Electronic OtherRealms #28
                               Fall, 1990
                               Part 12 of 18

                     Copyright 1990 by Chuq Von Rospach
			    All Rights Reserved.

       OtherRealms may be distributed electronically only in the original
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    OtherRealms may be reproduced in printed form only for your personal use.

           No part of OtherRealms may be reprinted or used in any other
                 publication without permission of the author.

  All rights to material published in OtherRealms hereby revert to the author.




Much Rejoicing
Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
Copyright 1990 by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes

	Truth and goodness are the same for all men,
	but pleasure differs for different men.
		-- Democritus, frag.  69

There's a whole lot of skiffy goin' on.

More books are published in a typical month these days than we used to
get in a typical year, and there are uncountable hordes of Big Name
Writers wandering around loose.  Somehow, the overall quality of the
stuff doesn't seem to have improved in proportion; perhaps this
unchecked growth is not an altogether good thing.

With all these established authors, it's as hard as ever for a new
writer to sell his or her first book- and even harder to get it
reviewed.  The review space available that might seriously help a new
writer gets taken up by the flashy new books by the flashy old writers,
and the new writer is condemned to the darkness.

OtherRealms has always tried to light a path out of the darkness for the
new writer, and beginning with this column, so shall I.  The established
pros will have to just sit on the sidelines and hope I have some space
left over to fit them in after introducing you to some neat new people.

Let's go.

Kent Smith's Future X [Holloway House 1990, $3.95, 0-87067-549-4] gave
me some deep trepidations.  It appears, from its packaging, to be what
might charitably be termed "Black Exploitation SF." The cover depicts a
bespectacled and conservatively-dressed young black man, clearly in
trouble; the blurb matter (except for the inside cover, which is a
sex-sell and quite misleading) explains that this is the story of how
said bespectacled and conservatively-dressed young black man, Ashford
Henderson by name, travels from a distant planet in the far future, to
twentieth-century Earth to save the life of Malcolm X.

Well, not quite.

He comes from Earth in the twenty-first century, but they got his
purpose right.  You see, he's Malcolm's several-greats grandson, and in
his future America, the ruling White Supremacy Party has cordoned off
blacks in ghettoes, made eighth- or ninth-class citizens of them (while
claiming they've been granted political independence and are just under
US "protection"), made said enclaves the dumping ground for unwanted
drugs, etc., and generally made life in the US really bad, especially
for blacks.

This is actually perfectly sound extrapolation.  Smith takes as his
basis for extrapolation the current "war on drugs" (which concentrates
almost solely on minorities in the ghettoes, despite the fact that
cocaine use, for example, is fairly evenly spread across the social
strata) and the rising skinhead and White Aryan Nation movements in this
country.

Ashford, in a desperate raid on the RAND corporation (!), which costs
the lives of all his companions, comes back in time to warn Malcolm of
his assassination- figuring that if he can be kept alive a bit longer,
he can overthrow the relationships between the races in America by the
end of the 60s.

Unfortunately, Malcolm dies early, murdered by secret police from the
future, bent on keeping him dead.

Fortunately, our hero, an actor by profession, has with him a copy of
the Autobiography of Malcolm X (which he'd brought to convince Malcolm
that this business about being his great grandson was true) and,
amazingly, he even resembles Malcolm.  So he takes over Malcolm's life,
with only minor changes, and prepares to survive and change history.

SPOILER ALERT: IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW, SKIP TO THE NEXT REVIEW

Naturally, it isn't that simple.

From here on, the experienced SF reader realizes that Future X,
basically, does for Michael Moorcock's Behold the Man what The Wiz did
for the Emerald City.  It proceeds with the same sense of inevitability
to the end we all expect.

There's an important difference, however.  Moorcock's surrogate Jesus
chooses to die so that his world comes to pass.  Smith's surrogate
Malcolm dies and fails to change his world.  The inevitability is
mingled with a sense of futility that reflects backward through the
whole book (for example, shortly after arriving in the twentieth
century, Ashford actually sets in motion events that will lead to the
hegemony of the White Supremacy Party in) and makes Future X a
distressing book to read.  All the pain and effort we have followed is
for nothing.

