New Worlds SF #146, January 1965

ISFDB link

Other reviews:1
Graham Hall, Vector #30 (January 1965)

_____________________

Editor, Michael Moorcock; Assistant Editor, Langdon Jones

Fiction:
The Power of Y (Part 1 of 2) • novella serial by Arthur Sellings ∗∗+
The Sailor in the Western Stars • short story by Bob Parkinson
Tunnel of Love • short story by Joseph Green
There’s a Starman in Ward 7 • short story by David Rome
Election Campaign • novelette by Thom Keyes

Non-fiction:
Cover • by Robert J. Tilley
Interior artwork • by uncredited (2), Cawthorn (3)
Encouraging Signs • editorial by Michael Moorcock
Background: Space Drive • essay by George Locke [as by Gordon Walters]
Fancy and Imagination • book reviews by Michael Moorcock
Books for the Kids? • book reviews by Michael Moorcock [as by James Colvin]
Two Good Ones • book reviews by Langdon Jones
Letters to the Editor
Story Ratings 145

_____________________

The serial by Arthur Sellings,2 The Power of Y, starts with the narrator, Max Afford, stating he will not stand for President of the UES (United European States), that the following account was written for therapeutic reasons, and that he is just an art dealer. The story as such then starts with Afford in his gallery looking at a ‘plied’ copy of a Matisse that has just come in. It is number number 20, and this leads to a data-dump about the novel’s gimmick, plying (presumably short for ‘multiplying’):

Plying hit the headlines four years before—remember?
. . . the days when it was hailed as The Answer to Everything . . . The Dawn Of The Golden Age . . . when one car would go in one end and a million roll out the other. . . a genuine Mona Lisa in every home? — well, after the dust had settled, the Hyman Bascos and Oswald Bilbekkers of this world found they were still in business, only more so.
I’m no scientist, nor are a few thousand million other people, but it had all seemed so simple. All objects, so the theory ran, have an extension into the fourth dimension. We just happen to see, and use, one slice in this three-dimensional space. Plying meant simply taking other slices. The world was a side of bacon and there was nothing to stop you taking a dozen slices, a million—object x to the power of y, in fact—provided the hog was long enough. The sad truth was that it wasn’t. Or the cutters couldn’t reach more than twenty slices back. Or both. The “cutters” weren’t blades of steel, of course, but some kind of laser beam operating in a field of—well, there was enough about it in the Sunday magazines of the day.  p. 9

And that is about as interested as Sellings ever gets about the process (most of the novel revolves around the plot, and the upper middle class art gallery environment and society that Afford inhabits). However, there is one other twist that Sellings adds at this point: when Afford touches the painting he notices a strange sensation and, after more research at a friend’s gallery, he realises that he can tell the difference between the original and the copies, something that shouldn’t be possible as they are supposedly identical.
Next stop is Joanna Miles: as well as Afford’s possible romantic interest in her, she is also an executive at the Plying Plant. He tells her about his discovery but doesn’t really get anywhere, although she agrees to organise a tour of the Plying plant for him. When he goes on his tour he slips the guard a bribe and gets access a set of twenty identical paintings. He finds the real one by touch.
After this there is a break of a couple of months in the story. Afford goes to a country auction and notices a potentially valuable picture which he buys. It is a picture of President Masson’s grandfather. Afford (who is forced to take his pushy Aunt Clarissa along) presents his find to the President at an official reception. When Afford shakes the President’s hand he realises that the man is a copy!

The story now kicks up a gear. After the presentation ceremony, Afford contacts Joanna about plying living creatures and is bluntly told it is not possible. He goes to see his aunt, and she doesn’t believe him either. After a night in a bar drowning his sorrows he is abducted outside his house. Afford wakes up later in a sanatorium. His aunt arrives and tells him that Joanna contacted her after his visit saying her phone was tapped. Aunt Clarissa then arranged for Afford’s abduction for his own protection. Senator Burroughs, a friend of his aunt, then turns up and they discuss the situation. There is a lot packed into this chapter.

