{"id":13069,"date":"2020-07-28T15:00:31","date_gmt":"2020-07-28T15:00:31","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/?p=13069"},"modified":"2020-08-25T10:37:45","modified_gmt":"2020-08-25T10:37:45","slug":"the-best-science-fiction-of-the-year-1-edited-by-terry-carr-1972","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/?p=13069","title":{"rendered":"The Best Science Fiction of the Year #1, edited by Terry Carr, 1972"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Summary: An assured solo \u2018Best of Year\u2019 anthology for 1971 from Terry Carr, whose choices seem to split pretty evenly between crowd-pleasers (Clarke\u2019s excellent A Meeting With Medusa<\/em>, Anderson\u2019s A Queen of Air and Darkness<\/em>, and the Niven), experimental and literary work (Le Guin\u2019s Vaster Than Empires and More Slow<\/em>, the Silverberg and Panshin), and humour and satire (work from Farmer, Spinrad, and Effinger, etc.). A reader-friendly combination.
\n[ISFDB<\/a>] [Archive.org]<\/a><\/p>\n

Other reviews:1<\/sup>
\nCharlie Brown, Locus #129,<\/em> December 15, 1972
\nAvram Davidson, F&SF,<\/em> March 1973<\/a>
\nDave Hartwell, Locus #125,<\/em> October 27 1972
\nP. Schuyler Miller, Analog,<\/em> May 1973<\/a><\/p>\n

_____________________<\/p>\n

Editor, Terry Carr<\/p>\n

Fiction:2<\/sup>
\nOccam\u2019s Scalpel<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Theodore Sturgeon \u2217\u2217<\/strong>
\nThe Queen of Air and Darkness<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novella by Poul Anderson \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nIn Entropy\u2019s Jaws<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Robert Silverberg \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nThe Sliced-Crosswise Only-On-Tuesday World<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short story by Philip Jos\u00e9 Farmer \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>+
\nA Meeting with Medusa<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Arthur C. Clarke \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nThe Frayed String on the Stretched Forefinger of Time<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short story by Lloyd Biggle, Jr. \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nHow Can We Sink When We Can Fly?<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Alexei Panshin \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nNo Direction Home <\/em><\/strong>\u2022 short story by Norman Spinrad \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nVaster Than Empires and More Slow<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Ursula K. Le Guin \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>+
\nAll the Last Wars at Once<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short story by George Alec Effinger \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>
\nThe Fourth Profession<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 novelette by Larry Niven \u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>\u2217<\/strong>+<\/p>\n

Non-fiction:
\nIntroduction<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 by Terry Carr<\/p>\n

_____________________<\/p>\n

The fiction in Terry Carr\u2019s debut solo \u2018Best of the Year\u2019 volume (he co-edited a series with Donald A. Wollheim for the years 1964 to 1970 previously) leads off with Occam\u2019s Scalpel<\/em><\/strong> by Theodore Sturgeon (If<\/em>, July-August 1971), which in some respects reminds me of another story of his I\u2019ve read recently, When You Care, When You Love<\/em> (F&SF<\/em>, September 1962)\u2014but I\u2019ll come back to this at the end.
\nThis one opens with a man called Joe, an out of town inventor, receiving a discrete visit from his brother Karl. We learn that Karl is the private doctor of an exceptionally wealthy and elderly man whose designated successor is an over-achiever called Wheeler. Karl has concerns about what Wheeler will do with the company, and its vast wealth and influence, when he takes control. There is then a long data dump giving Wheeler\u2019s life story, which ends with the brothers deciding what they should do.
\nAfter the set-up the story plays out in the rest of the story, starting with Karl and Wheeler at the old man\u2019s funeral. Long story short (spoiler), Karl takes Wheeler through to a back room in the crematorium, where the coffin, rather than having been burnt, is waiting for them.
\nKarl opens the coffin and proceeds to perform an autopsy on the old man. During this procedure Karl excises odd-looking body parts which he displays to Wheeler, while suggesting that their erstwhile boss was an alien. Then Karl floats the theory that this creature\u2019s natural habitat is an atmosphere similar to a badly polluted Earth, and that the deteriorating condition of the environment is part of an alien plot to terraform the Earth for its species. Wheeler is convinced, and leaves on a mission to reverse this trend.3<\/sup>
\nThe story\u2019s short last section has Karl talking to Joe about what we now find out was a hoax (Joe makes medical specimens for a living). The final twist involves a further discussion between them about Occam\u2019s razor, which suggests that their hoax theory is actually true.4<\/sup>
\nThis tale, like When You Care, When You Love<\/em>, marries up Sturgeon\u2019s considerable story-telling skills with an far-fetched plot. Individual reader\u2019s enjoyment will vary according to what extent they allow the first to mask the second: in my case, not so much.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

Reviewed here recently was The Queen of Air and Darkness<\/em><\/strong> by Poul Anderson (F&SF<\/em>, April 1971), which seems at first as if it is going to be a Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream-like fantasy:<\/span><\/p>\n

A shape came bounding over Cloudmoor. It had two arms and two legs, but the legs were long and claw-footed and feathers covered it to the end of a tail and broad wings. The face was half human, dominated by its eyes. Had Ayoch been able to stand wholly erect, he would have reached to the boy\u2019s shoulder.
\nThe girl rose. \u201cHe carries a burden,\u201d she said. Her vision was not meant for twilight like that of a northland creature born, but she had learned how to use every sign her senses gave her. Besides the fact that ordinarily a pook would fly, there was a heaviness to his haste.
\n\u201cAnd he comes from the south.\u201d Excitement jumped in the boy, sudden as a green flame that went across the constellation Lyrth. He sped down the mound. \u201cOhoi, Ayoch!\u201d he called, \u201cMe here, Mistherd!\u201d
\n\u201cAnd Shadow-of-a-Dream,\u201d the girl laughed, following. The pook halted. He breathed louder than the soughing in the growth around him. A smell of bruised yerba lifted where he stood. \u201cWell met in winterbirth,\u201d he whistled. \u201cYou can help me bring this to Carheddin.\u201d
\nHe held out what he bore. His eyes were yellow lanterns above. It moved and whimpered.
\n\u201cWhy, a child,\u201d Mistherd said.\u00a0 p. 188<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In the next section the story changes into a planetary colonisation tale, which starts with a woman called Barbro Cullen visiting an investigator called Eric Sherrinford in a town called Christmas Landing. Her child has gone missing on a field trip to the north of their planet, Roland, and she fears he may have been abducted.
\nSherrinford agrees to take the case, and it isn\u2019t long before they head north to an outpost called Portolondon. In a video interview with the local constable, Sherrinford probes the officer about the incident, and also the local myths:<\/p>\n

[Sherrinford] cradled his pipe bowl in both hands and peered into the tiny hearth of it. \u201cPerhaps what interests me most,\u201d he said softly, \u201cis why\u2014across that gap of centuries, across a barrier of machine civilization and its utterly antagonistic world view\u2014no continuity of tradition whatsoever\u2014why have hard-headed, technologically organized, reasonably well-educated colonists here brought back from its grave a belief in the Old Folk?\u201d\u00a0 p. 201<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Later, Sherrinford and Cullen head north and, one night at their campsite, he tells Cullen his theory that there is an advanced indigenous race on Roland which is hiding from the human race. Little do the couple know that they are being spied upon by Mistherd, a previous human abductee, who now swears allegiance to the Queen of Air and Darkness.
\nThe rest of the story follows the pair as they track down the child.
\nThis is an impressive piece, and what is particularly notable is the texture of this world. Not only do we see things from both the indigenous alien\u2019s and settler\u2019s point of view, but we also learn about the myths and legends that have been created by the limited contact between the two. This is perhaps most evident in two sequential scenes: the first takes place in the house of William Irons, a settler who lives in the far north, and who tells the couple about the rules and customs that apply there with respect to the \u201cQueen\u201d; the second is when Cullen and Sherrinford are later at their campsite talking about a folk song performed by Iron\u2019s son but interrupted by an emotional outburst from Cullen. She finishes the song for Sherrinford, and he hears of a story about a ranger, Arvin, and how he refuses to become part of the Outling folk. The Queen tells him he will regret his choice:<\/p>\n

I do not need a magic
\nto make you always mourn.
\n.<\/span>
\nI send you home with nothing
\nexcept your memory
\nof moonlight, Outling music,
\nnight breezes, dew, and me.
\nAnd that will run behind you,
\na shadow on the sun,
\nand that will lie beside you
\nwhen every day is done.
\n.<\/span>
\nIn work and play and friendship
\nyour grief will strike you dumb
\nfor thinking what you are\u2014and\u2014
\nwhat you might have become.\u00a0 p. 216<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

