness; I just don't want to see this series end. Much Rejoicing Reviews by Dan'l Danehey-Oakes djo@pbhyc.uucp Copyright 1987 by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes Episode 4: Standards As much as possible, do not bore your fellow man. -- Zoroastrian Holy Writing Reviewed in this issue: How Much for Just the Planet John M. Ford The Kinsman Saga Ben Bova Bluebeard Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. The Crown Jewels Walter Jon Williams Wild Cards 3: Jokers Wild George R.R. Martin Alchemical Texts Bruce Boston The Wall Ardath Mayhar The Terminal Beach J.G. Ballard Infernal Devices K.W. Jeter To entertain, a story must be told in a competent manner; a writer who doesn't know what she's doing will just bore you. Competence is a collection of writer's skills, such as idea, plot, character, style, setting, and theme. If one of these is poor or missing, a story may stand through unusual balance of the other five. If two are missing, the story is likely to be in trouble. Three, and the story is almost certainly dead on arrival. So, with these thoughts in mind, let's examine a few books... I don't normally read Star Trek books. ("Normally" means I haven't read one since James Blish died.) Therefore, it is a matter of some puzzlement to me that I actually bought and read John M. Ford's How Much For Just the Planet? [Pocket, 1987, $3.95, 0-671-62998-0] I don't know why I did it. But I'm glad I did. Ford pokes at Trek's worst cliches ("Why is it that every woman that we meet is an old flame of yours, Captain?") with loving homages to everything good in comedy, from Gilbert and Sullivan to the Three Stooges. The result is worth at least a chuckle a page. The Enterprise picks up a distress call from a survey ship which has discovered a planet practically made of dilithium crystals -- at the same time as the Klingons. In accordance with the Organian peace accord, the Federation and the Empire send diplomatic missions to the planet's inhabitants, who will make the final determinaion as to who gets to exploit them. The plot becomes inexplicable at this point, involving bedroom- hopping, laundry chutes, Klingons in tuxedoes (I'm not making this up, you know), a lost race with an immortal queen, a inflatable rubber starship, and more. Don't read this with your mouth full; it'd be messy. Let me state right at the beginning that I'm very, very impressed by The Kinsman Saga [TOR Hardback, 1987, $17.95, 0-312-29590-1]. I've never been very fond of Ben Bova's fiction before this. In fact, some time ago, I panned Prometheans in these pages. Saga is a reprint and revision of two of Bova's books from about ten years ago, Kinsman and Millenium. Millenium in particular was highly praised on first publication; somehow, I never got around to reading it. I'm glad, now, that I didn't. The two books deserve to be read together. They form the complete biography of Chester Kinsman, a pacifist who is forced to kill so his dreams can live, to betray causes he loves in the service of higher causes. We follow his career as a young Air Force trainee, a shuttle pilot, the Commander of America's first lunar base, and beyond; in the end, he may be the savior of mankind. Along the way, he laughs, loves, and hurts. Kinsman's story is riddled with guilt, but without the kind of whining that pervades so much of modern fiction: his condition is not that far from ours, and we can understand it. Perhaps the best way to indicate the measure of Bova's achievement is this: I am opposed to the "Space Defense Initiative." This isn't a forum for political debate, but suffice it to say that I live near dozens of prime military targets, and I'd be in favor of anything that would keep missiles from falling on me. The Kinsman Saga is in large part pro-SDI propaganda - - that is, propaganda for a political position I find reprehensible. I'm praising it anyway; it's a damn fine book. Go read it. Kurt Vonnegut is no longer a science fiction writer, but he deserves some mention here: very well, let me say that his new book, Bluebeard [Delacorte Press, 1987, $17.95, 0-385-29590-1] though it contains no fantastic or science-fictional elements whatsoever, is as good a book as he's written, and deserves to be read by any and all of you. If you need to know what it's about: it's about an artist, a man who stood at the center of the Abstract Impressionist movement, hung around with and supported some of its major figures, and finally wound up a nobody (though a very rich nobody) through one of the Little Ironies Vonnegut's books have been filled with since he began. And, unusually for Vonnegut, it has what I regard as a genuinely happy ending. Alien Elvis impersonators! Croquet on other planets! Annoying domestic robots! These, along with a number of other silly and amusing things, appear in Walter Jon Williams' new novel, The Crown Jewels [TOR, 1987, $3.50, 0-812-55798-9]. The Crown Jewels is the tale of a ne'er-do-well nobleman, slightly down on his luck, who has found a career as an Allowed Burglar. (Allowed Burglar?) Well, yes. One of the things the Khosali -- (Khosali?) Will you stop interrupting? The Khosali conquered Earth a while back, but the humans eventually won a sort of precarious independence. Anyway, they allow burglars in their culture if the burglar is sufficiently stylish and entertaining, and Our Hero, Drake Maijstral, Baron Dorgo, etc., is