Analog November 1979

Stanley Schmidt (editor) Analog November 1979 (1979)
Here's an Analog I've had for something like fifteen years, picked up from a shop in Cornwall because it seemed a shame to leave it on the shelf but never read because I soon came to realise that Analog was often shite, particularly the September 2008 issue which - seeing as I haven't mentioned it in about five minutes - featured Henry G. Stratmann's Last Temptation of Katerina Savitskaya, which is competition level dreadful.

Anyway, here we get off to a poor start with Beyond Relativity, G. Harry Stine's guest editorial about how science is never finished, and Einstein would have said as much and would therefore have been quite pissed off to find his theories about general relativity now set in stone. It's interesting and seems worth taking seriously once you've read past the repetitive tone of a nutcase muttering about how those fools have got it all wrong - wrong, I tell you! Elsewhere we find Stine explaining how difficult it will be to fly spaceships, and as a friend of doctors and dentists - professional people - he should know. Whether or not he has a valid point, I stopped caring because he does that thing which autodidactic bores always do of challenging you with a rhetorical question you will be unable to answer.

Why do you think there are still three highly-qualified people riding on that flight deck engaged in constant monitoring and ready to assume complete command in a split second?

I don't fucking know, George, but I'm sure you're about to tell me.

I couldn't get past the first few pages of Roger Arnold and Donald Kingsbury's lengthy article explaining where NASA have been going wrong all this time with regards to getting things up into orbit. Apparently there's a much easier way. Given that this notionally revolutionary article appeared in 1979 and it's now 2023 and we're still using massive rockets, I'm guessing maybe there wasn't a much easier way after all. Whilst Analog's blend of science fiction and science fact, or science almost fact was probably commendable, I read New Scientist for a number of years back in the nineties and I don't recall a single article written in the slightly cranky, defensive tone of the stuff you find in this thing - not one instance of anyone muttering about fools who don't understand.

On a marginally happier note, we have the fiction, of which Mark J. McGarry's Phoenix is readable and interesting from an anthropological perspective, placing a lone explorer in the midst of an inscrutable alien species, although it's somewhat let down when the phoenix turns out to be himself experiencing an holistic (or something) awakening after watching an extraterrestrial birthing ritual. His career was on the rocks but now he has purpose, you see.

Also featured is the second of three instalments of Simak's The Visitors, published as a complete novel in 1980, and even read bereft of top and tail, it's a pleasure and one which makes everything else in the mag seem underwhelming at best. The Visitors uncannily foreshadows the movie Arrival - or whatever novel that was based on, I guess - with its uncommunicative extraterrestrial monoliths floating hither and thither. I'm guessing it's either Simak's response to Close Encounters of the Third Kind - or some editor nudged him in that direction - from which healthy distance is achieved in, for one example, a character who shuns identity because he does not want it known that he had been 'taken up' by the visitor, he does not want to be another kook associated with flying saucers. As ever Simak, does his own thing.

Maybe it was because it was so totally unlike the common concept of something out of space. To a people brought up on the idiocies of TV and movie imagination, the reality must seem quite commonplace.

It's probably odd to read just the middle part of a novel I have on the shelf, but Simak is rewarding in any configuration, and this excerpt is additionally interesting in that the two page synopsis also seems to have been written by himself, or is at least recognisably his voice, which for me renders it the written equivalent of rare studio outtakes.

A less ambitious alien invasion is somehow prevented by a pair of old codgers in Kevin O'Donnell's Old Friends, which centres upon extraterrestrial technology disguised as a park bench - but a lot less Tharg's Future Shocks than that may sound and therefore pretty decent by Analog standards; and we end with Movers and Shakers by Thomas A. Easton which is satisfyingly absurd and possibly the best thing I've read in an issue of this magazine.

 

So this ended better than I had expected. Given the history of Astounding and John W. Campbell, Analog always had a lot of unfortunate stuff in its DNA, and even with the occasional uncharacteristic ray of sunshine peaking through those frowning clouds of manly pipe smoke, the advertising reminds us that we're hanging out with persons who don't work right, the sort of people who would actually read an outer space newspaper or send off for the microfilm edition of the magazine because it seemed futuristic and therefore exciting. From this, I guess we learn that these people were always amongst us. The difference is that now they have the internet.

 

 

Rogue Moon

Algis Budrys Rogue Moon (1960)
I'm still waiting to find the one which squares with Budrys' reputation as your favourite science-fiction author's favourite science-fiction author, and I was beginning to think it might be this; but coming to the last page, I have doubts.