It is a stunning moment which not only elegantly and succinctly lends the story hundreds of years of history, but also dangles the prospect of human uplift or transcendence in front of the reader. And, as if all this doesn\u2019t already build a convincing world, there are also a couple of short passages that sketch the spread of humanity through space, something that gives the tapestry of the story even more colour and depth.
\nIf the piece has a flaw it is probably the ending (spoiler), which degenerates into a guns blazing rescue of the boy, a rather crude end to such a sophisticated story\u2014although, to be fair, that event is preceded by a haunting section where Cullen is kidnapped and telepathically induced to think that her dead husband is taking her to the Queen of Air and Darkness.
\nA deserving Hugo and Nebula Award winner.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

In Entropy\u2019s Jaws<\/em><\/strong> by Robert Silverberg (Infinity #2<\/em>, 1971) the protagonist, Skein, is a man on a passenger spaceship about to make an FTL jump when he has the first of a number of fugues that see him \u201cswept in shards across time.\u201d The rest of the story is a non-linear sequence of many of Skein\u2019s life events both past and future and, during these, he meets a skull-faced man he has never met (so this must be from his future). As he watches himself talk to the skull-faced man Skein realises that the man has a cure for his condition, so he eventually makes his way across interstellar space to him. When Skein finally reaches the skull-faced man, he is taken to a healing \u201camoeba,\u201d and (spoiler) his condition resolved: it then becomes apparent who the skull-faced man is (although some readers will already have figured this out already).
\nBetween the initial set-up on the spaceship and the story\u2019s ironic ending, Silverberg uses all the toys in the artistic toolbox\u2014pseudo-intellectual musings about time and entropy (some of which sounds as if it is straight out of Pseud\u2019s Corner), the listing of many book titles, etc.\u2014there are even a couple of \u201cWhat I did on my Summer Holidays\u201d scenes (the ones inside the mosque, and on the boat). These are wrapped up in a kitchen sink\u2019s worth of standard SFnal gimmicks, e.g. starships, telepathy, and time loops. And the story is also heavily padded, as you can see from this almost stream-of-consciousness section:<\/p>\n

Skein spends nearly all of this period in his cabin, rarely eating and sleeping very little. He reads almost constantly, obsessively dredging from the ship\u2019s extensive library a wide and capricious assortment of books. Rilke. Kafka. Eddington, The Nature of the Physical World<\/em>. Lowry, Hear Us O Lord From Heaven Thy Dwelling Place<\/em>. Elias. Razhuminin. Dickey. Pound. Fraisse, The Psychology of Time<\/em>. Greene, Dream and Delusion<\/em>. Poe. Shakespeare. Marlowe. Tourneur.
\nThe Waste Land. Ulysses. Heart of Darkness<\/em>. Bury, The Idea of Progress. <\/em>Jung. Buchner. Pirandello. The MagicMountain<\/em>. Ellis, The Rack. <\/em>Cervantes. Blenheim. Fierst. Keats. Nietzsche. His mind swims with images and bits of verse, with floating sequences of dialogue, with unscaffolded dialectics. He dips into each work briefly, magpielike, seeking bright scraps. The words form a scaly impasto on the inner surface of his skull. He finds that this heavy verbal overdose helps, to some slight extent, to fight off the fugues; his mind is weighted, perhaps, bound by this leaden clutter of borrowed genius to the moving line of the present, and during his debauch of reading he finds himself shifting off that line less frequently than in the recent past. His mind whirls.
\nMan is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman<\/em>\u2014A rope over an abyss. <\/em>My patience is exhausted. See<\/em>, see where Christ\u2019s blood streams in the firmament! One drop would save my soul. <\/em>I had not thought death had undone so many. These fragments I have shored against my ruins. Hoogspanning<\/em>. Levensgevaar. Peligro de Muerte<\/em>. Electricidad<\/em>. Danger<\/em>.\u00a0 p. 89<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This goes on for a page and a half.
\nA story that is too long and too self-indulgent.5<\/sup><\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

The Sliced-Crosswise Only-On-Tuesday World<\/em><\/strong> by Philip Jos\u00e9 Farmer (New Dimensions #1<\/em>, 1971) is an amusing piece about a man who lives in an overpopulated world where people only live one day in seven. When they are not conscious they are kept in suspended animation chambers, which they call \u201cstoners\u201d.
\nThe first part of the story introduces us to Tom Pym, an actor who lives in Tuesday, and who wakes up to find his house has burnt down. After a few days in a public facility he finds a new place to stay and, on the evening of his first day there, he sees a beautiful woman in the stoner opposite. Pym is instantly infatuated with her, but she lives in Wednesday, and it is nearly impossible to transfer between days (and to do so illegally would result in permanent stonerdom).
\nThe rest of the piece concerns Pym\u2019s attempts to contact her by leaving a tape-recorded message (he receives a polite but dismissive reply), and then his journey through the bureaucratic process required to transfer between days. This latter requires the approval of both his astrologer and psycher:<\/p>\n

The psycher had said that he was incapable of a true and lasting bond with a woman, as so many men were in this world of easy-come-easy-go liaisons. He had fallen in love with Jennie Marlowe for several reasons. She may have resembled somebody he had loved when he was very young. His mother, perhaps? No? Well, never mind. He would find out in Wednesday\u2014perhaps. The deep, the important, truth was that he loved Miss Marlowe because she could never reject him, kick him out, or become tiresome, complain, weep, yell, insult, and so forth. He loved her because she was unattainable and silent.\u00a0 p.125<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Although Pym (spoiler) eventually succeeds in transferring to Wednesday, the ironic ending sees his psycher running off with the woman, who has meantime transferred to Tuesday.
\nAn original and entertaining piece.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

A Meeting with Medusa<\/em><\/strong> by Arthur C. Clarke (Playboy, December 1971)6<\/sup> has a spectacular opening sequence that sees Howard Falcon, the captain of a huge future airship called the Queen Elizabeth<\/em>, walk through the interior of the craft (and past the superchimp, \u201csimp\u201d crew) and up to the craft\u2019s observation area. There he watches as a nearby camera platform approaches the ship to land. However, the operator loses control, and it crashes into the airship, damaging it badly. Falcon rushes down to the bridge:<\/p>\n

Halfway down, he paused for a second to inspect the damage. That damned platform had gone clear through the ship, rupturing two of the gas cells as it did so. They were still collapsing slowly, in great falling veils of plastic. He was not worried about the loss of lift\u2014the ballast could easily take care of that, as long as eight cells remained intact. Far more serious was the possibility of structural damage; already he could hear the great latticework around him groaning and protesting under its abnormal loads. It was not enough to have sufficient lift; unless it was properly distributed, the ship would break her back.
\nHe was just resuming his descent when a superchimp, shrieking with fright, came racing down the elevator shaft, moving with incredible speed hand over hand along the outside of the latticework. In its terror, the poor beast had torn off its company uniform, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to regain the freedom of its ancestors.
\nFalcon, still descending as swiftly as he could, watched its approach with some alarm; a distraught simp was a powerful and potentially dangerous animal, especially if fear overcame its conditioning. As it overtook him, it started to call out a string of words, but they were all jumbled together, and the only one he could recognize was a plaintive, frequently repeated \u201cBoss.\u201d Even now, Falcon realized, it looked toward humans for guidance; he felt sorry for the creature, involved in a man-made disaster beyond its comprehension and for which it bore no responsibility.
\nIt stopped opposite him, on the other side of the lattice; there was nothing to prevent it from coming through the open framework if it wished. Now its face was only inches from his and he was looking straight into the terrified eyes. Never before had he been so close to a simp and able to study its features in such detail; he felt that strange mingling of kinship and discomfort that all men experience when they gaze thus into the mirror of time.
\nHis presence seemed to have calmed the creature; Falcon pointed up the shaft, back toward the observation deck, and said very clearly and precisely: \u201cBoss\u2014boss\u2014go\u201d To his relief, the simp understood; it gave him a grimace that might have been a smile and at once started to race back the way it had come. Falcon had given it the best advice he could; if any safety remained aboard the Queen, it was in that direction. But his duty lay in the other.\u00a0 p. 136-137<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The airship crash lands and, after Falcon\u2019s blackout, the story recommences some time later with him pitching an airship exploration of Jupiter to a man called Webster, the head of long range planning. Then the story cuts to Falcon en route from Ganymede to Jupiter;\u00a0 when he arrives his spaceship, the Kon Tiki<\/em>, enters the atmosphere and the balloons deploy, leaving him floating in the Jovian atmosphere.
\nThe main part of the story is a mixture of exotic travelogue and sense of wonder:<\/p>\n

