John W. Campbell (editor) Analog April 1961
(1961 but felt more like 1931)
Up until last November, I'd read only one issue of Analog. It was kind of shit, but I assumed I'd simply picked up a dud copy of an otherwise decent magazine and so casually accumulated a further five back issues as I happened upon them in junk shops on the grounds of the covers holding promise, and I'd get around to reading them eventually, and maybe there would be something amazing in one of them. This is now my third and I think I'm beginning to see the central flaw in my strategy regarding back issues of Analog. In this instance I was drawn in by the prospect of fresh Simak. The Fisherman actually turns out to be the serialised version of the novel which was later published as Time is the Simplest Thing, and is therefore wonderful, even in this truncated form. The problem is the sharp contrast it throws across everything else in the magazine.
Beyond Simak, the collection isn't entirely without redeeming features but you really have to work at it. We kick off with one of Campbell's characteristically unsavoury editorials, this time discussing colonialism by comparing examples from science-fiction literature with the history of Africa, the Americas and elsewhere. The racism is very much in the casual school but, perhaps unsurprisingly, his views of less technologically developed societies and their worth in the great scheme of things are typically appalling. I therefore also skipped Campbell's essay about innovations in the manufacture of light bulbs because fuck that guy.
Excepting J.F. Bone's underwhelming but mercifully short A Prize for Edie, the remainder comprises tales of space pilots, teams, men who address each other as sir, colonels, and other species of square, enjoyment of which probably depends on the reader having some kind of military background and being the sort of fellow who enjoys a well-mixed Martini after a few hours on the golf course. Lloyd Biggle Jr.'s Still, Small Voice - in which military types attempt to influence the politics of a pseudo-medieval planet - is just about saved by its culminating revolution sparked through the invention of the trumpet. I gave up on Christopher Anvil's Pandora's Envoy after five or six pages, skipping ahead to Robert Donald Locke's Next Door, Next World.
Up until last November, I'd read only one issue of Analog. It was kind of shit, but I assumed I'd simply picked up a dud copy of an otherwise decent magazine and so casually accumulated a further five back issues as I happened upon them in junk shops on the grounds of the covers holding promise, and I'd get around to reading them eventually, and maybe there would be something amazing in one of them. This is now my third and I think I'm beginning to see the central flaw in my strategy regarding back issues of Analog. In this instance I was drawn in by the prospect of fresh Simak. The Fisherman actually turns out to be the serialised version of the novel which was later published as Time is the Simplest Thing, and is therefore wonderful, even in this truncated form. The problem is the sharp contrast it throws across everything else in the magazine.
Beyond Simak, the collection isn't entirely without redeeming features but you really have to work at it. We kick off with one of Campbell's characteristically unsavoury editorials, this time discussing colonialism by comparing examples from science-fiction literature with the history of Africa, the Americas and elsewhere. The racism is very much in the casual school but, perhaps unsurprisingly, his views of less technologically developed societies and their worth in the great scheme of things are typically appalling. I therefore also skipped Campbell's essay about innovations in the manufacture of light bulbs because fuck that guy.
Excepting J.F. Bone's underwhelming but mercifully short A Prize for Edie, the remainder comprises tales of space pilots, teams, men who address each other as sir, colonels, and other species of square, enjoyment of which probably depends on the reader having some kind of military background and being the sort of fellow who enjoys a well-mixed Martini after a few hours on the golf course. Lloyd Biggle Jr.'s Still, Small Voice - in which military types attempt to influence the politics of a pseudo-medieval planet - is just about saved by its culminating revolution sparked through the invention of the trumpet. I gave up on Christopher Anvil's Pandora's Envoy after five or six pages, skipping ahead to Robert Donald Locke's Next Door, Next World.
Lance kissed her. A tender kiss, yet gusty enough that he lifted her from the ground and her high-heeled shoes kicked in free fall.
The pilot found his girl's breath warm, loving. Yet her cheeks seemed colder than even the crisp air should account for. And her body was trembling.
Lance is a dashing space pilot, and his girl is the colonel's daughter. Lance flies off into space and when he returns, he finds the colonel has never had a daughter because of space warps and alternate realities 'n' shit. I'm sure it was mind blowing back in April 1961. Anyway, following Next Door, Next World I took another shot at Pandora's Envoy and found it wasn't quite so bad as it had seemed; but honestly, most of this stuff would seem pitiful in competition with Andre Norton, never mind Simak.
There's also a section of book reviews comprising mostly plot summaries of the offerings under scrutiny. This novel features an intrepid space reporter named Jed who travels to Titan to cover the Interplanetary Space-Golf Tournament, but when Jed arrives he finds that a mysterious stranger is already checked into his hotel under his name. At first he decides to blah blah blah…
Three down, three of these turkeys to go...
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