This is my fourth Budrys, including a collection of short stories. As with the others, there's something about his writing which seems to resist my attention. It's not badly written by any means, and yet the sentences have bits sticking out at awkward angles. English wasn't his first language, although I'm not sure it's that given that his prose is mostly superior to a few I could name who were born here, in a manner of speaking. His stories unfold unevenly, often revealing crucial details as no more than hints you'll probably miss first time, creating a sense of mystery which is either compelling or frustrating depending on how it catches you, all of which contributes to the atmosphere of cold war paranoia. Budrys asks vaguely existential questions concerning identity, reality and so on in a way which would foreshadow Philip K. Dick were it a bit more freewheeling. His situations and narrative constructions are complex, characterised by subtleties, and are often thought provoking; and yet at the same time he'll shoot himself in the foot with some twist so dumb that it hurts.

Who?, for example, features a protagonist trailed by the secret services. At one point our man makes a phone call from a store, and the powers that be want to know who he called. Our secret service boys ingeniously distract the store owner whilst cleverly replacing his phone directory with an identical copy. They take the original away and study every single page in search of faint impressions left by their guy's finger as he looked for the name and number he was after. In view of the opening of The Falling Torch - wherein counter revolution is planned by a bunch of old men secretly meeting in a garden shed - it somehow doesn't seem that surprising.

Rogue Moon, on the other hand, is the one which has been described as influential. It's certainly an improvement on the others, but nevertheless feels as though it should have been better. The story is that we've mastered teleportation and we're sending a guy to the moon to investigate an anomalous, seemingly philosophical structure of unknown origin. This is tricky because no teleported person has survived more than a couple of minutes, so it's a death sentence because, as Al's detailed and beautifully described theory of how teleportation might work tells us, the process pops an exact copy of the traveller out at the other end while destroying the original. Then we discover that a second copy, copied from the first copy, simultaneously exists back on Earth in telepathic communication with the version of himself on the moon - sending the rest of us scrambling back through previous pages trying to work out whether Budrys already told us this detail or whether we missed it. Also, there's a whole team of helpers already on the moon ready to escort our doomed investigator to the aforementioned anomaly, and not a word of how they got up there or why they haven't felt inclined to investigate the thing for themselves.

These questions remain unanswered, and the pseudo-psychedelic experience of our guy entering the anomaly doesn't shed much light on anything, leaving us with a novel in which men and one woman discuss the nature of being, life, death, existence, and all of that good stuff, often in the form of speeches which seem to foreshadow William Shatner's portrayal of Captain Kirk - not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I get the impression that Rogue Moon wanted to be a serious novel, and it would be but for a lack of focus - as though it keeps changing its mind. It's frustrating, but mostly because it intrigues and plays its cards close to its chest, so I guess that's a conditional thumbs up from me.

The Human Torch and the Thing

Stan Lee, Larry Leiber, Jack Kirby, Dick Ayers & others
The Human Torch and the Thing (1965)
As with the Daredevil collection I tackled back in 2022, I picked this up mainly in the name of research, and contrary to the impression given by Marvel Firsts last week, Stan and the lads hit the ground running with at least a few of the debut titles of their superhero revival. The Human Torch was apparently deemed so popular as to warrant a solo strip in the pages of Strange Tales. With half the page count of an issue of the Fantastic Four, much less juggling in terms of characters, and less pressure given that Doctor Strange was presumably held responsible for half of the sales, Johnny Storm's solo scrapes stuck to the fairly predictable formula of a succession of bank jobs and jewellery heists undertaken by traditional hoods with a few bells and whistles thrown in for the sake of the superhero theme. The heavy lifting is done by cheap gags, outrageous novelty, and the sort of peculiar twists of imagination which Bob Burden was apparently channelling in Flaming Carrot, an eighties book which I'm beginning to realise was a tribute at least as much as it was ever a parody. This was the era of Paste Pot Pete, a villain who carries a giant pot of glue around with him, a man with the power of all paste who, for example, at one point fashions a formidable pair of binoculars utilising lenses made from a special clear paste. In another issue we meet the Plantman, an individual resembling Harvey Pekar who has invented a dubious looking device with which he hopes to increase the IQ of certain plants; but the device is struck by lightning and grants him power over all plants, which he discovers when he exclaims well, fan my hide, obliging an adjacent bush to do so with its leaves. Also we have the real Sandman, a villain who turns into sand and is therefore significantly more interesting than Neil Gaiman's wispy personification of various Cure albums.

It's bollocks, but it's entertaining bollocks which gets away with it because it's for actual kids and it doesn't care, although being beautifully drawn by Jack Kirby, Dick Ayers, Bob Powell and others doesn't hurt either. Also, Strange Tales #105 brought us what I believe to be the single greatest panel of the entire sixties:

 

Just look at the fucking size of that piece of cake.

What's that you say? Johnny, who is technically still a child, has gone after the Wizard, a dangerous superpowered criminal, all on his own. Fuck him! I'm eating!