The five hours of daylight were almost over; the clouds below were full of shadows, which gave them a massive solidity they had not possessed when the Sun was higher. Color was swiftly draining from the sky, except in the west itself, where a band of deepening purple lay along the horizon. Above this band was the thin crescent of a closer moon, pale and bleached against the utter blackness beyond.
\nWith a speed perceptible to the eye, the Sun went straight down over the edge of Jupiter, 3000 kilometers away. The stars came out in their legions\u2014and there was the beautiful evening star of Earth, on the very frontier of twilight, reminding him how far he was from home. It followed the Sun down into the west; man\u2019s first night on Jupiter had begun.\u00a0 p. 149<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

We witness the various events that unfold as Falcon travels through the Jovian atmosphere (spoiler): there are bands of racing bioluminescent light in the clouds below; a massive radio storm; ball lightning on the Kon Tiki<\/em>; he sleeps and has a recurrent nightmare about the simp on the airship (which died along with all the others)\u2014then he spots a massive life-form rising out of the clouds towards him.
\nWhen Falcon later sees that the medusae (he later comes upon a herd of the medusa-like creatures) have radio arrays, the first contact protocols are invoked:<\/p>\n

Dr. Brenner was back on the circuit, still worrying about the Prime Directive.
\n\u201cRemember\u2014it may only be inquisitive!\u201d he cried without much conviction. \u201cTry not to frighten it!\u201d
\nFalcon was getting rather tired of this advice and recalled a TV discussion he had once seen between a space lawyer and an astronaut. After the full implications of the Prime Directive had been carefully spelled out, the incredulous spacer had exclaimed: \u201cSo if there were no alternative, I must sit still and let myself be eaten?\u201d The lawyer had not even cracked a smile when he answered: \u201cThat\u2019s an excellent summing up.\u201d
\nIt had seemed funny at the time; it was not at all amusing now.
\nAnd then Falcon saw something that made him even more unhappy. The medusa was still hovering a kilometer above him\u2014but one of its tentacles was becoming incredibly elongated and was stretching down toward Kon-Tiki, thinning out at the same time. As a boy, he had once seen the funnel of a tornado descending from a storm cloud over the Kansas plains; the thing coming toward him now evoked vivid memories of that black, twisting snake in the sky.\u00a0 p. 171<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The medusa\u2019s attentions eventually cause Falcon to prematurely end his trip. He jettisons the balloons and ignites the rockets that will boost him out of Jupiter\u2019s atmosphere\u2014which delivers a line that will satisfy the inner twelve year old in all SF readers:<\/p>\n

Now he was master once more\u2014no longer drifting helplessly on the winds of Jupiter but riding his own column of atomic fire back to the stars.\u00a0 p. 173<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In the final scene Falcon is revealed as a cyborg (something that is hinted at in several places in the story), which produces the story\u2019s unexpectedly elegiac ending:<\/p>\n

Howard Falcon, who had once been a man and could still pass for one over a voice circuit, felt a calm sense of achievement\u2014and, for the first time in years, something like peace of mind. Since his return from Jupiter, the nightmares had ceased. He had found his role at last.
\nHe knew now why he had dreamed about that superchimp aboard the doomed Queen Elizabeth. Neither man nor beast, it was between two worlds; and so was he.
\nHe alone could travel unprotected on the lunar surface; the life-support system inside the metal cylinder that had replaced his fragile body functioned equally well in space or under water. Gravity fields ten times that of Earth were an inconvenience, but nothing more. And no gravity was best of all.
\nThe human race was becoming more remote from him, the ties of kinship more tenuous. Perhaps these air-breathing, radiation-sensitive bundles of unstable carbon compounds had no right beyond the atmosphere; they should stick to their natural homes\u2014Earth, Moon, Mars.
\nSomeday, the real masters of space would be machines, not men\u2014and he was neither. Already conscious of his destiny, he took a somber pride in his unique loneliness\u2014the first immortal, midway between two orders of creation.
\nHe would, after all, be an ambassador; between the old and the new\u2014between the creatures of carbon and the creatures of metal who must one day supersede them. Both would have need of him in the troubled centuries that lay ahead.\u00a0 p. 174-175<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This is an excellent piece of hard science fiction, and a truly magisterial performance from Clarke.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

The Frayed String on the Stretched Forefinger of Time<\/em><\/strong> by Lloyd Biggle, Jr. (F&SF<\/em>, May 1971) begins in Minority Report<\/em> territory with Inspector Commander Graham and his assistant Proller reviewing Pre-Crime data:<\/p>\n

Proller consulted his notebook. Pre-Murder suspects were always odd, but this one seemed spectacularly so. He had invested a small fortune in plastic, life-sized images of a business rival, and he arranged them in various postures about his estate and each evening strolled around throwing knives at them. The doctors thought this a healthy purge of murderous impulses. The inspector-commander had a hunch that Clingman wasn\u2019t purging himself of anything; he was just having target practice.\u00a0 p. 178<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

When Proller reads the notes on another suspect, a man called Stamitz, the owner of a life suspension facility, it becomes clear that the latter has acquired a weapon, and intends to kill his rival Bryling.
\nThe rest of the story plays out at Stamitz\u2019s labs. When Graham and Proller interview him there, Stamitz agrees to a hypnotic examination the next day, which lets Graham know that he plans to kill Bryling that evening. The police arrange protection for Bryling, but he slips away from them and goes to Stamitz\u2019s life-suspension facility.
\nThe denouement (spoiler) involves Bryling (unconvincingly) agreeing to suspended animation at Stamitz\u2019s facility to avoid the threat to his life. Stamitz\u2019s manages to poison Bryling during the process (but does not kill him\u2014Bryling won\u2019t die until he is revived). This murder, or attempted murder, is later discovered by Proller and a medic, but they keep this information from Graham (for the unlikely reason that it would affect his \u201cconfidence\u201d as a pre-crime detective).
\nThis has an intriguing setup but the resolution does not convince. At all. Very much a game of two halves.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

How Can We Sink When We Can Fly?<\/em><\/strong> by Alexei Panshin (Four Futures<\/em>, 1971) uses most of its length to give us an autobiographical account of the writer and his partner Cory\u2019s life in rural Pennsylvania, and begins with the couple driving to the nearest bus station in New Jersey to pick up a couple of visitors, Rob and Leigh.7<\/sup> When the Panshins arrive to pick them up, they find that a quiet young man called Juanito is with them. He doesn\u2019t say much but asks the odd question, such as the one on the way home:<\/p>\n

This Pennsylvania countryside offers you just about anything you want. We\u2019ve been here the better part of a year and still discover surprises within five miles, and even within one, or within three hundred yards: wild onion, wild strawberries, poison ivy. In the space of a mile on a single road you can find high-speed intersection, three-hundred-year-old farmstead, random suburbia, crossroad community, and woodland in any order and combination you like, strung across little valleys, hidden in hollows, up and over hills.
\nThere are even pockets of industry.
\n\u201cWhat is that?\u201d Juanito asked.
\nIt\u2019s part of the scenery, but you have to be particularly quick to see it. If you could see more of it, perhaps it would have been closed down sooner. I stopped our old Plymouth tank and backed up the hill to the curve. In early April, with the trees still bare or only barely budding, you can see it from one vantage on the road. Tinny prefab buildings and the half a dozen chemical lagoons perched overlooking the creek, with blue and yellow gullies staining the hillside.
\n\u201cEvery time it rains there\u2019s overflow,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s the Revere Chemicals dump. It was put in in 1965, and the State Health people said at the time that it was going to do this, and it took them five years to close it down. Now it just sits there and leaks. The manager is trying to start a new operation in the next township.\u201d
\n\u201cI hope the deer doesn\u2019t drink from that stream,\u201d Leigh said.
\n\u201cHe has to take his chances the same as the rest of us,\u201d Rob said. Growing up in Springfield has left Rob with more than a little sourness.\u00a0 p. 199<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This illuminates one of the story\u2019s main concerns, Panshin\u2019s pessimistic view of the world and its future. This surfaces at various other points in the story, such as the two page gloomfest on p. 207-208:<\/p>\n