The distress is not alleviated by the apparent failure of the publisher
to hire a competent typesetter.  And I don't know what the copy-editor
in charge of Future X got, but I hope it was twenty-to-life.  Page after
page is marred by typos and astonishing grammatical horrors that leap
off the page and jar the reader out of the fictional dream.

Additionally, there are some large-scale writing problems.  The first
third to half of Future X is told from a shifting point of view; then,
in the raid on RAND, all the viewpoint characters except Ashford are
killed, and the remainder of the book, the part set in the twentieth
century, is told solely from Ashford's point of view.  The result is
that Future X feels like the mismatched halves of two different books,
glued poorly together.

All of which is a pity, because Kent Smith proves, despite all this, to
be a competent storyteller.  His characters engage the reader; his
research and his extrapolate convince; the flow of his language-
excepting those grammatical howlers- pleases; his plot carries you
along.

I can't, in good conscience, recommend Future X, but I can't honestly
suggest you stay away from it either; I'd like to see it sell well
enough that the publishers give Smith another chance.  The problems with
his first novel are partly their own fault, after all.

END OF SPOILER

I don't read as much fantasy as science fiction, because I like science
fiction, but love fantasy.  It has always seemed to me that science
fiction was a self- limiting as the historical novel, though in a
different way. The finest SF novels- Dune, Stranger In A Strange Land,
Childhood's End, The Stars My Destination, The Book Of The New Sun-
generally drop pretenses of scientific realism and partake unblushingly
of the mysticism of fantasy.

But because I do love fantasy, I can't stand to see it done less than
right.  I want, from a fantasy, a new world, which differs from our own
in some significant way, and which in so doing comments on ours, or on
worlds generally (this latter would be the case of The Chronicles Of
Thomas Covenant, which have very little to say about Earth specifically,
but have metaphysical and moral implications relevant to Earth or any
world you might visit or invent).

So you have to keep this in mind as I talk about Kathleen Blake's first
novel, The Interior Life [Baen Books, 1990, $3.95, 0-671-72010-4].  It's
a prejudice on my part, and one I won't easily divorce myself from.

Blake tells the story of Sue, a bored and frustrated housewife of the
late twentieth century, who "escapes" into her fantasies of a world
where she is Marianella, lady-in-waiting to the Lady Amalia.  Amalia,
gifted with the Sight, has come to a remote village in search of her
missing brother; meanwhile, the whole land is threatened by a Darkness.
And, of course, Sue keeps finding things in her fantasy world that she's
sure *she* didn't put there.  .  .

At this point, I drop plot summary, less than ten percent of the way
through the book.  Everything you need to know is there.

The fantasy world already sounds extremely generic.  It is.  This is a
conscious choice of Ms.  Blake, and it is somewhat- though not entirely-
balanced by her unusually detailed knowledge of the quotidian life of a
medieval household.  This is, in fact, her strongest suit; reading Sue's
fantasies, one gets an amazingly solid sense of what it's like to live
that way.

Nor need the generic nature of the fantasy world be a disadvantage, if
Blake chose to play it up.  (She didn't.) What I mean is, that The
Interior Life could have been a fantasy version of Evan S.  Connell's
Mrs.  Bridge, and used the fantasy world both as contrast to Sue's drab
real world, and as a comment on how it has dulled her imagination.  Of
course, this would have destroyed any chance of the fantasy world
turning out to be (surprise!) real!

This is not, by the way, a simple case of my trying to rewrite Blake's
book; I'm following up what's in there but unused.  The comment on one
world by the other is there.  In particular, Marianella and Amalia peek
into what Sue is doing on occasion, and make suggestions.  The reactions
of Sue's family and acquaintances when she follows these suggestions are
very nicely handled, and on at least one occasion, uproariously funny.

If you're the sort of individual who happily reads large quantities of
generic fantasy, you'll probably enjoy The Interior Life.  I enjoyed it
far more than I expected to.

I hope you're all familiar with the Ace Specials line of novels.
Pioneered by Terry Carr, they've been through three incarnations; in the
last, over the past half-dozen years, they've specialized in bringing to
light the first novels of major writers like Lucius Shepard, Howard
Waldrop, and Kim Stanley Robinson.  The dozenth and, I fear, last of
this worthy series is out now and merits some attention.

The Moon has been terraformed.  Though it's not a totally novel
conception, it's bold enough that I'm surprised I've never seen it
handled in detail.