As you can probably tell, this is a fairly fast-paced story, and it is told with, perhaps, the style and lightness of touch more typical in a mainstream social novel of the time. It is certainly not your normal boilerplate mid-sixties SF novel. Perhaps this different tone or voice was what Moorcock found attractive.
It is pleasant enough but minor.3

The Sailor in the Western Stars by Bob Parkinson4 is a lyrical, future-myth story that tells of a space captain called Anistar:

Anistar then, as we have already noted, was a sailor; a proud, noble sailor of the ancient lineage of the Lindesfaarne — who sail their tall, gossamer-light ships across the high stars, silent as falling snowflakes. And as he dipped into the ports of one distant world or another, Anistar continued the business of the Lindesfaarne and traded in the intangible wares they carry; for the Lindesfaarne have long since found such cargoes most profitable, and quite portable.  p. 49

On one of the planets he visits he meets a lady called Calmoora, and they fall in love. Later Anistar becomes restless and wants to go sailing again:

The story meanwhile tells of how Anistar tarried a little while on Jildereen; and when the time came for him to leave that world, along with him went Calmoora, and Santihl, and others whose names are now lost to our histories and so are quite forgotten. So that all these quitted Jildereen at last, and came into that vast darkness of heaven, wherein the stars are as distant lanterns in the sky. And in the glory and the freedom of these heavens Anistar rejoiced, for he was a sailor of the race of the Lindesfaarne and hated the feel of a planet hard beneath his feet. Once again his soul flew free and happy with the ship as it spread its unseen, delicate sails of force and sailed onwards among the stars. And in the hold of that gossamer-light ship there now reposed a new cargo, perhaps the most curious that Anistar had ever carried.  p. 56

At the end of the story (spoiler) Calmoora is left on Caer-ome, while Anistar departs. The “intangible” he has brought to the planet is love.
This is a discursive and stylish piece that vaguely reminded me of Cordwainer Smith, and it’s the best story in the issue.

Tunnel of Love by Joseph Green starts with two young men getting a permit to go to a primitive planet and get film footage of the natives. These latter are the most attractive humanoids in known space and they go around naked. The two men intend to use their “ethnographic” film to make some money producing art house movies.
They arrive on the planet and, after the pair have most of their film footage, we learn more about the natives’ marriage customs: there are no extra-marital relationships, and to marry one of the women the men have to crawl through a tunnel in a metal pyramid to a conjugal chamber in the centre: not all the men make it—some are taken by “the monster”.
Needless to say one of the two men gets the hots for the chief’s red-headed daughter and decides to have a go. The other follows him with a drone—they want the footage for their movie—and sees him disappear along the way.
This all resolves with (spoiler) his rescue and the discovery that the pyramid is a huge genetic scanner, installed after the sun’s radiation levels increased thousands of years ago: those men who are not up to standard slowly die of starvation in the pyramid.
This is all unconvincingly contrived but it moves along slickly enough.

There’s a Starman in Ward 7 by David Rome5 is a piece narrated by a schizophrenic in an asylum. A new inmate joins them and claims he is a Starman from Alpha Centauri. He later organises a breakout (spoiler) but we never discover whether the Starman is an alien or just delusional. For that reason it is not entirely satisfactory as a story but is of interest on account of its unusual manic style and occasionally transgressive tone:

Alice and I walked home through Souter Woods! ! !
The Starman wanted to know why I killed Alice. I tell him because she said dirty words to me after I LOVED her. I also told him about the mother in the moon.
Mother in the moon
Rolled me in porridge
Turned me into a boy
When I was three
Years old
The Starman came from Alpha Centauri in a spaceship. He says nobody believes him, that’s why he’s here.
I said what happened to the spaceship. He said it’s still hidden in the swamp and when he gets the chance he’s getting out of here and going home.
After we got our pills THEY served us coffee on the verandah. We get one cup of coffee each and ONE biscuit, except Daddy who gets two when JOHN is on. The Starman ASKED JOHN FOR ANOTHER BISCUIT.
It was funny. JOHN gave the Starman a look, then pushed him and made him stumble against the wall. But the Starman went straight back and asked for another biscuit. JOHN got mad and took him to the dormitory and shut the door.
(all this is a lie!)
(ward 7 is fine)
(EVERYBODY here treats us right)
(I’m a dirty liar about JOHN)  p. 84

Election Campaign by Thom Keyes has an authoritarian, war-mongering General touring the planets during an election campaign. His government minder is, unusually, a doctor. During the trip they argue, and just as it is becoming physical the gravity goes off temporarily. Their spaceship pilot (who is a brain in a metal box) has malfunctioned, and the ship is spinning tail over tail, out of control.
When they investigate the pilot’s box they find the brain has suffered from a haemorrhage, and is irreparable. The only way for them to survive (spoiler) is for the doctor to remove the general’s brain and use it as a replacement. The operation is successful. (By the way, the described medical procedures aren’t as grisly as in Keyes’ previous story Period of Gestation (Science Fantasy #67, September-October 1964)—at least this time there is a doctor cutting people open rather than amateurs—but I won’t be having anything to eat before I read his next one.)
The story finishes with the general, now a spaceship, arriving at the colony planet and starting his stump speech. It has a good last line:

Meanwhile, the political machine swung into action.  p. 102

This issue’s Cover, according to ISFDB, is by Robert J. Tilley (but the source for this attribution is unknown).
The title page informs us that Langdon Jones is now the editor.