Spring this year was wet and late, and the only thing in bloom was the weeping willow in the back yard, with its trailing yellow catkins. The trees spread over the running hills to the next farm were still winter sticks. The day was cool enough for a light jacket in spite of the work, and the sky was partly overcast. Gardening was an act of faith that the seasons would change and warmth and flower come. Gardening is an act of faith. I\u2019m a pessimist, but still I garden.
\nIt\u2019s much like the times.
\nOur society is imperfect. That\u2019s what we say, and we shrug and let it go at that. Societies change in their own good time, and there isn\u2019t much that individuals can do to cause change or direct it. Most people don\u2019t try. They have a living to make, and whatever energies are left over they know how to put to good use. They leave politics to politicians.
\nBut let\u2019s be honest. Our society is not just imperfect. Our society is an unhappy shambles. And leaving politics to politicians is proving to be a dangerous a business as leaving science to scientists, war to generals, and profits to profiteers.
\nI read. I watch. I listen. And I judge by my own experience.
\nThe best of us are miserable. We all take drugs\u2014alcohol, tobacco, and pills by the handful. We do work in order to live and live in order to work\u2014an endless unsatisfying round. The jobs are no pleasure. Employers shunt us from one plastic paradise to another. One quarter of the country moves each year. No roots, no stability. We live our lives in public, with less and less opportunity to know each other. To know anybody.
\nFarmers can\u2019t make a living farming. Small businessmen can\u2019t make a living anymore, either. Combines and monoliths take them over or push them out. And because nobody questions the ways of a monolith and stays or rises in one, the most ruthless monoliths survive, run by the narrowest and hungriest and most self-satisfied among us.
\nThe results: rivers that stink of sewage, industrial waste, and dead fish. City air that\u2019s the equivalent of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. Countryside turned to rubble. Chemical lagoons left to stain hillsides with their overflow. Fields of rusting auto bodies. And all the while, the population is growing. Progress.
\nNew consumers. But when I was born, in 1940, there were 140 million people in this country, and now there are more than 200 million, half of them born since 1940. Our institutions are less and less able to cope with the growth. Not enough houses. Not enough schools. Not enough doctors or teachers or jobs. Not enough room at the beach. Not enough beaches.
\nNot enough food. The world is beginning to starve, and for all the talk of Green Revolutions, we no longer have surplus food. We are importing lamb from Australia and beef from Argentina now. How soon before we all start pulling our belts a notch tighter?\u00a0 p. 207-208<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This eventually loops back to gardening being an act of faith.
\nI suspect that people\u2019s reactions to this passage\u2014and the story more generally\u2014will depend on how pessimistic or optimistic they are, and will range from plus \u00e7a change, plus c\u2019est la m\u00eame chose<\/em> (the more things change, the more they stay the same) to the observation that some people worry too much.
\nThe story also has a pronounced metafictional aspect, which sees Panshin discussing the writing of the story we are reading with Rob. Panshin tells him that he is finding it difficult to get started on the story. He then shows Rob the outline for the commissioned story, which proposes a future society with few children, and their consequential status:<\/p>\n

Rob finished reading, looked up, and said, \u201cIt\u2019s like something you\u2019ve done, isn\u2019t it?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d
\n\u201cRite of Passage<\/em>\u201d
\nRite of Passage<\/em> was my first novel. It\u2019s about a girl, a bright superchild on the verge of adulthood in a low-population future society. Otherwise it\u2019s not much the same.
\n\u201cHmm. I guess I see what you mean, but I don\u2019t think the similarity has to be close enough to be any problem. The thought of repeating myself is not what\u2019s hanging me up. What do you think of the proposal?\u201d
\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Rob, \u201cwhen did you say the story is supposed to take place?\u201d
\nI flipped to the front page of the proposal to check.
\n\u201cThe next century. The only date mentioned is 2025. After 2025, I guess.\u201d
\n\u201cFifty years from now? Where do all the five-hundred-year-olds come from?\u201d
\nI waved that aside. \u201cI\u2019m willing to make it one hundred or one hundred and fifty plus great expectations.\u201d
\n\u201cThese people would have to be alive now,\u201d Rob said.
\n\u201cTrue,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s something to think about.\u201d
\nIt was a good point, just the sort of thing I wanted Rob to come up with. It raised possibilities.
\n\u201cAre there any restrictions on what you write?\u201d
\n\u201cFifteen thousand words and no nasty language.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat about nasty ideas?\u201d
\n\u201cNothing said about that, but I don\u2019t suppose they are worried. Everybody knows I never had a nasty idea in my life.\u201d\u00a0 p. 204<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The conversation leads on to the mission statement from The Whole Earth Catalog<\/em>8<\/sup> (a countercultural publication of the time) about personal power, and the first chapter eventually ends with an example of that, when Alexi awakes one morning to find that Juanita has gone, but has left a trash can on the porch full of rubbish he has picked up from the highway verges.
\nThe short second chapter that follows this lengthy autobiographical section appears to be the story that Panshin writes for the anthology, and features a child called Little John in the far-future (he is actually thirty year old, but is not considered mature enough to be deemed an adult). He is repeatedly being sent back in time to 1381 by his mentor, but wants to go somewhere else. Eventually the mentor lets him go to 1970, but Little John comes back shocked:<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were right,\u201d he said simply. \u201cI wasn\u2019t ready. Send me back to 1381 again. Please.\u201d
\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d Samantha said.
\n\u201cI don\u2019t understand. I don\u2019t understand. I knew things weren\u2019t right then, but I didn\u2019t think they would be like that. Taxes was what they cared about. They didn\u2019t even see what was going on. Not really. And it was just before the Revolution. Are things always that bad before they change?\u201d
\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cAlways. The only difference this time is the way things changed. And you didn\u2019t see the worst of it. Not by half, Little John.\u201d
\n\u201cI didn\u2019t?\u201d he said in surprise. \u201cI thought it must be.\u201d
\nShe was too kind to laugh. \u201cNo.\u201d
\n\u201cBut it was so awful. So ruthless. So destructive.\u201d
\nSamantha said, \u201cThose people weren\u2019t so bad. As it happens, they were my parents.\u201d
\n\u201cOh, I\u2019m sorry, ma\u2019am,\u201d he said.
\n\u201cAnd your grandparents weren\u2019t so different. And they did learn better. That\u2019s the important thing to remember. If you take away nothing else, remember that. If they hadn\u2019t changed, none of us would be here now.\u201d\u00a0 p. 225<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The very short third chapter ties things together (if, like me, you didn\u2019t realise that Little John is actually the Juanita of the first autobiographical chapter):<\/p>\n

Endings of stories come easy. It is the beginnings, when anything is still possible, that come hard.
\nStart now.\u00a0 p. 226<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This is a thought provoking and technically clever piece that I feel I should have perhaps scored more highly, but the story\u2019s overdone pessimism (as with many similar works) is a flaw. This gloominess tells you more about the writer\u2019s perceptions than reality.9<\/sup><\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

No Direction Home <\/em><\/strong>by Norman Spinrad (New Worlds Quarterly #2<\/em>, 1971) is set in a future where drug use has become legal and widespread, and each of the story\u2019s scenes show different characters and related situations. The first opens with two garage chemists discussing their new drug, and how the multinationals will eventually copy it; the next has a general and a scientist discussing the side effects of a drug given to Moonbase military staff to combat claustrophobia\u2014violence and \u201cfaggotry\u201d\u2014and how a second drug will help supress the sexual desire caused by the first. The third section has two cardinals arguing about using a psychedelic host during communion, something that can give the recipient a direct experience of God (and thus threaten the Church\u2019s role as an intermediary). And so on.
\nThe final scene (spoiler) has a man suffering not from drugs, but from the ultimate bad trip, reality:<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t understand, Kip,\u201d he said. \u201cThis is reality, the way it really is, and man it\u2019s horrible, just a great big ugly machine made up of lots of other machines, you\u2019re a machine, I\u2019m a machine, it\u2019s all mechanical clockwork. We\u2019re just lumps of dead matter run by machinery, kept alive by chemical and electric processes.\u201d
\nGolden sunlight soaked through Kip\u2019s skin and turned the core of his being into a miniature stellar phoenix. The wind, through random blades of grass, made love to the bare soles of his feet. What was all this machinery crap? What the hell was Jonesy gibbering about? Man, who would want to put himself in a bummer reality like that?
\n\u201cYou\u2019re just on a bummer, Jonesy,\u201d he said. \u201cTake it easy. You\u2019re not seeing the universe the way it really is, as if that meant anything. Reality is all in your head. You\u2019re just freaking out behind nothing.\u201d
\n\u201cThat\u2019s it, that\u2019s exactly it, I\u2019m freaking out behind nothing. Like zero. Like cipher. Like the void. Nothing is where we\u2019re really at.\u201d
\nHow could he explain it? That reality was really just a lot of empty vacuum that went on to infinity in space and time. The perfect nothingness had minor contaminations of dead matter here and there. A little of this matter had fallen together through a complex series of random accidents to contaminate the universal deadness with trace elements of life, protoplasmic slime, biochemical clockwork. Some of this clockwork was complicated enough to generate thought, consciousness. And that was all there ever was or would ever be anywhere in space and time. Clockwork mechanisms rapidly running down in the cold black void. Everything that wasn\u2019t dead matter already would end up that way sooner or later.\u00a0 p. 242-243<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Despite the bleak passage above, this is a witty and interesting piece that crams a lot into its short length.
\nI also note that, even though I last read this decades ago, I could remember the opening narrative hook:<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I once did succeed in stuffing it all back in Pandora\u2019s box,\u201d Richardson said, taking another hit. \u201cYou remember Pandora Deutchman, don\u2019t you, Will? Everybody in the biochemistry department stuffed it all in Pandora\u2019s box at one time or another. I seem to vaguely remember one party when you did it yourself.\u201d\u00a0 p. 227<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