just that. It is this same Drake Maijstral who steals an Artifact which, unbeknownst to him, contains the Fate of the Constellation, the Fate of the Empire, and, yes, the Fate of Civilization Itself. Naturally, he makes one hell of a profit on the deal... In one sense, this is something of a descendant of Alexei Panshin's Anthony Villiers novels; it glitters with the same elegance, style (in both senses), wit, and bizarre characters that made those books so lovely. In another, it's what Harry Harrison's Jim diGriz might have been if Harrison had bothered to work out an interesting and complex society to set the Rat's adventures in. It's a fun book. Confession time: I've become addicted to a "shared world" series. The idea of a "shared world" had occurred to me, as it had to many other people, before Thieves' World came along and made it a reality. The idea is appealing; gather a bunch of talented, very different writers and see what they do with a common concept. Thieves' World was, to be blunt, disappointing. The stories in it had a quality of sameness that drove me away by the third volume. Since then, I've read one or two volumes of several other such series, and been disappointed in each on one ground or another. The most common failings have been in range: either too little, as I mentioned for Thieves' World, or too much, with stories that seem to have little bearing on one another. Until Wild Cards. Wild Cards [Bantam, 1987, $3.95, 0-553-26699-3] has never described itself as a "shared world." George R.R. Martin, the series editor/coordinator, has called it a "mosaic novel" series, and I think that's a better description, and it's become more so as the series progresses. The first volume was an anthology. It told, in bits and pieces, the story of various superhuman and subhuman beings created by aliens in 1946, and their impact on history. The second, though still an anthology, focussed on a single, complex, story of alien invasion, evil Masonic cults, and other strangeness. But the third is a novel: a novel with better than half-a-dozen collaborators and protagonists, but a novel just the same, where the various plots and subplots twine around and through each other to a final common resolution. It is not divided into stories by each author, as the previous volumes were. Instead, each author's contribution is slotted into various spots throughout the book, in firm chronological order, with a note at the end explaining more or less who wrote what. Each author's style and strengths are used to good effect. Some of the authors from earlier volumes are missing, but those who remain are all solid, quality folks, and they tell a story complex enough that I'm astonished to find it could be pulled off at all, let alone so well. I'd love to know how Martin coordinates these (he called this volume an "editorial hat-trick," as good a term as any). Oh yeah -- what it's about. The Astronomer, chief human villain from volume two, is out for revenge, and sets about to kill the "aces" (Wild Cards term for what anyone else would call a superhero) of New York. In the meanwhile, a thief steals a book whose contents may control the balance of power in the New York underworld. There are several other plots that wrap around these two, but they form the novel's main structural supports. If you haven't figured it out by now, I loved it. I don't think there's such a thing as "science fiction poetry." Science fiction is fiction, descended from the bourgeois novel; poetry is a different form. Poems have never before now been classified by the type of fiction their contentmakes them seem kin to; if there is a group, or movement, or whatever of poets using science fiction subject matter in poetry -- and it seems inarguable that there is -- then certainly they need and deserve a name, but calling poetry fiction isn't the way to do it. (I have a similar problem with "SF films.") Nonetheless, the name seems entrenched. Possibly the best-known poet of the science fictional (I exclude people like Ray Bradbury, who are not primarily poets) is Bruce Boston. You've probably seen his work in Asimov's and other places. If not, let me tell you he's good. Very good. Which is why I found Alchemical Texts [Ocean View Press, 1985, $3] a tremendously disappointing little book. It's not even much of a book; more of a pamphlet, which is the form taken by far too many single-author poetry collections these days. (I don't see what can be done about this; it seems that there are just too damn many good poets working for the market to absorb, and the small press does what it can.) The poems contained in Alchemical Texts wander around the perceptions of an individual referred to as "The Alchemist," who seems to stand as a hazy metaphor for hermetic knowledge. This should be a sufficiently powerful and malleable metaphor for a poet of Boston's quality to generate any number of original and compelling insights; instead, the poems bog down in a rather trite sort of mysticism. (It is, of course, possible that I, who am not privy to a large body of hermetic knowledge, may be missing some significance which a more trained observer of arcana would pick up right away.) The language, on the other hand, is as clear and startling as anything of Boston's I've seen elsewhere. The poems are certainly well done: my question is whether they were worth the effort, and my answer, I'm