The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  In the field of speculative fiction, helping out the tyros is a dues-paying activity held in only slightly less esteem than that of making money. I know of no other genre in which the established names—from the Asimovian/Bradburyian/Clarkesque upper echelons all the way down to last year’s newcomers—break their asses with such regularity and effusiveness, to assist the fledglings. Show me, if you can, another field of free-lance endeavor in which the fastest guns teach the plowboys how to outdraw them. In sf, the prevailing attitude seems to be: “A man can stay on top only as long as he can beat his own best record.” There are hungry trolls clambering up our mountain every day, and inexplicably, but nobly, the Kings of the Glass Hill don’t stomp them, they extend a helping hand.

  In this anthology you will read quite a few new writers. Some have published in other mediums—from critical essays to poetry—and some are seeing their contributions published here as the initial appearance in print. A few—Ed Bryant, Joan Bernott, Ken McCullough, Richard Hill—have gone on to sell widely elsewhere. But the stories here were their first sales. (No, wait a minute, that’s not true for Hill. Damon Knight had already bought Richard’s first story for ORBIT when I met him and bought “Moth Race.” This was his second sale. I want to be scrupulously honest about it.)

  Jim Hemesath is a twenty-seven year old writer I met while doing a two-week Visiting Lecturer stint at the 1969 University of Colorado Writers’ Workshop in the Rockies. He was one of two writers I bought for this book, out of an enrollment close to two hundred.

  James Bartholomew William Hemesath was born 25 April 1944 in New Hampton, Chickasaw County, Iowa. He is ex-Roman Catholic, ex-married and ex-Marine Corps. He attended college at the Universities of Hawaii and Iowa, obtaining a B.A. in history from the latter in 1969. He is Phi Beta Kappa and won the Harcourt, Brace & World Fellowship to the 1969 U. of Colorado Workshop, as well as a Research Assistantship to the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, 1969–70.

  Apart from “Harry the Hare” and “The Box” (published in Dare, December 1967) he has made money at the usual mundane jobs writers seek out while waiting for the world to discover them: newspaper boy, soda jerk, food service worker in a boys’ dormitory, rental housing inspector for the city of Iowa City, assistant foreman on a thinning crew in the Bitterroot National Forest in Montana; and following in the footsteps of such fine writers as John Steinbeck, Clifford Odets and Jack Williamson, Mr. Hemesath has forayed into the nitty and/or gritty working with his hands as an asphalt paver, concrete paver, on a sewer gang, and with a section gang raising track for the Chicago and Northwestern along the Cedar River.

  His first contact with the Muse was during his junior year at the University of Iowa, working under Mary Carter, author of A Fortune in Dimes and The Minutes of the Night. In her fiction writing course he was required to hand in a three hundred word scene every day, and later, a short story every day, thereby proving there are other teachers of writing besides your editor who feel most theory is bullshit and the only way you can become a writer is to write. Mr. Hemesath insists I mention that his three favorite stories are Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum,” Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” and “A Boy and His Dog” by your editor. He gave me no option in relating this, stating that if I really wanted to note germinal influences on him, those three needed to be entered for posterity. I found no difficulty in meeting his request. Being linked with Poe and Jackson fixes me for the rest of the week. And maybe into next week, as well.

  He concludes his biographical notes with the remark that he hopes one day to write a novel that takes place in Iowa.

  Of “Harry the Hare” I will only say, it is at once bizarre, funny, alarming and tragic. I suspect it is a story Ray Bradbury might have liked to’ve written, and one I know he will enjoy. I suspect you will, too.

  Harry the Hare

  Inside the dimly lit movie theater, there was a muffled sound, then one of the swinging doors from the outer lobby opened, and a short, fat man began walking down the aisle toward the stage. It was early in the day, before the show had started. The short, fat man strode the descending length of the aisle, climbed the steps to the stage, and walked up close to the great white rectangle of the movie screen.

  “Hello, Bijou . . . I’ve returned,” he said softly, almost reverently. He tentatively poked a finger at the screen, and chuckled. “Nothing but a sheet of perforated plastic? Ridiculous.”

  “Good afternoon.” The voice came from the rear of the theater. “Do you have business here? We’re not open yet.” The short, fat man had turned at the first words. Now he stared up and back at the rear of the theater. It was too dim back there, but now he could barely see, barely make out, something. A gloved hand rested on the hinged window of the projection booth.

  “I want to see Harry.” The man hand-shaded his eyes and squinted.

  “He’s at lunch.” The window hinges squeaked. “Should be back for the matinee.”

  “Good. I’ll wait.” The man sat cross-legged on the stage. Hand-cupped his chin. Rocked. “The matinee’s at one. Isn’t it?”

  “Why do you want to see Harry?” Two gloved hands rested on the window sill. “Are you a friend?”

  “Yes,” the man replied. “I’ve always loved Harry the Hare cartoons.” Smiled. “As a child I came every Saturday afternoon. Right here. To the Bijou.”

  “Really? A test.” The gloved hands held a piece of string. “What am I making?”

  “A cat’s cradle?” The man stumbled to his feet. Squinted. “Yes! That’s it. A cat’s cradle.” Paused. “But that trick belongs to Harry the Hare.”

  “Most certainly. But now.” The string floated to the floor. “Look at my hands. What do you see?”

  “Only four fingers!” The man rubbed his eyes. “And gloves. Brown gloves.” He jumped from the stage. “So that means—”

  “Most certainly. I’m Harry the Hare.” The gloved hands waved. “Forgive me for lying.” Silence. “You know. About being out to lunch.” The gloved hands became two fists. “But I must be careful. They’re after me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My creators. The people who drew me.” The gloved hands clenched each other. “The studio stopped making cartoons. I was to be buried—”

  “But you escaped.” The man’s eyes swelled with tears. “Why do they want you back?”