Vaster Than Empires and More Slow<\/em><\/strong> by Ursula K. Le Guin (New Dimensions #1<\/em>, 1971) opens with a data dump beginning that describes the time distortion felt by passengers in FTL flight through space. It then goes on to explain how the crews that have to suffer this are, essentially, crazy people:<\/p>\n

No sane person who has experienced time slippage of even a few decades between near worlds would volunteer for a round trip of a half millennium. The Surveyors were escapists; misfits; nuts.\u00a0 p. 247<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This unlikely idea yields a volatile cocktail of characters, one of whom, Olsen, is an empath. As he is defenceless to the other crew members\u2019 unshielded feelings and neuroses, he is a particularly hostile and prickly character, which sets up a negative feedback loop that accentuates the others\u2019 problems.
\nEventually they arrive at the planet they have been sent to investigate, and Olsen leaves to do field work at the request of the crew-co-ordinator. Morale improves. Then Porlock, one of the other crew members, reports seeing a large man-sized animal in the forest. More teams are sent out.
\nLater, Olsen doesn\u2019t complete a routine check-in with base, so Tomiko, the crew co-ordinator, and another crew member go looking for him and find him lying in the forest\u2014he has been attacked by something or someone, but is still alive.
\nWhen they get Olsen back to the ship, Tomiko eventually manages to break through his defensive shell when he recovers consciousness: he then tells her the forest is \u201cafraid.\u201d Morale and the general situation on the ship deteriorates, and it becomes clear that the consciousness in the forest is transmitting its fear to the humans\u2014Olsen later explains the feedback effect with the forest is similar to what happens with him. As a result of this some of the crew either become catatonic or have other mental problems or breakdowns (Porlock, who is revealed as the one who attacked Olsen, eventually has to be restrained).
\nTomiko then decides to move the ship to the other side of the planet to escape the forest\u2019s transmissions, but the message that the humans are to be feared reaches their location several days later. At this point the team realise that all the vegetation on the planet (even the pollen) is one vast consciousness. Olsen explains to them what this feels like:<\/p>\n

\u201cNow you know why I always want to get out, get away from you,\u201d Osden said with a kind of morbid geniality. \u201cIt isn\u2019t pleasant, is it\u2014the other\u2019s fear? . . . If only it were an animal intelligence. I can get through to animals. I get along with cobras and tigers; superior intelligence gives one the advantage. I should have been used in a zoo, not on a human team. . . . If I could get through to the damned stupid potato! If it wasn\u2019t so overwhelming. . . . I still pick up more than the fear, you know. And before it panicked it had a\u2014there was a serenity. I couldn\u2019t take it in, then, I didn\u2019t realize how big it was. To know the whole daylight, after all, and the whole night. All the winds and the lulls together. The winter stars and the summer stars at the same time. To have roots, and no enemies. To be entire. Do you see? No invasion. No others. To be whole . . . .
\nHe had never spoken before, Tomiko thought.
\n\u201cYou are defenseless against it, Olsen,\u201d she said. \u201cYour personality has changed already. You\u2019re vulnerable to it. We may not all go mad, but you will, if we don\u2019t leave.\u201d
\nHe hesitated, then he looked up at Tomiko, the first time he had ever met her eyes\u2014a long, still look, clear as water.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s sanity ever done for me?\u201d he said, mocking. \u201cBut you have a point, Haito. You have something there.\u201d
\n\u201cWe should get away,\u201d Harfex muttered.
\n\u201cIf I gave in to it,\u201d Osden mused, \u201ccould I communicate?\u201d\u00a0 p. 272-273<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Eventually (spoiler) Olsen convinces them to take him to the forest so he can try to communicate with the consciousness and stop the fear. The crew realise he has succeeded when the transmissions stop, but Olsen does not return. They leave the planet without him.
\nThe synopsis above only scratches the surface of this story as it is a particularly dense piece that covers a lot of territory: apart from a the standard SF furniture (the FTL drive, expeditions to alien planets), there is more emphasis on characterisation than normal, and that\u2019s before you get to the exploration of the planetary vegetable consciousness and the literary overlay of Andrew Marvell\u2019s poem To His Coy Mistress<\/em>.10<\/sup>
\nIf the story has a problem it is that there is maybe too much going on, and that not all the parts fit together smoothly. An example of this is the time distortion passage at the very beginning of the story: this has a connection with the way the vegetable consciousness experiences time, but it is a badly placed data dump that appears too early in the story.11<\/sup> Still, an interesting piece, and one that would reward a repeated reading.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

All the Last Wars at Once<\/em><\/strong> by George Alec Effinger (Universe #1<\/em>, 1971) starts with two men, one white and one black, announcing on live news that there will be a thirty day race war. The story then cuts to a hitchhiker called Stevie who has a car stop for him. When the female occupant hands a Women\u2019s Lib factsheet to him before he can get in, he realises that women and men are now fighting each other too, and he only just manages to shoot the driver before she tries to kill him. There are several similar sections that detail various other us vs. them conflicts: Catholics shooting up a Protestant church before all creeds end up fighting with each other, producers vs. artists, lefties vs. righties, young vs. old. etc.
\nAs the thirty day period of hostility comes to an end Stevie goes to Times Square to celebrate. There he talks to a young woman circulating among the celebrating survivors who suggests that they should get on with The Last War . . . which turns out to be the one against yourself:<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d asked Stevie.
\nThe woman touched Stevie\u2019s chest. \u201cThere. Your guilt. Your frustration. You don\u2019t really feel any better, do you? I mean, women don\u2019t really hate men; they hate their own weaknesses. People don\u2019t really hate other people for their religion or race. It\u2019s just that seeing someone different than you makes you feel a little insecure in your own belief. What you hate is your own doubt, and you project the hatred onto the other man.\u201d\u00a0 p. 291<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

She then starts passing out bottles of kerosene to everyone and, as Stevie leaves he square, he sees \u201cscores of little fires, like scattered piles of burning leaves in the backyards of his childhood.\u201d
\nIf you like blackly satirical work you will find this, as I did, an amusing piece\u2014but the ending didn\u2019t work for me. It certainly completes the \u201cif this goes on\u201d trajectory of the story, but I wasn\u2019t convinced by the reasoning in the passage above.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

When I read the SF magazines in the mid- and late-1970s, I\u2019d occasionally come across a \u2018Draco Tavern\u2019 tale by Larry Niven, one of several series of stories by various writers that are set in bars.12<\/sup> The Fourth Profession<\/em><\/strong> by Larry Niven (Quark #4<\/em>, 1971) is also set in (or around) a bar, and starts with an FBI agent called William Morris visiting the home of Edward Harley Frazer, owner of the Long Spoon Bar. He wants to question Frazer as an alien \u2018Monk\u2019 was drinking there the previous night:<\/p>\n

He came in an hour after opening time. He seemed to glide, with the hem of his robe just brushing the floor. By his gait he might have been moving on wheels. His shape was wrong, in a way that made your eyes want to twist around to straighten it out.
\nThere is something queer about the garment that gives a Monk his name. The hood is open in front, as if eyes might hide within its shadow, and the front of the robe is open too. But the loose cloth hides more than it ought to. There is too much shadow.
\nOnce I thought the robe parted as he walked toward me. But there seemed to be nothing inside.
\nIn the Long Spoon was utter silence. Every eye was on the Monk as he took a stool at one end of the bar, and ordered.
\nHe looked alien, and was. But he seemed supernatural. He used the oddest of drinking systems. I keep my house brands on three long shelves, more or less in order of type. The Monk moved down the top row of bottles, right to left, ordering a shot from each bottle. He took his liquor straight, at room temperature. He drank quietly, steadily, and with what seemed to be total concentration.
\nHe spoke only to order.
\nHe showed nothing of himself but one hand. That hand looked like a chicken\u2019s foot, but bigger, with lumpy-looking, very flexible joints, and with five toes instead of four.
\nAt closing time the Monk was four bottles from the end of the row. He paid me in one-dollar bills, and left, moving steadily, the hem of his robe just brushing the floor. I testify as an expert: He was sober. The alcohol had not affected him at all.\u00a0 p. 295<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