That said, being relatively short, the Torch's strips were at least as repetitive as old school Scooby Doo and are probably best appreciated at the rate of one a month between the years of 1961 and 1970 by persons under the age of ten. I'm unable to tick any of these boxes so I zoned out here and there, but not enough to present any sort of indictment on the ludicrous charm of these tales. Did I mention that the Beatles show up in one of the later issues?

 

No prizes for picking Ringo out of the line-up. The poor sod's hooter is so massive that it won't even fit in the second panel.

As with anything which Stan Lee claimed was bigger than the Bible, the Quran, the Torah and the complete works of Shakespeare blended into a single shining masterpiece, the solo adventures of the Human Torch don't quite live up to the hype, but this collection is still mostly great and goes some way to accounting for why Marvel took off as it did.

Marvel Firsts: the 1960s

Stan Lee, Jack Kirby & others
Marvel Firsts: the 1960s (2011)
This collects all those first issues or first appearances and is therefore where it all began, assuming we can agree on what it is. I've been engaged in an attempt to understand the evolution of caped adventures and this seemed a better gamble than collected editions of any single title, running as it does in chronological sequence from the  1961 debut of the Fantastic Four through to the first issue of the Silver Surfer in 1968, and with a lot of the stuff we've forgotten about in between.

The Marvel revolution is generally characterised as Stan Lee and Jack Kirby combining existing comic book genres into a single continuity, then having everybody turn up in everyone else's books. The existing (and failing) genres which went into the mix included romance, horror, humour, superhero, and monster comics. The first issue of the Fantastic Four pushes most of those buttons, not least the cover featuring a giant and vaguely reptilian thing smashing its way up through the asphalt, gargantuan claws reaching out to ensnare the puny surface dwellers - duplicating the cover of pretty much every issue of Tales to Astonish prior to Hank Pym discovering he could talk to ants. Inside we get super-science, rocketry, the hot-rod loving teenager, wisecracks, and the Invisible Girl ticking all of the usual chick boxes in requiring the protection of the lads.

Most surprising for me has been the realisation of just how shaky were the first stirrings of the Marvel universe, because Stan Lee telling me how the first issue of the Fantastic Four was at least on par with War and Peace to a monthly schedule apparently wormed its way into my subconscious. Unless War and Peace - which I've never read - is actually fairly ropey, in which case fair play.

Fantastic Four #1 has all sorts of wonderfully screwy things going on, but it has the rhythm of hesitant first steps with Stan and Jack - but mainly Jack - making it up as they go along, jamming disparate elements together and hoping it will work. It doesn't feel confident and lurches along much like the strips of the thirties and forties, as does the first allegedly pulse-pounding issue of the Avengers, in case anyone was wondering. This isn't really a criticism given the likelihood of anything living up to Stan's hyperbole, but it's engaging for reasons besides those promised by the cover, or at least was to me. Further clues as to the balance of the Lee and Kirby partnership may be found by comparing Lee's typewritten synopsis for Fantastic Four #1 - also included here - with what was published, and it looks a lot like Jack was doing his best to give the thing a bit of a dynamic, a quality which isn't conspicuous in Lee's vague, even apologetic stage directions.

Stranger still, the wild west comics running contemporaneous to the early superhero stuff are by far the best material in at least the first half of the collection, their obvious confidence presumably deriving from established traditional styles. However, as the years pass, we can see our caped pals catching up and cohering into something which seems to know what it's doing, and Silver Surfer #1 is legitimately a masterpiece of the form.

This has been less exciting but more educational than I expected, which is nice.

New Mutants Forever

Chris Claremont, Al Rio & Bob McLeod
New Mutants Forever (2011)
Chris Claremont had already returned to the X-Men in 2009 with X-Men Forever, a title continuing the story from which he'd been unceremoniously unplugged back in 1991 when it was discovered that some readers disliked issues in which the X-Men girls go shopping and felt there weren't sufficient stabbings. Here he does the same with the New Mutants, although there are different circumstances to the end of his original run, notably that - so far as I understand it - he simply didn't have time to keep it going given everything else he was writing at the time, and handed the keys over to Louise Simonson who was at least on his side. I'm not sure this one really needed to happen by quite the same terms as X-Men Forever, but it's mostly fun with Claremont playing to his not inconsiderable strengths.

I can see the logic of utilising the trusty crayon of Bob McLeod given his status as co-creator, but I have to admit he's never been one of my favourites; and Al Rio's art looks very much as though he attended the Bob McLeod school. There's nothing wrong with McLeod's art and, to paraphrase what somebody or other once said of Tony Hadley, that's what is wrong with his art. It's very clean and clear, and it gets the job done, but it gets the job done with a limited range of variant facial expressions and not much you could describe as dynamic. Still, the magic of Claremont is that he can worm even the most preposterous shite into your subconscious and have you swear you've been watching Citizen Kane, sidestepping the problem of clichés - of which one should probably expect a number given that New Mutants is one of those caped titles - by splashing them about regardless with just enough spin and distraction to get away with it.