Galvanix is a citizen of the Lunar Republic, which controls- more or
less- the territory on the Nearside of the Moon.  The Moon has been
suffering from a complete embargo for several years, now, while a war,
or negotiation, or something concerning their fate, goes on without
their consent or knowledge.

As the novel opens, Galvanix is preparing to leave the Moon to plant a
small fusion bomb on an asteroid which threatens to smash into the moon
causing Untold Devastation (ooooohhhhh!).  He is joined by a friend, and
then by Taggart, an agent who won't tell who she works for or what her
mission actually is.

The bomb goes off; Galvanix and Taggart (whose name, mysteriously,
changes to Beryl) find themselves on the Lunar surface- Farside.
Farside is an unpleasant military bureaucratic-totalitarianism,
preparing for a war with Nearside.  The lunar climate starts changing
rapidly; the war begins; Beryl and Galvanix get it on; things get
rapidly worse.

Actually, this is unfair.  The Oxygen Barons is one of those novels that
doesn't summarize well because too damn much is happening.  It's
incredibly dense in plot, background, and invention.  Almost all the
technology is plausible now; Feeley's characters don't pull any
"McGinkey-Therieu" principle or somesuch out of their hats to justify
their gizmos.

The writing is clean and competent, though a bit cold.  One never really
gets into Galvanix's head, despite his being the point-of-view for most
of the novel.  (There are two interruptions, one from the point-of-view
of the Shogun of Farside, the other from Galvanix's point-of-view,
sorta.) The politics are sufficiently complex that I frankly don't
follow them, and am not convinced that they're followable- which may be
the point.

Recommended highly.

	Closet Anti-classic

The spirit of the Closet Classics is, and has been, to look at books
that deserve to be brought back into print.  The spirit of this column
has been to look at new writers.

Let's look at Gene Wolfe when he was a new writer.

His first novel has been out of print for some time now.  This is,
according to reasonably reliable reports, by Wolfe's request-
understandably so; Operation Ares is not in the class of Peace, The book
of the New Sun, or even The Devil in a Forest.  Yet it is not a bad
book.

Operation Ares, like Future X, is set in a repressive future America,
one ruled not by racists but by an anti-intellectual military.

A colony was planted on Mars before the forces of know-nothingism took
over, and they want to help us (or so they say).  They broadcast
technical information to us, and ask us only to communicate with them.
Any attempt to do so is severely punished; even to be caught watching
their broadcasts is a crime.

Wolfe's protagonist is a believable but fairly generic schoolteacher,
whose attempts to bring technical competence to his students without
being executed for disloyalty create the initial conflict of the book.
This leads logically enough into the book's main plotline- but I don't
want to tell too much.  Wolfe's ability to make a story inevitable yet
surprising was present even in this early work.

I can't say why Wolfe doesn't want this book reprinted.  To speak for
Wolfe would be arrogant at best.  But I can conjecture that he might not
want it reprinted because it simply isn't up to his standards.

To which I reply, Even Homer nods, Mr.  Wolfe.  Your work has won such a
reputation that people will seek it out.  To keep it out of print is to
force those who are the greatest supporters of your work to pay inflated
collectors'- market costs, at no possible benefit to yourself- for they
will find it, and any damage you feel it may do to your reputation will
be done, regardless.

Further, it is vain, Mr.  Wolfe.  Your work shows a profound religious
sensibility; I suggest that allowing the reprinting of Operation Ares-
which is not your best work but would be quite respectable from a lesser
craftsman- would be an excellent exercise in humility.

Returning to you readers: I recommend you your eyes open for copies of
Operation Ares at reasonable prices.  It's not high art, but it's a good
read, and that's more than many first novelists accomplish.



Past Imagining
Lawrence Watt-Evans

	Two Fandoms

I write science fiction and fantasy as a living, and I collect comics as
a hobby; this means I have some contact with both SF fandom and comics
fandom, and attend conventions devoted to one, the other, or both.  In
doing so, I've noticed that there are some definite differences between
the two.

For one thing, all comics fans -- or so close to all that the others
don't matter -- are collectors, at least on a small scale.  They read
their comics and save them.  SF fans are not all collectors; some do all
their reading courtesy of their local library, and even those who do buy
their own books are likely to sell, trade away, or even throw out old
books when they run short of space or need cash.  (Yes, I know some
comics collectors will sell off surplus when necessary, but it's far
more common among SF fans, and "when necessary" is far less extreme.)