afraid, is a qualified no. Speaking of the small press... Time&Space books offers a short novel, more a novella, in Ardath Mayhar's The Wall [Space and Time, 1987, $6.95, 0-917053-06-0]. Pink Floyd fans need not apply; this is a quiet little tale of the supernatural. I can't really bring myself to call it a horror novel, as the emotions it conveys are rather too gentle for the term; but it is a ghost story in the classic American tradition, set in a vaguely modern South, dealing with the difficulties faced by Alice Critten in taking up residence in her late Great- Aunt's former residence. The Aunt in question was a curmudgeonly old lady, not at all popular with the "better" folk of the town, but comfortable with shopkeepers and the residents of the black settlement nearby. But she never seemed the type to surround her house with a thick stone wall -- yet the wall is there: hence the title. Some hints of the reason for the wall's presence appear right away: strange sounds in the night, an vaporous humanoid form which appears at night, trees burned to ash by persons unknown. Alice's attempts to discover who, or what, is doing this, and to stop them, forms the basis for an entertaining and satisfying little supernatural mystery. The solution seems a little pedestrian next to the events which surround it, but it certainly satisfies. I probably wouldn't take great steps out of my way to find The Wall, but if you see a copy in a bookstore or on an order form, it's definitely worth your hard-earned cash. I seem to recall complaining, a while back, about the non-availability of J.G. Ballard's The Atrocity Exhibition. That was an understatement. The sad truth is, most of his books have had sporadic availability at best in this country, and they deserve better. (The situation may be improved when Spielberg's film of Empire of the Sun is released; at any rate, I hope so.) Now one of his best collections of short stories has been made available for the first time in many years. The title story of The Terminal Beach [Carroll & Graf, 1987 (reissue), $3.50, 0-88184-370-9] is one of the most frequently-reprinted stories of recent years. Not one of the most frequently-reprinted SF stories: one of the most frequently-reprinted stories, period. "The Terminal Beach" is the classic example of Ballard's "condensed novel" short story style, a complex story boiled down to its essentials, so stripped-down that the few details which remain take on an obsessive, puzzling, almost mystical air. The terminal beach is not a beach at all, but the sandy interior of the island of Bikini, site of early above-ground H-bomb tests; and the story deals with an individual whose life has taken on meaning through his attempts to penetrate to the center of the island. Obsession is, as always, the keynote of Ballard's writing, but the stories here are mostly easier reading than the highly dense and experimental stories of The Atrocity Exhibition. There are, for example, the story of an expedition into the jungles of South America in search of a lost, manned spacecraft; the story of the last fish on earth; and the strange case of the stolen painting. Ballard requires more work of his reader than the average sf writer, but the stories in The Terminal Beach allow a relatively easy introduction to his work. If you aren't sure whether you want to invest the effort in reading a book like The Atrocity Exhibition or Crash!, then you can't get a better testing ground than The Terminal Beach. The Victorian mentality, as it wished to believe, was quite unable to easily accept sudden, untoward changes in its picture of reality. When a Victorian gentleman found himself confronted with something utterly outside his normal realm of experience, whether it were the lower class or the supernatural, his usual reaction was to do his best to close his eyes to it, pretending the encounter had never occurred. But beneath this placid and regular exterior, many Victorians longed for adventure, change, the unexpected. Thus was born in so many the desire to serve Her Majesty abroad; thus came the popularity of novels of mystery, adventure, and intrigue, as the tales of Sherlock Holmes and his contemporaries. And thus when a dull and unusually stodgy Victorian watchmaker named George Gower found himself on the brink of what a modern reader might call the Twilight Zone, he held back not at all, but, consumed by the desire of adventure, plunged forward to discover the meaning of the piscine visage on a mysterious coin, and found himself entangled with far more trouble and adventure than he had ever wished for. This, at least, is the conception of K.W. Jeter's peculiar little book, Infernal Devices [Signet, 1987, $2.95, 0-451-14934-3]. Jeter's plot tortures poor Mr. Gower almost beyond the limits of his endurance, but, the Reader will be glad to know, he is permitted to live and tell the tale of how he made the Ultimate Sacrifice for the security of the Empire and the World. A bargain at $2.95. These days, any book is a bargain at $2.95, but this would be worthwhile at more modern prices. Closet Classic: Someone pointed out that I haven't reviewed a real novel as a Closet Classic to date. Well, I'm going to make up for that and then some with this one. Honesty requires that I admit I haven't read all of it. I can't. There are large parts of it that I simply can't get hold of, though I've spent enough