As the story unfolds we find out that the alien returned on a second night and started giving Frazer RNA memory pills which gave him specific knowledge and skills. We learn fairly quickly that one of these is language\u2014he can talk the Monk\u2019s whispering language\u2014and then we learn that he has an enhanced sense of position and balance (the result of a pill that gives him the knowledge needed to teleport, if humans were capable of such).
\nMuch later on in the story Frazer tries to impress on Morris the importance of humanity building a laser cannon on the Moon so the aliens can relaunch their light sail ship on the next leg of their trip (if we don\u2019t they\u2019ll turn our sun into a nova and get their launch boost that way). During this conversation we find out what the third pill Frazer took was for:<\/p>\n

\u201cThe lovely thing about the laser cannon is that if anything goes wrong with it, there\u2019s a civilized world right there to fix it. You go sailing out to the stars with trade goods, but you leave your launching motor safely at home. Why is everybody looking at me funny?\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t take it wrong,\u201d said Morris. \u201cBut how does a paunchy bartender come to know so much about flying an interstellar trading ship?\u201d
\n[. . .]
\n\u201cOh,\u201d I said. \u201cDamn, I must be stupid today. Morris, that was the third pill.\u201d
\n\u201cRight,\u201d said Morris, still nodding, still glassy-eyed. \u201cThat must have been the unusual, really unusual profession you wanted. Crewman on an interstellar liner. Jesus.\u201d
\nAnd he should have sounded disgusted, but he sounded envious.
\nHis elbows were on the table, his chin rested on his fists. It is a position that distorts the mouth, making one\u2019s expression unreadable. But I didn\u2019t like what I could read in Morris\u2019s eyes.
\nThere was nothing left of the square and honest man I had let into my apartment at noon. Morris was a patriot now, and an altruist, and a fanatic. He must have the stars for his nation and for all mankind. Nothing must stand in his way. Least of all, me.
\nReading minds again, Frazer? Maybe being captain of an interstellar liner involves having to read the minds of the crew, to be able to put down a mutiny before some idiot can take a heat point to the mpff glip habbabub<\/em>, or however a Monk would say it; it has something to do with straining ketones out of the breathing-air.
\nMy urge to acrobatics had probably come out of the same pill. Free fall training. There was a lot in that pill.
\nThis was the profession I should have hidden. Not the Palace Torturer, who was useless to a government grown too subtle to need such techniques; but the captain of an interstellar liner, a prize too valuable to men who have not yet reached beyond the Moon.
\nAnd I had been the last to know it. Too late, Frazer.
\n\u201cCaptain,\u201d I said. \u201cNot crew.\u201d
\n\u201cPity. A crewman would know more about how to put a ship together. Frazer, how big a crew are you equipped to rule?\u201d
\n\u201cEight and five.\u201d
\n\u201cThirteen?\u00a0 p. 316<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

There then follows a conversation about the Monk\u2019s numbering system.
\nThis passage is a good example of the multiple threads running through the story, its general loopiness, and that, at times, it feels like a widescreen galactic space opera squeezed into a barroom.
\nThe second half (spoiler) has Frazer\u2019s barmaid Louise, who has also taken a pill, falling in love with him (or so it seems). As this welcome complication develops, another Monk turns up and forces Frazer to take two pills to remove his illegally-given knowledge.
\nAt this point what had been a very good and highly entertaining story suffers from a suspension of disbelief problem: we find that the \u201clanguage\u201d pill that Frazer took was actually a \u201cprophet\u201d pill which, apart from giving him the ability to communicate with everyone (he realises he has been listening to and understanding the Spanish-speaking cleaners as well as the Monk) it also gives him the ability to perform miracles\u2014such as disappearing the two pills that would undo his powers. The problem with this development, apart from the fact that it seems like magic, is that it also raises the question of why an alien race with abilities like these would bother roaming the galaxy as traders.
\nIgnore the ending, and read it for the rest of the story.<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

Terry Carr also contributes a short Introduction<\/em><\/strong> which briefly covers the New Wave controversies (which had by this time more or less died down) and makes a number of interesting observations:<\/p>\n

In the past half-dozen years, for instance, we\u2019ve seen an influx of fine new writers who brought with them the so-called \u201cnew wave\u201d styles of writing: experimental prose, hard-edged realism, shiftings of reality, or sometimes straightforwardly angry \u201cdownbeat\u201d stories. The readers, critics, fans and other writers in the field were either delighted or appalled by such writing, and authors like Thomas M. Disch and Norman Spinrad became centers of rather fierce controversy.
\nReading the manifestos and denunciations produced during this internecine battle, and hearing the arguments that so often sprang up at gatherings of science fiction people, a person could easily have come away with the impression that the sf field was falling apart, losing coherence and direction. But through it all I remembered a delightful description that I read years ago of the audience reaction to the premiere performance of Stravinski\u2019s Rite of Spring<\/em>: There were boos and catcalls; there were cheers and clapping; and there was, before long, a full-scale riot as the members of the audience fought over their differing reactions to the music. \u201cThat is what I call a strong aesthetic response,\u201d said the narrator.\u00a0 p. vii<\/p>\n

By now the \u201cnew wave\u201d as such has come and gone; those stories that could stand on their own merits have done so, and those writers whose work stood up to the glare of controversy have become respected \u201cregulars\u201d within the field. And already another generation of writers is upon us, people who read the best experimental sf and the best of all other kinds, and who have gone on to create stories that range the entire spectrum of science fiction\u2019s possibilities. Ursula K. Le Guin is such a writer; so is Alexei Panshin; and so is at least one man who was writing science fiction for ten years before the \u201cnew wave\u201d hit the field: Robert Silverberg.
\nThese writers, and many others, realize a truth basic to all art, not just the art of science fiction writing. Innovations are positive to the extent that they open doors, and an avant garde which seeks to destroy rather than build will only destroy itself all the faster. And when a \u201cwave\u201d has passed, what it leaves behind will be its positive contributions, so it behooves us to become literary beachcombers.\u00a0 p. viii<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

He ends with this:<\/p>\n

The specific technique isn\u2019t important. It may be beautiful romantic imagery, such as in Poul Anderson\u2019s \u201cThe Queen of Air and Darkness\u201d; it may involve detailed descriptions of the exploration of alien worlds, as in Arthur Clarke\u2019s \u201cA Meeting With Medusa\u201d; it may be a vivid evocation of internal experience, such as Robert Silverberg\u2019s \u201cIn Entropy\u2019s Jaws,\u201d or satire, like George Alec Effinger\u2019s \u201cAll the Last Wars At Once,\u201d or any of an endless variety of approaches to fictional creation. What matters is the pleasure we experience in reading these stories, and when the whole range of literary technique is used to evoke the wonder, scope and beauty of the universe\u2014yes, and its dangers too\u2014then we have a genre that cannot fail to be exciting.\u00a0 p. x<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

This \u2018Best of the Year\u2019 anthology is an assured solo debut.13<\/sup> Carr\u2019s choices seem to split pretty evenly between crowd pleasers (the Anderson, Clarke and Niven), experimental and literary work (Silverberg, Panshin, Le Guin), and humour and satire (Farmer, Spinrad, Effinger).
\nA reader-friendly combination, and one drawn, atypically, mostly from original anthologies rather than genre magazines (seven of the eleven stories).\u00a0 \u25cf<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

_____________________<\/p>\n

1. Avram Davidson (F&SF<\/em>, March 1973) notes that Wollheim and Carr are now doing their own anthologies and that both retain some of the flavour of their previous collaboration. This is what he adds about the Carr volume (he previously notes in the Wollheim review that the Niven story \u201ccontains material for two effective stories\u201d):<\/p>\n

Now, onward, with Carr. All you need to know about Occam\u2019s Scalpel<\/em> is that it is by Theodore Sturgeon . . . I\u2019ll add that the wind-up packs not one but three successive punches. In The Queen of Air and Darkness <\/em>Poul Anderson draws on everything from physics to runic rhyme . . . with throwaway lines like, \u201cOne light year is not much as galactic distances go. You could walk it in about 270 million years.\u201d Not with my feet. (I do wish Poul would take the verb fleer<\/em> and give it back to the Skraelings.) And Robert Silverberg\u2019s In Entropy\u2019s Jaws<\/em> is a fine novelette like a recurrently in-and-out view of a Byzantine mosaic of the ouroboros serpent.
\nThe Sliced-Crosswise Only-On-Tuesday World<\/em> of Philip Jose Farmer is daft, deft, impeccably logical, with an O. Henryesque ending, too. Reading a story by Arthur C. Clarke is like seeing a Chesley Bonestell painting as a color film; subtitle A Meeting With Medusa<\/em> as See Jupiter and Live. Quite a different pattern of molecules, Lloyd Biggle, Jr.\u2019s The Frayed String on the Stretched Forefinger of Time<\/em>, a wry, clever suspense thriller.
\nHow Can We Sink When We Can Fly?<\/em> is a two-part harmony by Alexei Panshin which, I am afraid, was ahead of its time. Longlong ago a friend told me, \u201cIf something\u2019s bothering you, drink whiskey,\u201d and I have found this advice good. Nowadays people who are the age we were then say, \u201cEven if something isn\u2019t bothering you, take dope.\u201d Can I resist the antique tale of the Good Woman who asked T.S. Elliot, this was about 1930, see, \u201cMr. Eliot, what gives you the strength to write such beautiful poetry?\u201d His answer? \u201cGin and drugs, madame; gin and drugs.\u201d The point? Norman Spinrad\u2019s No Direction Home<\/em>. The Theme of Ursula K. Le Guin\u2019s Vaster Than Empires and More Slow<\/em> is the familiar one of the planetary probe team, but first she tells us that her people are all insane…and then she proves it . . . It\u2019s a kick in the head, but by far even kickier is All The Last Wars At Once<\/em>, by George Alec Effinger. Jesus Christ. Wow.\u00a0 p. 37<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