The Interior artwork is split between the uncredited but distinctive artist who illustrates Selling’s serial, while Cawthorn illustrates the others (he is rapidly becoming the magazine’s staff artist).
Encouraging Signs is, I presume, Michael Moorcock’s editorial (although uncredited it has a sketch of him at the top of the page) and covers a number of topics:

From this issue we are back on a regular monthly schedule and, for the first time, our companion Science Fantasy also goes monthly. This is largely thanks to you and we are grateful.  p.2

At least four brilliant books have appeared [in 1964], all vastly different—Aldiss’s Greybeard, Ballard’s The Terminal Beach, Harness’s The Paradox Men and, a book which can’t strictly be called SF, yet which deals with all the ideas found in SF, Burroughs’s Dead Fingers Talk. These four alone made it an exciting year for us—and an encouraging one.
Also encouraging was the number of new writers we have been able to attract to both magazines. Langdon Jones, George Collyn, John Hamilton, Colin Fry and Thom Keyes have all, in their different ways, brought freshness and diversity to the field and will continue to do so.  p. 2

He briefly mentions the contributions by Bob Parkinson and Arthur Sellings before moving on to this:

A further encouraging sign that SF is on the up in more ways than one— the publication of SF Horizons , the professional magazine of SF criticism, edited by Brian Aldiss and Harry Harrison. The best item in this was Aldiss’s long article on Jack Williamson’s Legion of Time, in which he analyses not only the book itself, but also the whole SF field, its strengths and its weaknesses. This is the first piece of serious SF criticism we have read which really lays down solid principles for the criticism of SF. It is witty, intelligent and clear.  p. 3

He then quotes a long passage from the Aldiss article which ends with:

“In other words, discover the purpose; judge its worth; criticise the technique . . .”  p. 3

All of the above comments suggest that it was an interesting time to be in and/or observing the British SF scene.
I didn’t expect to like Background: Space Drive by George Locke, which I thought would be another of those dreary science articles that occasionally turn up in SF magazines, but he writes in a breezy, entertaining style:

Twenty or thirty years ago, science fiction writers took great pains to work out a plausible scientific framework for their stories. But they quickly came into conflict with the accepted scientific theories of the day. Before the First World War, heroic adventures on Mars a la E. R. Burroughs were quite plausible in light of what was known about Mars. Today, the science fiction writer moans softly: “I mustn’t dream of cream princesses enthroned on Mars because the astronomers insist that mammalian life is impossible. So I have to find an outlet for my sexual fantasies among a bunch of nasty green lichens!”  p. 103

De Bergerac was a couple of hundred years ahead of his time as a science fiction writer, and the rocket was neglected in favour of the aforementioned antigravity. Jules Verne certainly didn’t use it. His unfortunate heroes were shot out of a gigantic cannon like a packet of puffed wheat. Ever since the publication of that story (English edition 1873), science fiction readers have condemned Verne on the grounds that after such a violent initial blastoff, the heroes would have resembled a rather soggy mass of red puffed wheat.  p. 106

He starts with Lucian and his sailing ships and works his way round to the modern equivalent by the end.
This issue’s reviews start with Fancy and Imagination by Michael Moorcock. I think I have finally figured out why Moorcock writes about some books under his own name and the rest under his ‘James Colvin’ pseudonym: those reviewed under his own name are those he wants to proselytise about, those he reviews under his pseudonym take their chances . . . .
This month Moorcock (as opposed to Colvin) reviews Greybeard by Brian W. Aldiss, and The Paradox Men by Charles Harness. In his illuminating reviews of both books (this is a very well written essay) he has this to say about them (amidst much else):

Wordsworth once distinguished between Fancy and Imagination in art—Fancy was the ability to create what hadn’t been conceived of before, Imagination was the ability to explore the deeper aspects of what we see around us. In Greybeard Imagination predominates with a sufficient dash of Fancy to make the whole very good modem SF indeed.  p. 112