time (and money) haunting rare book shops. You see, The Biography of the Life of Manuel is comprised of 18 volumes, including novels, romances, collections of short stories, poetry, a play, and two lengthy essays -- and all but two are out of print. This is shameful, when you consider that one volume of the cycle (Chivalry) was the book that Mark Twain kept at his bedside in his final illness, and others were praised by persons ranging from Sinclair Lewis to Arthur Machen to Teddy Roosevelt. Ballantine/Del Rey books reissued six volumes of the Biography some years back (Figures of Earth, The Silver Stallion, Domnei, The High Place, and Something About Eve), and Dover books has kept two volumes (Jurgen and The High Place) in print for some years now. I've managed to acquire 11 volumes, or 61%, of the Biography. The author, James Branch Cabell, begins with the conceit that there were three basic philosophies one could take toward life. One might regard life as a time of testing, and oneself as God's steward here on Earth, and this he called the Chivalric point of view. One might regard life as all very well, but finally meaningless, and amuse oneself with what pleasures one might while life lasts; this Cabell calls Gallantry. Finally, one might regard life as raw material, from which to make what one can of beauty. Cabell called this the philosophy of the Poet. In the Biography, Cabell created a great mythic figure, Dom Manuel, the "Redeemer" of the imaginary French province of Poictesme, and envisioned his descendants through twenty or more generations, in France, in England, and finally in the American South. The first novel of the Biography, Figures of Earth, follows the career of Manuel himself, from his strange rise to his doubtful disappearance. Manuel begins as a young swineherd with odd visions and proceeds, through various magical and fantastic adventures, to become Count and finally mystical Redeemer of Poictesme. Throughout, he advances not by boldness or prowess, but by his ability to compromise with the necessities of life. Subsequent volumes follow his many descendants through many generations, and the reader sees how each of them lives his life through one variation or another of the philosophies outlined above. In this manner, they repeatedly play out the acts of a repeating comedy: "The first act is the imagining of the place where contentment exists and may be come to; the second act reveals the striving toward, and the third act the falling short of, that shining goal, or else (the difference here being negligible) the attaining of it, to discover that happiness, after all, abides a thought farther down the bogged, rocky, clogged, befogged heart-breaking road, if anywhere." Indeed, as often as not, Cabell's theme is a man who easily achieves all he wishes, and finds that this does not make him happy. The most famous of these books is undoubtedly Jurgen, the tale of a middle-aged pawnbroker given his youth, freedom from his wife, and a magic sword, with all of which he cuts a swath through the lovliest ladies of myth and legend, only to find that this was not what he was seeking. Jurgen was originally published in 1919, and was banned as obscene. A modern reader may find this banning rather fantastic, as Jurgen -- like many of Cabell's books -- is not at all "dirty," but uproariously bawdy. All the acts of all the characters throughout the Biography seem to be the repeating themes and melodies of a monstrous symphony in which human lives are the instruments, and history the score. The composer is not Cabell (or is he?) but the mysterious and ever-recurring Horvendile, who appears,usually as a minor character, sometimes disguised, in nearly all volumes of the Biography. Cabell's books are witty, cynical, and utterly fantastic. At times the reader gets the impression that the author is winking at her, telling a tall tale for its own sake -- which, of course, he is. Cabell's style is exact and easy to read, conveying perfectly his paradoxical feelings that man is "an ape reft of his tail, and grown rusty at climbing trees," and that at the same time the doings of man somehow matter, however small they may be on a cosmic scale. In the end, we learn that Cabell has indeed been having us on, that the Biography is just a huge, a cosmic joke at the reader's expense -- but what a grand joke! If some publisher could be prevailed upon to reprint the complete Biography, it would be a public service of unequalled virtue. In the meanwhile, I recommend to all readers of this column a quick order to Dover books for their edition of Jurgen, one of the funniest books in the history of American literature. OtherRealms #19 Winter, 1987 Copyright 1987 by Chuq Von Rospach All Rights Reserved One time rights have been acquired from the contributors. All rights are hereby assigned to the contributors. OtherRealms may not be reproduced in any form without written permission of Chuq Von Rospach. The electronic edition may be distributed or reproduced in its entirety as long as all copyrights, author and publication information remain intact. No individual article may be reprinted, reproduced or republished in any way without the express permission of the author. OtherRealms is published quarterly (March, June, September and December) by: Chuq Von Rospach 35111-F Newark Blvd. Suite 255 Newark, CA 94560. Usenet: chuq@sun.COM Delphi: CHUQ