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Galactic Central link<\/a> Other reviews: Fiction: Non-fiction: Editor<\/em><\/strong>, Kyril Bonfiglioli; Associate Editor<\/em><\/strong>, J. Parkhill-Rathbone<\/p>\n This issue is almost entirely filled with Keith Roberts\u2019 work. Apart from contributing a solid Cover<\/em><\/strong>\u00a0to illustrate the first instalment of his debut novel The Furies<\/em><\/strong>\u00a0(which takes up 97 pages out of the 128 in this issue) he also provides a\u00a0pseudonymous short story, The Door<\/em><\/strong>. One of Sek\u2019s minor advantages was that she seemed inordinately fond of my cooking. I could never resist the temptation to dabble about with fancy recipes; as often as not the results were disastrous but it seemed to me the more horrible the mess the more she enjoyed it. Maybe she was just being tactful; it was hard to tell with her, she was naturally polite. Sampson befriends a precocious teenager\u00a0called Jane before the disaster:<\/p>\n She was rubbing the great animal on the chest and Sek was standing there soaking it up and looking as sloppy as possible. The youngster straightened when she saw me; she was tall, she might have been fifteen or sixteen. It was hard to tell. She was neatly dressed in blue jeans and a check shirt; her face was round and rather serious with a straight, stubborn little nose and wide-spaced, candid blue eyes. She had a superb mane of dark hair, sleek and well brushed, caught up behind her ears with a crisp white ribbon. Altogether, a surprising vision. <\/em>p. 13-14<\/p>\n When the Furies attack they are thrown together on a permanent basis and initially take cover in Sampson\u2019s cellar, with the earthquake wrecked house above them. They later emerge and a British Army armoured car arrives, but after stopping briefly it moves on as they have no room for\u00a0the pair of them. Sampson does find out where there is an army camp and, after a couple of minor solo adventures, picks up an APC (armoured personnel carrier) and returns to the cottage for Jane. \u201cGot a cat round somewhere,\u201d said the old lady. \u201cOr at least I <\/em>\u2019ad. \u2019Aven\u2019t seen her since this mornin\u2019. Such comin\u2019s an\u2019 goin\u2019s, I never seen anything like it I\u2019m sure. Look at that . . .\u201d She glared at the blocked window. \u201cMessed all the paint, using pins an\u2019 that tape stuff . . . I wouldn\u2019t \u2019ave bothered only that young feller we \u2019ad round, he told me I better. Just like the war it\u2019s bin, all over. I don\u2019t know . . . She changed her tack abruptly. \u201cWant a cuppa?\u201d<\/em> p. 82-83<\/p>\n She reports she managed to fight off two of the Furies, which surprises Bill and Jane as the giant wasps are lethal, and are usually only brought down with flamethrowers. We crabbed out of a final bend and the view widened ahead. Jane shrieked something and started to point. Away to our left the land shelved into a bowl a mile or more across; and for hundreds of yards, as far as I could see, the grass was covered by a weird encrustation. It was as if somebody had let a king-size bowl of porridge boil over and spill down the slope. It was a few seconds before I realized what I was looking at. It was a nest, or a city. Later they are separated, and Bill, after trying to follow Jane to the Isle of Wight in a yacht, finds he has travelled through a night-time storm only to end up back on the mainland. He then finds a pub and gets drunk. During this bout of self-pity\u00a0we get an early example of an effective Roberts\u2019 device1<\/sup> where his characters dream and\/or hallucinate about other characters:<\/p>\n I think altogether I must have put down about four or five, and after that I couldn\u2019t have gone far if I wanted to. I hadn\u2019t eaten for a while of course; I suppose my stomach just couldn\u2019t take the swilling I\u2019d given it. I tried to reason with myself but it was too late. The drink had hold of me and I knew I\u2019d never done a damn thing right in my life and it was no use trying. I\u2019d killed my girl and I\u2019d killed my dog; I was beat, the wasps were everywhere and we were through. Well, if I was only fit for getting drunk I\u2019d try and make a job of it. I managed to edge my way back to the barrels and poured out another tankard . . . In the morning he hears people singing and goes outside to find a truck full of people drunk and laughing. We are treated to a cliff-hanger image to end this instalment:<\/p>\n I was still glaring about vaguely when an ancient lorry came round the corner of the street, stopped alongside with a screech of worn linings. I looked up at it, trying to focus. The back was open and it was crammed with people. They were laughing and cheering and every other one seemed to be waving a bottle. I saw a little man in a striped, collarless shirt, three or four beefy farming types, a heap of girls with long untidy hair and leather jerkins, a bearded boy in a fisherknit sweater, guitar slung round his neck. It looked like an artists\u2019 colony gone haywire. I reeled round to the tailboard. I said thickly \u201cWha\u2019 the Hell goes on . . .