Long-time readers of the genre may remember such beautiful stories as Time Trap (Astounding, 1948), Fruits of the Agathon (Thrilling Wonder Stories, 1948), Stalemate in Space (Planet [Stories], 1949) and that tour de force in Authentic, 1953—The Rose. All of them have, with The Paradox Men, a certain similarity of theme and mood, yet all of them show a writer of intellect and power whose faults—descent into pulp shorthand on occasions, plots tending to move a little too fast, tendency to use characters as mechanical chess-pieces in a too carefully plotted framework—are easy to ignore. It is high time we saw the republication of all of these.  p. 113

In his Calvin persona, Moorcock uses Books for the Kids? to dish out some praise but mostly punishment beatings. In his review of Andre Norton’s Judgement on Janus he says that the writer “feasts off the hard work of earlier writers, looting their backgrounds and ideas and producing barren pastiche after barren pastiche. If you’ve read one, you’ve read ’em all.” He says of A Life for the Stars by James Blish that “There’s nothing new here, either, but at least Blish is plagiarising himself to produce a juvenile version of his famous Oakie series.” Moorcock then covers another juvenile by Nourse, and airs his grievances about this type of material appearing in the SF magazines. I don’t really understand his objection: who cares as long as it’s good?
Next for the brickbat is Poul Anderson’s A Truce for Kings:

This pulp Western is dressed up as an SF story. It is badly written, highly reactionary and embarrassingly sentimental—and it won this year’s Hugo Award for the best short fiction. I began writing my review before I heard that piece of news. I’m still bewildered—can it mean that the Hugo has become valueless as an indication of what is good? I’m equally bewildered at Gollancz for selecting it. I always had the impression that he was a left-wing publisher. Not any more, it seems.  p. 116

His bafflement about the Hugo Award not being an indicator of quality is odd: was it ever a guarantee?
Later there is this about Damon Knight’s new novel Beyond the Barrier:

Damon Knight’s reputation is good, yet surely he can’t have gained it from his fiction? I hoped his latest novel would be an improvement on his short stories, but no such luck.  p. 117

This about the author of The Country of the Kind, among others.
There are a couple of positive reviews at the end (Ballard—naturally—and Burgess).
At his best Moorcock is a very good reviewer of material he likes—but with everything else his politics and bugbears (juveniles, sentimentality, etc., etc.) make him an unreliable arbiter of what is worth your time.
In Two Good Ones, Langdon Jones positively reviews The Uncensored Man by Arthur Sellings, and The Syndic by C. M. Kornbluth, although he starts with this about Selling:

I have always considered Arthur Sellings to be a greatly under-estimated and neglected writer. True, his output hasn’t been great, and in a world where a writer like Murray Leinster can get to the top, it is obvious that quantity comes before quality.  p. 119

This praising who you like and trashing who you don’t was a common New Worlds reviewing technique. This would continue, and get worse: I’ve heard people say that reading the later New Worlds’ book review columns (in the large format edition especially) was like reading Pravda—you would skim the reviews to see whose turn it was to be denounced.
Letters to the Editor opens with a long letter from Ivor Latto of Glasgow (who wins the new Harry Harrison novel, The Ethical Engineer), which is mostly about Langdon Jones’s I Remember Anita in #144:

Mr. Jones has as much right to employ blunt sexual realism as any non-sf writer . . . if he thinks it justified for his purpose . . . and in this case there is obviously a case for it, to present his characters as live, animal human beings. The sweaty realism of love and death has been employed to advantage by many writers, notably by the Existentialists. But when Sartre or Camus do this they use the language of realism.
The strangest thing about this story was the combination of a narrative which shows all the warts, with a style, rather, a Style, which was extremely literary, at times even affected. The oft-repeated devise of ‘I remember . . .’ is one example of this, while the language itself too often drifted into neo-Hemingway; phrases like ‘I stayed there, buried in the soft gentleness of you, I know not how long,’ or ‘the loin-heat that used to suffuse my abdomen,’ again, ‘we used to march, hand-in-hand, in arm-swinging boisterousness down avenues of stars.’
Nobody speaks like that. Nobody even thinks like that.
And there was enough of this sort of thing to be disconcerting in conjunction with the realism of the love and death scenes. This pretentiousness also was expressed in some surprisingly banal passages. How about: ‘My God, you had never really been loved.’ All this does not mean that I think Langdon Jones is a bad writer, only that I think that he was trying to be a Fine Writer. His theme was simple and powerful, it would surely have benefited from the use of simple and powerful language, rather than resorting to embarrassing and intrusive literary tricks. My second reservation about this story was the aura of incredible bitterness which pervaded it, no doubt part of the author’s intention. All right, this was a tragedy, but one does not leave Oedipus Rex feeling angry with the Gods, but rather one feels cleansed of emotion. In expressing such bitterness Mr. Jones does not guard his characters against self-pity, the stink of which suffuses much of the story. If I seem over-critical of this piece it is perhaps because the big build-up made me more sensitive than I might otherwise have been to its shortcomings. It was certainly the most adult item in this issue, and the strongest in emotion, but it was in my opinion over-written and suffered from an unfortunate placing of emphasis.  p. 123-124