P. Schuyler Miller (Analog<\/em>, May 1973) reviews all five (!) of the Best of the Year collections in one combined review. Here are some extracts that are relevant to this volume:<\/p>\n

Only one story was selected by three of the six editors: Theodore Sturgeon\u2019s \u201cOccam\u2019s Scalpel.\u201d It\u2019s a good enough story, but need not even be science fiction except for the old-fashioned \u201csnapper\u201d ending (are there really aliens among us?). I\u2019m afraid this is a \u201cThank God Sturgeon\u2019s back!\u201d choice.
\nSeven other stories are in two of the five books, and three of these seven authors are tapped for other stories, as are four others represented by two or more different stories. The seven (again alphabetically) begin with Poul Anderson\u2019s \u201cA Little Knowledge,\u201d one of four from Analog<\/em> (I prefer his \u201cQueen of Air and Darkness,\u201d which won both a Hugo and a Nebula and is in Terry Carr\u2019s book). B. Alan Burhoe\u2019s \u201cOmithanthropus\u201d is a fine story of winged men living symbiotically with balloon-like creatures. No quarrel\u2014nor have I one with Arthur C. Clarke\u2019s Playboy dazzler, \u201cA Meeting with Medusa,\u201d which placed second in the Hugo voting. His \u201cTransit of Earth\u201d is in a third book.
\nPhilip Jose Farmer has well earned his place with \u201cThe Sliced-Crosswise -Only-on-Tuesday World,\u201d which extends the parallel worlds concept to parallel lives as a solution to the population problem. I don\u2019t see why it is in only two books. [. . .] Larry Niven\u2019s \u201cThe Fourth Profession\u201d\u2014which profession did the alien\u2019s knowledge pills teach our hero?\u2014placed twice, but I much prefer his \u201cInconstant Moon,\u201d a lovely \u201chard SF\u201d story about the end of the world, which Pohl also liked. Niven has a fourth story, \u201cRammer,\u201d in del Rey\u2019s book.
\nFinally, Norman Spinrad\u2019s \u201cNo Direction Home\u201d is a chilling story of two chemists designing drugs that will custom-tailor life styles. Relevant SF? Certainly. New wave? I suppose so. More of the editors should have picked it.
\nI\u2019ve listed two of my own druthers in passing: stories that are in one of the five books, and should be in more. Here are some more:
\n[. . .]
\nUrsula Le Guin\u2019s \u201cVaster Than Empires and More Slow,\u201d about a world-girdling vegetable being. It was runner-up in the Hugo voting.
\n[. . .]
\nWhich do I recommend? All of them\u2014but I find that I starred more outstanding stories in Terry Carr\u2019s collection, with Harrison\/Aldiss next, then Wollheim, then Lester del Rey, and Pohl last. Since Donald Wollheim left Ace Books to form his own paperback company, his and Terry Carr\u2019s anthologies are a spinoff for the book they used to do together, and Pohl was their replacement. Harrison and Aldiss have been picking winners for five years, and this is del Rey\u2019s first \u201cbest\u201d collection.
\nIt bothers me that there are a dozen or so other excellent stories\u2014stories I marked for comment\u2014that I haven\u2019t even mentioned. Make that \u201cdozens\u201d: these editors choose well.\u00a0 p. 169-171<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

2. There is nothing from Analog<\/em>, Amazing<\/em>, Fantastic<\/em>, Galaxy<\/em>, Worlds of Fantasy<\/em> or Worlds of Tomorrow<\/em> magazines in this collection (among others).
\nIn the poll<\/a> that we did after our group read, these were the results (three votes per person max.): Clarke (9), Sturgeon (5), Le Guin (5), Silverberg (4), Spinrad (4), Farmer (3), Niven (2), Anderson (2), Biggle Jr. (1), Panshin (0), Effinger (0).<\/p>\n

3. Sturgeon\u2019s piece is one of a number of eco-fiction stories that appeared during this period. I remember reading a related anthology at the time, Thomas M. Disch\u2019s The Ruins of Earth<\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n

4. Occam\u2019s razor, \u201cthe simplest explanation is most likely the right one,\u201d at Wikipedia<\/a>.<\/p>\n

5. For some reason or another I had it in my head that Robert Silverberg started writing more literary and experimental work in the mid to late 1960s, but I see from the author\u2019s introduction to In Entropy\u2019s Jaws<\/em><\/strong> (in the collection Something is Loose<\/em>) that it was later:<\/p>\n

This is a story that I began in January, 1970 and finished, after taking a little break for a winter holiday in a warmer place than the one in which I lived, early in March of that year. It was written at a time when I was still reasonably comfortable with the conventions of science fiction and had not yet entered into the period of literary and personal chaos that would complicate my life from 1973 or so through the early 1980s. And so I blithely tackled this long, complex, challenging story, which moves among changing levels of ureality and shifting zones of time, with the sort of confidence that I would later lose and be a long time regaining. I don\u2019t recall much about the genesis of \u201cIn Entropy\u2019s Jaws,\u201d only that I wrote it for the second issue of Bob Hoskins\u2019 paperback anthology, Infinity<\/em>. Hoskins, a long-time science-fiction figure whom I had known glancingly for many years, paid me well and gave me a free hand artistically, a combination that–not too surprisingly–I found irresistible, and so I did a story for each of the five issues of his anthology that appeared between 1970 and 1973. Some of my best work, too.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

6. The illustrations for Clarke’s story in Playboy<\/em> magazine:<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The official Playboy archive is here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

7. When we did this story as a group read<\/a> the speculation was that Rob was Ted White and Leigh was Lee Hoffman.<\/p>\n

8. The Whole Earth Catalog<\/em> for 1968 can be viewed at the Internet Archive<\/a>.<\/p>\n

9. Is humanity making progress? That\u2019s what the data says: from around 04:30 here<\/a>. All of Steven Pinker\u2019s lecture is worth watching, and I learned lots (including the fact that the average person spends fifteen hours a week doing housework\u2014which is presumably why I live in a pig sty).<\/p>\n

10. Andrew Marvell\u2019s poem To His Coy Mistress<\/a><\/em>. Le Guin\u2019s story title comes from the couplet \u201cMy vegetable love should grow, Vaster than empires and more slow\u201d. The story echoes the elongated sense of time portrayed in the poem.<\/p>\n

11. Jim Harris has a blog piece, What Makes a Great SF Story?<\/em><\/a>, that shows how the beginning of Le Guin\u2019s Vaster Than Empires<\/em> was revised for book publication.<\/p>\n

12. Other \u2018Bar SF\u2019 series include Arthur C. Clarke\u2019s \u2018Tales From the White Hart\u2019 and Spider Robinson\u2019s \u2018Callahan\u2019s Crosstime Saloon\u2019. The Clarke, being British, is probably \u2018Pub SF\u2019 rather than \u2018Bar SF\u2019.<\/p>\n

13. If you want a better idea of how this book measures up against what I might pick for a 1971 \u2018Year\u2019s Best\u2019, or learn what other anthologists chose for their books, look at the table below (this is the same one which will appear at the end of the review of the Wollheim, Pohl, del Rey, and Harrison & Aldiss volumes). It will be updated as and when I find stories I like, or citation sources I feel should be included (for more on the latter see below).<\/p>\n