\u201d The short story by Roberts, The Door<\/em><\/strong>, is a minor and perhaps even clich\u00e9d piece, but I liked it nonetheless. A man called Naylor has started a revolution in an underground city and is using the disorder as cover while he tries to force open an entrance to the surface. He believes that the buried city is on\u00a0a post-holocaust Earth, and that the surface radiation\u2014caused by attacks by\u00a0Earth\u2019s colony planets in the solar system\u2014may have abated. Below Blue City the Levels increased in complexity and culture. There was the intermediate Brown Level, then the Red, then Orange and Yellow and finally, deepest sunk of all, White. White City was the financial and religious capital of the vertical empire, the seat of government and order. Naylor knew that under the old order he would never have been allowed to sink to full White status. Instead he had founded his own heretic creed; to rise. With him, seeking the heights was no longer a phrase of contempt.<\/em> p. 123-124<\/p>\n There is a neat twist ending.<\/p>\n The other two short stories are awful. A Distorting Mirror<\/em><\/strong> by R. W. Mackelworth was a real slog to get through, not helped by the fact that it starts with several pages of talking heads between a couple, who appear to be under the influence of some kind of drug, and a housing manager of the future. Eventually the couple are vouchsafed a vision of their life in a new home, but this turns out to be a test to see whether they are suitable candidates to join the \u2018Management.\u2019 As to the non-fiction in this issue, I\u2019ve already mentioned Roberts\u2019 cover above. I note in passing two other items: the Science Fantasy<\/em> cover logo has shrunk in size to make room for a featured story title and, once again, the back cover promises stories that aren\u2019t in the issue (this time by Harry Harrison and, again, Philip Wordley). A mixed bag, but this issue will always have a soft spot in my heart as it was one of the first copies\u00a0of the magazine I ever bought (around forty years ago).<\/p>\n Galactic Central link ISFDB link Other reviews: John Boston and Damien Broderick: Strange Highways: Reading Science Fantasy, 1950-67 (p. 256 of 365) (Amazon UK) Fiction: The Furies (Part 1 of 3) \u2022 serial by Keith Roberts \u2665\u2665+ A Distorting Mirror \u2022 short story by R. W. Mackelworth The Door \u2022 short story by Keith Roberts […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[21],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2631","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-science-fantasy"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Pcj7-Gr","jetpack-related-posts":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2631","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2631"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2631\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2647,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2631\/revisions\/2647"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2631"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2631"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sfmagazines.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2631"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nISFDB link<\/a><\/p>\n
\nJohn Boston and Damien Broderick: Strange Highways: Reading Science Fantasy, 1950-67<\/em> (p. 256 of 365) (Amazon UK<\/a>)<\/p>\n
\nThe Furies<\/em><\/strong> (Part 1 of 3) \u2022 serial by Keith Roberts \u2665\u2665+
\nA Distorting Mirror<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short story by R. W. Mackelworth
\nThe Door<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short story by Keith Roberts [as by Alistair Bevan] \u2665\u2665\u2665
\nThe Criminal<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 short fiction by Johnny Byrne<\/p>\n
\nCover<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 by Keith Roberts
\nEditorial<\/em><\/strong> \u2022 by Kyril Bonfiglioli<\/p>\n
\nThe Furies<\/em><\/strong> is a conventional British disaster novel that has huge extra-terrestrial wasps attacking humanity at the same time as the Earth is subject to a catastrophic planet-wide earthquake. This latter event is due in part to the explosion of a nuclear bomb\u00a0on the sea floor (the Neptune Project). These nuclear tests are mentioned a few times at the start of the novel, no doubt reflecting the political situation at\u00a0the time.