Moorcock accepts the criticism before expressing his disappointment that some readers wrote in to complain about the story’s sexual explicitness (“Why must Mr. Jones express the feelings of a young, sensitive artist so crudely! It isn’t sex any more, it’s downright pornography!”).
Story Ratings 145 was discussed in the review of that issue.6

In conclusion I’d say that there is nothing particularly outstanding in this issue, but it is interesting to note that the tone or style of all the stories is different (to a greater or lesser extent) from what the magazine was typically publishing under Carnell’s editorship.  ●

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1. Graham Hall’s review in Vector #30 notes that the magazine has gone monthly and that Jones has joined as assistant editor. He starts by saying that, “this issue is definitely the best to come from Moorcock”. I’d disagree: #143 is the best so far in my judgement (Bailey’s The Fall of Frenchy Steiner, and the second part of Ballard’s Equinox).
After talking about Selling’s increased stature in the field and synopsising the serial, Hall moves on to Bob Parkinson, mentioning that he is “one of the well-known Cheltenham SF Circle fen who went north to Nottingham to fool around in ballistics or some such.” He adds that Parkinson’s story is “quite well-written but occasionally over-poetic” and that the story’s idea and style reminded him of Cordwainer Smith’s The Lady Who Sailed the Soul.
Hall liked Green’s story a lot, describing it as “old guard” and that it “it is a pleasant change to find a really readable SF tale in these days of so much experimental writing”. I was rather baffled by that comment: they have only just got going with the New Wave stuff!
Hall says Rome’s story is “rather unsatisfactory but unusual”, and that Keyes “perpetrates a parsley gun” (no, me neither) and that it “stands on its own merits [. . .] despite similarities to others.”
Hall liked the cover, “the best I’ve seen for several years—eye-catching and pleasing”, and the Cawthorn illustrations.

2. Arthur Sellings was one of the few British writers (J. T. McIntosh was another) who sold regularly to Galaxy magazine in the fifties. However he didn’t make much of an impact on the British paperback lists: although all but one of his hardbacks was published in hardback by Dobson he never had a regular UK paperback publisher. He did better in the USA: three of his books appeared from Berkley Medallion, one from Ballantine, and one under a pseudonym from Banner. Consequently, when I was browsing the shelves in the mid-seventies he was nowhere to be seen, and I only came to know of him through New Worlds Quarterly, which published news of his premature death from a heart attack (he was 47).
His SFE page is here; his Wikipedia page is here.

3. In Selling’s serial, the fifth and sixth lines from the bottom of p. 42 are in the wrong order:

“That’s my boy! That’s disposed of that question
your dear departed parents, I never thought that I would
then. But—as somebody who made certain promises to

should read:

“That’s my boy! That’s disposed of that question
then. But—as somebody who made certain promises to
your dear departed parents, I never thought that I would

4. Bob Parkinson was a name I didn’t recognise, but he wrote a handful of stories and poems, as well as a number of articles and reviews (he turns up with an essay on Cordwainer Smith in 1971), and was President of the British Interplanetary Society. Given this latter information you would have expected a hard SF story. His ISFDB page is here, and there is some BIS information here.

5. David Rome was the pseudonym of David William Boutland. He had published over a dozen stories in Carnell’s New Worlds, Science Fantasy and Science Fiction Adventures. This was his only appearance in the Moorcock New Worlds, although other stories appeared elsewhere from the mid-sixties to early seventies: I suspect he may have stopped writing SF due to the lack of a market. His ISFDB page is here, and there is more information about him on Steve Holland’s blog.

6. The story ratings for this issue appeared in #148:

The longest story tops the ratings again, just like it usually does in Analog. My pecking order would have been Parkinson followed by Sellings, Keyes, & Rome.  ●

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2 thoughts on “New Worlds SF #146, January 1965

  1. Denny Lien

    re: “Keyes “perpetrates a parsley gun” (no, me neither) ” — perhaps a Spoonerism or rhyming slang for “ghastly pun” ?

    I believe I recall seeing David Rome post now and then on Gideon Marcus’ “Galactic Journey” site:
    http://galacticjourney.org/about/

    Reply

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