Some SF fans don't read at all; they just watch movies and TV.  They can
do that, since SF is a genre, where comics are a medium.

Of course, a good many SF fans are collectors of one sort or another,
but collecting is generally much less important in SF fandom than in
comics fandom.

I suspect that that's related somehow to the next big difference I'm
going to mention.  At a comics convention, everybody talks about comics.
Obvious, right? They discuss new titles, bemoan the cancellation of old
favorites, brag about great finds they've made, wonder what's going to
develop in a particular character's life, and so forth.

At SF conventions, though, most of the conversation is not about SF.  At
least, not directly.  This may come as a surprise to a lot of you, but
it's true.  People at SF conventions talk about anything and everything --
politics, religion, philosophy, new technology, music, books, movies,
TV, cars, costumes, old friends, and just about any other subject you
can think of.  Oh, there are probably more conversations about science
fiction than if you were to snatch up a random sample of the population
equal in number and listen to their conversations, but not by all that
terribly much.

Why is this so?

Well, probably because SF is more varied and spread out than comics.
Anyone who collects comics knows who Spider-Man is, probably keeps up
with the character, and at the very least can follow a discussion about
him.  In SF, though, you won't find any character everyone knows except
maybe James T.  Kirk or Luke Skywalker, and there are plenty of genuine
SF fans who really aren't interested in Star Trek or Star Wars at all.
At an SF convention you'll find people for whom the sun rises and sets
on Anne McCaffrey, while others dismiss her as a fuzzy-minded fantasist
and adore the likes of James Hogan.  This occurs to some extent in
comics fandom, as well -- there are people who don't care about
superheroes, but only collect horror, or war, or funny animal, or
romance, or whatever.  However, the vast majority of comics fans are
superhero fans.  You won't find anyone who collects comics of any sort
who isn't aware of Superman or Spider-Man or Batman.  There's a central
core that any comics fan can discuss.  Even if superheroes fail, there
are common topics for discussion -- prices rising and falling, how to
store the little nuisances, incredible finds people have made, and so
forth.  In SF fandom, none of this can be taken for granted.  Most
people will know who Robert Heinlein is; most will have read some of his
work; but you probably couldn't find a single book that had been read by
a true majority of the people at any major SF convention.  Book prices
aren't much of a topic, since there's nothing like Overstreet's Guide
nor is there the network of dealers in new and used books -- you buy new
SF at Waldenbooks or B.  Dalton's or even Woolworth's, you buy old SF at
any second-hand bookstore for half of cover price, or you check it out
of the library for free. Storage isn't much of a topic, since bookcases
are pretty standard and bags aren't considered necessary.  Incredible
finds are of interest only to hard-core collector types; most fans
wouldn't know what to do with a mint first edition of Bradbury's Dark
Carnival.  The result? SF fans don't talk about SF all that much,
because their own reading and experience haven't got the universality
that one finds among comic collectors.

Then why do they bother to get together in big conventions at all? Why
not just little specialized conventions, dedicated to Darkover or Dr.
Who, Heinlein or hobbits?

Well, some such small, specialized conventions and clubs do exist, but
the numbers of people in such areas are not always enough to put on a
decent convention.  And SF as a whole does have a certain unity, and
therefore attracts a certain sector of the population, so that even
though con-goers don't actually talk about what they've read at cons,
they know that they're likely to meet people there with whom they can
find something to discuss.

What is this that unites the fan of H.P.  Lovecraft with the devotee of
Doc Savage, the dragonrider with the high frontiersman? It's simply that
SF, fantasy, and horror are all devoted to alternate realities, worlds
other than our own.  They all require the imagination to appreciate
places that have never existed.

That appreciation is enough to hold SF fandom together -- at least so far.

Reprinted from "Rayguns, Elves, and Skin-Tight Suits, Comics Buyer's
Guide" Copyright 1985 by Krause Publications and Lawrence Watt-Evans.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

Lawrence Watt-Evans says, when asked what he does for a living, that
he's a science fiction writer, despite the fact that he's produced more
fantasy than science fiction.  This is apparently due to some desperate
striving toward greater literary respectability, which his collection of
12,000 comics doesn't help at all.



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