\nThe main\u00a0character is Bill Sampson, who lives in the country and works as a cartoonist. He owns a dog, a Great Dane called Sek:<\/p>\n
\nWhen the daily battle was over I usually walked Sek for a couple of miles. We\u2019d always finish up at the \u201cBasketmakers Arms\u201d in Brockledean. She was a firm favourite there. They kept biscuits behind the bar for her; she\u2019d stretch her neck, push her great dark head over the counter, roll her lips back from her teeth and take the goodies as if they were made of glass. Then she\u2019d eat them without leaving a crumb. She developed a fair taste for beer as well, though I usually restricted her to a dishful at the most. I felt one dipso in the family was enough.<\/em> p. 8<\/p>\n
\nThese events pretty much set up the template for the next thirty or forty pages: they move around the countryside, other people and forms of transport come and go, and the Furies attack, sometimes trapping them in the places they shelter. At one point the pair end up in Granny Thompson\u2019s house (unlike the \u2018Anita\u2019 stories, here she is called Mrs Stillwell):<\/p>\n
\nAs you can probably gather from what I\u2019ve described so far, the first six chapters are competent but\u00a0episodic fare which\u00a0don\u2019t really advance the story. There are also a number of elements that don\u2019t convince: there is no particular explanation as to how the Furies can exist (the square-cube law), and the earthquake that devastates the entire world feels a little too convenient. Also, more cringe-inducing today than in 1965 perhaps, why is a thirty-something man together\u00a0with a fifteen or sixteen year old? (Sampson\u2019s feelings for Jane mostly go unspoken but occasionally rise to the surface before disappearing back down into the deeps\u2014we\u2019ll see if that remains the case in the next couple of instalments.)
\nFortunately, with the arrival of chapter seven, we start to see some flashes of Roberts\u2019 ability. The pace picks up and there is a good description of what Bill and Jane see after they have left Mrs Stillwell and are trying to outrun the Furies in their car en route to the coast:<\/p>\n
\nThe wasps had given up all attempt at concealment and allowed their woodpulp shanties to sprawl across the hill. There were combs and great brood cells all made of the same flimsy stuff; over them by way of protection they\u2019d hauled all the junk imaginable, bolts of cloth and cocomatting, sheets of galvanised iron, chunks of linoleum, sections torn from fences, bits of furniture, even old motor car tyres and wheels. It was like a mile-wide corporation tip. Above the rubbish the Furies hung in a golden haze; the thousands of wings made a deep rumbling, like the noise of a massive waterfall.<\/em> p. 93-94<\/p>\n
\nSometime in the afternoon Jane walked through the bar. I called her but she wouldn\u2019t come. She was smart; she stayed just outside the range of my vision, flitting about like a little wraith. Sek was there somewhere too, but I couldn\u2019t let her in. I pleaded with both of them, then lost my temper and damned them to all eternity. Then, mercifully, I passed out like a light.<\/em> p. 99-100<\/p>\n
\nFingers gripped my arms. One of the popsies started to scream with laughter. Somebody said \u201cCome on whack, join the party . . .\u201d I landed in the truck and it careered off down the street. A bottle was shoved in my hand. A voice shouted \u201cDrink up, th\u2019 war\u2019s over.\u201d
\nI tried to take it in. \u201cWhat happened? Are the wasps dead?\u201d
\nLaughter broke like a wave. A blonde lurched across the lorry, tried to grab the bottle and fell over my knees. She jerked her thumb at the top of the cab, giggling. I looked up and for the first time saw the Fury, straddling the metal with its wide-spread legs and staring disinterestedly down at its human load.<\/em> p. 100<\/p>\n
\nThere is a neat description of the social order that exists underground:<\/p>\n
\nAt least The Criminal<\/em><\/strong> by Johnny Byrne is short. A silver spaceship ejects a naked man who subsequently explains to the crowd he has been sent to Earth for punishment. At the end (spoiler) he reveals that there was another of his race called Adam who had been sent previously. Oh dear.<\/p>\n
\nIn his Editorial<\/em><\/strong>, Kyril Bonfiglioli continues his discussion about \u2018readability\u2019 which he started last issue. I\u2019m not sure he really adds anything (and manages to misspell \u2018Azimov\u2019 in the process).<\/p>\n\n
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