Here we have the New Mutants battling Red Skull and his Nazi pals in a version of Rome which has somehow survived the last twenty thousand years in isolation in the Amazon basin. Red Skull turns Cypher into a boggle-eyed version of himself who stands around in just his y-fronts agonising about this most ludicrous of transformations; and even the swastikas resemble something from the Beano; but not once does it inspire the question of why anyone bothered. It's no Demon Bear Saga, but New Mutants was a great book and this collection effortlessly reminds us why.

American Victim

Meg McCarville American Victim (2023)
There was a bit of a commotion on social media when Amphetamine Sulphate published Four Circles, McCarville's previous volcanic eruption of righteous bile. I couldn't tell what had happened and felt disinclined to ask nosey questions, but the fallout seemed to be that Amphetamine Sulphate weren't going to be publishing this one which, as it so happens, provides substantial insight into the shit show which ultimately led to its publication by someone else, namely Ric Royer's Model City Books.

By her own testimony, Meg McCarville is a woman with issues who tends to find herself in unfortunate situations. The unfortunate situation was, in this instance, finding herself stalked by a nutcase who, amongst other things, dibbed her in to the FBI for alleged acts of terrorism which were obviously nothing of the sort, and all because he cared. He's identified in American Victim as Max Cady on Wheels, which seems fair, and whilst many of us will have met people like him, this goes a lot further than some disgruntled twat making a few prank phone calls. In fact it's terrifying, and even more terrifying than the aggressive-aggressive acts of sabotage dispensed by our boy is the fact that he gets to keep on keeping on, because while American law enforcement agencies excel in certain areas, not least of these being the dispensation of traffic citations, they're mostly fucking useless unless you're being menaced by an African-American with one of those candy bars that looks a bit like a firearm. If law enforcement did the job it purports to do, American Victim would have been a five-page pamphlet.

As ever, it's both a fucking tough read, and yet one which gets its hooks into you almost immediately because even at her absolute lowest ebb, Meg McCarville is very, very funny, wielding the kind of sarcasm which could have an eye out. It's Bukowksi with tits jammed on eleven, Lydia Lunch admitting she digs Kiss and rocking out, all directed by John Waters at his furthest remove from polite society and the closest I've come to writing with the face-punching intensity of an MOP album; and these aren't even necessarily its greatest strength, that being the words of truth spoken in dark, dark jest - truths that leave bruises.

I've gone through phases of surrounding myself with junkies and nobodies and ex-cons, but never in my life had I felt like I really fell in with the worst crowd until I found myself surrounded by phony progressive anarcho-feminist cunts and dopey woke boys (who really just pounded their politics so they can pound some psycho feminist pussy) who got into more of an uproar about someone getting misgendered even though they changed their pronoun every other week.

Honestly, this is one of the most powerful extended rants I've read in a long time, and anyone whose gag response has started kicking off would do well to remember that Voltaire, Swift, Rabelais and all those other sarcastic fuckers of yesteryear likewise delivered their testimonials with lashings of piss, vinegar, and castor oil. If you really want to understand the modern world, it's all here.

The Vanishing Tower

Michael Moorcock The Vanishing Tower (1970)
This is my fourth Elric book and I realise that I've been going at it all wrong. It isn't that I haven't enjoyed them, but I expected to enjoy them more than I have done. I'm not automatically well-disposed towards anything involving either spells, wizards or castles, so I need my occasional fantasy novel to do a bit more than the usual. Elric does a bit more than the usual, but nothing like so much as Moorcock's other novels tend to do. This would be fine in itself but for the scrappily episodic feel of short stories welded together, one quest after another, mystic day-saving gemstone after mystic day-saving gemstone…

Well, it seems these novels actually are short stories welded together, but short stories of such length as to be further subdivided into portions by my customary reading habits - an hour when I wake up and another before I go to sleep, which usually works out at about fifty pages a day with most books. Anyway, being as these things are pretty breezy, I made the effort to read each of the three short stories into which this one divides in single hour-long sittings, and suddenly they were a whole lot more enjoyable. I guess the existence of all those droning fifteen volume sword and sorcery epics has fooled me into the belief that I need to treat this kind of thing as a saga, accordingly remembering all the unpronounceables with walk-on parts for when they turn up later to reveal they still have such and such a mystic dingus in their possession.

It seems that reading each Elric episode in one go without worrying too much over minor points of continuity is the key, additionally meaning one is less likely to be distracted from the profoundly atmospheric weirdness; which is the main reason for reading these things.

So, it seems it wasn't Michael Moorcock after all. It was me. I still say he's written better, but then even the fruits of his occasionally phoning it in tend to be way above the average.