The first to fourth column give the story titles, authors, L<\/strong>engths, and P<\/strong>lace of publication (see below the table for abbreviation legend).
\nThe \u2018T\u2019 column lists T<\/strong>erry Carr\u2019s choices with an \u2018x\u2019, and his recommendation list with an \u2018o\u2019.
\nThe \u2018D\u2019 column lists Lester D<\/strong>el Rey\u2019s choices with an \u2018x\u2019.
\nThe \u2018W\u2019 column lists Donald W<\/strong>ollheim\u2019s choices with an \u2018x\u2019.
\nThe \u2018P\u2019 column lists F<\/strong>rederik Pohl\u2019s choices with an \u2018x\u2019.
\nThe \u2018A\u2019 column lists HA<\/strong>rry Harrison and Brian W. Aldiss\u2019s choices with an \u2018x\u2019.
\nThe \u2018S\u2019 column shows my (S<\/strong>F Magazine\u2019s) current choices an \u2018x\u2019 (historical choices are an \u2018o\u2019). A dash means read but passed over (I only select stories better than \u2217\u2217\u2217+ and above, and not all of them). Blank means unread.
\nThe \u2018C\u2019 column shows how many of the anthologies and\/or polls used in the Classics of Science Fiction list<\/a> included the story in their collections or lists (note that C<\/strong>oSF is SF only and skews against fantasy), minus the anthology or award citations which have their own column (Carr, Dozois, Wollheim, Hugo, Nebula, etc.).
\nThe \u2018O\u2019 column shows the number of inclusions in O<\/strong>ther major anthologies or recommendation lists not on the CoSF (Classics of SF) list. These are selected by me (usually to include fantasy retrospectives or awards that CoSF doesn\u2019t include) but I may not yet have done this for some\/all of the stories.*
\nThe \u2018H\u2019 column shows the story\u2019s 1977 H<\/strong>ugo award placing (F for finalist, W for winner).
\nThe \u2018N\u2019 column shows the story\u2019s 1977 N<\/strong>ebula award placing (F for finalist, W for winner).
\nThe \u2018U\u2019 column shows stories that were one of the 1977 LocU<\/strong>s Poll\u2019s top ten short stories, novelettes, or novellas.
\nThe \u2018T\u2019 column shows the TOT<\/strong>al points that each story gets (they get a point for being in each column and for each of the CoSF and other anthology citations).<\/p>\n

The titles, names, lengths, publications, and overall score columns are sortable.<\/p>\n

A good way to sample 1971\u2019s best short fiction may<\/em> be to start at the top of the table and work down until you get to the last of the 2-point stories. Bear in mind this compilation is statistically invalid, but it will give you something to aim at. Enjoy.<\/p>\n

Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories 1971<\/h3>\n
\n \n \n\n \n \n \n \n\n\n Title<\/th> Author<\/th> L<\/th> P<\/th> T<\/th> D<\/th> W<\/th> F<\/th> A<\/th> S<\/th> C<\/th> O<\/th> H<\/th> N<\/th> U<\/th> TOT<\/th> <\/tr>\n<\/thead>\n \n\n \n \n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n
Occam's Scalpel<\/td>\n Theodore Sturgeon<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n WOI<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n -<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Queen of Air and Darkness<\/td>\n Poul Anderson<\/td>\n na<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 5<\/td>\n <\/td>\n W<\/td>\n W<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 10<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
In Entropy's Jaws<\/td>\n Robert Silverberg<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n IN4<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Sliced-Crosswise . . .<\/td>\n Philip Jos\u00e9 Farmer<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
A Meeting with Medusa<\/td>\n Arthur C. Clarke<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n PLA<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n W<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 10<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Frayed String on the . . .<\/td>\n Lloyd Biggle, Jr.<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
How Can We Sink When We Can Fly?<\/td>\n Alexei Panshin<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n FOU<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n ?<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
No Direction Home<\/td>\n Norman Spinrad<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n NW2<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Vaster Than Empires and More Slow<\/td>\n Ursula K. Le Guin<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 7<\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 11<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
All the Last Wars at Once<\/td>\n George Alec Effinger<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n UN1<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n -<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Fourth Profession<\/td>\n Larry Niven<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n QU4<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Good News from the Vatican<\/td>\n Robert Silverberg<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n UN1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n W<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
I'll Be Waiting for You . . .<\/td>\n James Tiptree, Jr.<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n PRO<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Power of the Sentence<\/td>\n David M. Locke<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Wicked Flee<\/td>\n Harry Harrison<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
When You Hear the Tone<\/td>\n Thomas N. Scortia<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Hot Potato<\/td>\n Burt K. Filer<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n TMW<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Human Operators<\/td>\n Harlan Ellison & A. E. van Vogt<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Autumntime<\/td>\n A. Lentini<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
A Little Knowledge<\/td>\n Poul Anderson<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ANA<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
To Make a New Neanderthal<\/td>\n W. Macfarlane<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ANA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Man Underneath<\/td>\n R. A. Lafferty<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n WOI<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Ornithanthropus<\/td>\n B. Alan Burhoe<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n WOI<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Rammer<\/td>\n Larry Niven<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Gleepsite<\/td>\n Joanna Russ<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n OR9<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Bear with the Knot on His Tail<\/td>\n Stephen Tall<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Sharks of Pentreath<\/td>\n Michael G. Coney<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Real-Time World<\/td>\n Christopher Priest<\/td>\n mv<\/td>\n N19<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
All Pieces of a River Shore<\/td>\n R. A. Lafferty<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n OR8<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
With Friends Like These...<\/td>\n Alan Dean Foster<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ANA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Aunt Jennie's Tonic<\/td>\n Leonard Tushnet<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Timestorm<\/td>\n Eddy C. Bertin<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n DAG<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Transit of Earth<\/td>\n Arthur C. Clarke<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n PLA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Gehenna<\/td>\n Barry N. Malzberg<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 3<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
One Life, Furnished in Early Poverty<\/td>\n Harlan Ellison<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n OR8<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Inconstant Moon<\/td>\n Larry Niven<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ATM<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 7<\/td>\n <\/td>\n W<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 10<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Mother in the Sky with Diamonds<\/td>\n James Tiptree, Jr.<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
At the Mouse Circus<\/td>\n Harlan Ellison<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Silent in Gehenna<\/td>\n Harlan Ellison<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n TMW<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Too Many People<\/td>\n H. H. Hollis<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Easy Way Out<\/td>\n John Brunner<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n WOI<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Doctor Zombie and . . .<\/td>\n Robert Sheckley<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n CYF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Conquest<\/td>\n Barry N. Malzberg<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Genius<\/td>\n Donald Barthelme<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n TNY<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Angouleme<\/td>\n Thomas M. Disch<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n NW1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
If \"Hair\" Were Revived in 2016<\/td>\n Arnold M. Auerbach<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n NYT<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Science Fiction Horror Movie . . .<\/td>\n Gahan Wilson<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n TNL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Cohen Dog Exclusion Act<\/td>\n Steven Schrader<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ECO<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
(Untitled) (From Cancerqueen)<\/td>\n Tommaso Landolfi<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n CAN<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
An Uneven Evening<\/td>\n Steve Herbst<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n CLA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n -<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
A Special Kind of Morning<\/td>\n Gardner R. Dozois<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n F<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 4<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Autumn Land<\/td>\n Clifford D. Simak<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Infinity Box<\/td>\n Kate Wilhelm<\/td>\n na<\/td>\n OR9<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Missing Man<\/td>\n Katherine MacLean<\/td>\n na<\/td>\n ANA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n W<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Power of Time<\/td>\n Josephine Saxton<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n ND1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Being There<\/td>\n Jerry Kosinski<\/td>\n na<\/td>\n BET<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The God House<\/td>\n Keith Roberts<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n NW1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Plastic Abyss<\/td>\n Kate Wilhelm<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n ABY<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Mount Charity<\/td>\n Edgar Pangborn<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n UN1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Poor Man, Beggar Man<\/td>\n Joanna Russ<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n UN1<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Encounter<\/td>\n Kate Wilhelm<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n OR8<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Last Ghost<\/td>\n Stephen Goldin<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n PRO<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Horse of Air<\/td>\n Gardner Dozois<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n OR8<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Heathen God<\/td>\n George Zebrowski<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Dread Empire<\/td>\n John Brunner<\/td>\n na<\/td>\n FAN<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n F<\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 2<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Wheels<\/td>\n Robert Thurston<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n CLA<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
World Abounding<\/td>\n R. A. Lafferty<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n FSF<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
All the Way Up . . .<\/td>\n Robert Silverberg<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n GAL<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n 1<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
Gantlet (1972)<\/td>\n Robert E. Peck<\/td>\n ss<\/td>\n O10<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 0<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n
The Pagan Rabbi (1966)<\/td>\n Cynthia Oczick<\/td>\n nv<\/td>\n TPR<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n x<\/td>\n x<\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n <\/td>\n 0<\/td>\n <\/tr>\n <\/tbody> \n\n \n <\/table>\n\n Generated by wpDataTables<\/a><\/span>\n<\/div>