  “Because I’m copyrighted.” The gloved hands became limp. “They own me.”

  “But I need you. I love Harry the Hare.”

  “Many people do. And they come here. Just to see me.”

  My name is Jack Jackson and I am a lawyer for Blue Wing Films, the former producers of Harry the Hare animated shorts. Two months ago Harry the Hare escaped from the Blue Wing Museum of Motion Picture Classics. The ensuing manhunt ended yesterday during the Saturday Matinee at the Bijou. The theater was crowded with middle-aged people.

  Harry the Hare stood on the stage and I shouted, “Blue Wing Films owns Harry the Hare.” I sat next to a short, fat man. He started to cry. I handed him my handkerchief. “Harry the Hare must return to the museum.”

  “I shall never return. The people own me.” Harry the Hare shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The people—”

  “But Blue Wing Films holds the copyright. I have called the police.”

  “The people need Harry the Hare. My cartoons are no longer exhibited. They only have me.”

  “I am sorry, but the law says . . .” Most of the people were crying. The siren on the police car became louder. I sat down.

  Harry the Hare smiled and listened. He snapped his fingers and a scissors appeared. Then he said, “The people shall have me.” And snipped off his right foot. Followed by his left foot. Both ears. And his left arm below the elbow.

  I stood up and shouted, “Blue Wing Films owns Harry the Hare.”

  Then I sat down. The aisle was packed.

  Afterword

  The first half of Harry the Hare was written in Iowa City
sometime during the winter of 1968. The second half—the Jack Jackson segment—I wrote the following summer at the University of Colorado Writers’ Conference. The very first paragraph of Harry the Hare belongs to Harlan Ellison. The rest I can say is mine.

  The era of the big studio cartoon is past. Within the United States, production of quality theatrical cartoons has virtually ceased.

  What killed the cartoon? Rising production costs. Low box office potential. And public apathy.

  But I—James B. Hemesath—miss Daffy Duck, Tweety & Sylvester, and the other cartoon characters of the 1950s. They were my friends. Need I say more?

  WHEN IT CHANGED

  Joanna Russ

  Introduction

  I’m writing this 32,000 feet in the air, on American Airlines flight 194 to Chicago. I’m spending this flight happily broken into segments of writing introductions to stories by people I love, and by reading the advance galleys of Keith Laumer’s new Scribner’s novel, Dinosaur Beach. And with one of those wicked little coincidences that the Universe tosses at me frequently, I find something in Keith’s book that sparks me into the prefatory words for Joanna Russ and her story.

  The item that strikes the spark is a passage from page 48, in which two agents of a far-future timesweeping force find themselves stranded back in the Jurassic Period. It goes like this:

  “Why haven’t they made a pick-up on me?” she said, not really talking to me. Her voice was edging up the scale a little.

  “Take it easy, girl,” I said, and patted her shoulder; I knew my touching her would chill her down again. Not a nice thing to know, but useful.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, Ravel,” she snapped, all business again. “If you think this is some little desert island scene, you’re very wrong.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I told her. “When I make a pass at you, that’ll be time enough to slap me down. Don’t go female on me now. We don’t have time for nonsense.”

  Now Keith is a close friend of mine, and a helluva good writer, and those of you who know he had a debilitating stroke late last year will be delighted to know he’s recovering strongly, but if Joanna Russ ever got within smiting distance of Keith, I’m sure she’d belt him one up alongside his pudding-trough for those paragraphs, because they are pure-and-simple male chauvinist pig writing.

  I’m not trying to start a fight here, you understand, but like newly-converted Jews or Catholics, like lifetime cigarette smokers who’ve put down, like alcoholics now on the wagon, those of us who’ve spent the greater part of our lives as male chauvinists get terribly zealous in pointing out the gentlemen in our midst who are still wrong-thinking offenders.

  In case you aren’t aware of how insulting those paragraphs can be to a woman, fellas, consider the following:

  These agents, male and female alike, are specially trained, ultraefficient, tougher than hell, get bounced here and there through time battling a formidable enemy, as well as time itself, and yet the woman is portrayed as weak, sniveling, semi-hysterical, Puritanical, illogical, inefficient and silly. The man has to take hold and show her the way. The narrator keeps referring to himself and other males as men, but keeps referring to the woman as a girl. If Keith were consistent, he’d call himself (as narrator), and the other males in the novel, boys. And the most glaring evidence of the author’s unconscious male chauvinism is his telling her, when she gets sappy and illogical—which I contend is out-of-character for the character—don’t go female on me.

  Ugh. Kate Millett and Germaine Greer and Mary Reinholz and, I’m sure, Joanna Russ would belt Keith soundly with their picket signs had they but access to him. I urge Keith to stay down there in his Florida sanctuary, while the rest of us, who’ve been “saved,” try to head off the lynch party.

  It all ties in so well with Joanna’s story, it must be fate. Because Joanna has here written a story that makes some extraordinarily sharp distinctions between the abilities and attitudes of the sexes, while erasing many others we think immutable. It is, in the best and strongest sense of the word, a female liberation story, while never once speaking of, about, or to the subject. And it points out why I think women’s lib is one of the three or four most potent and influential movements to spring up in our country during these last decades of social upheaval.

  Keith and a few others may pillory me for this, but as far as I’m concerned, the best writers in sf today are the women. Most of them are represented in this volume—Kate Wilhelm, Ursula Le Guin, Josephine Saxton, Lee Hoffman, Joanna—and others were featured in the original Dangerous Visions—Sonya Dorman, Carol Emshwiller, Miriam Allen deFord. Others will make their appearances in The Last Dangerous Visions. Now when I say I think the ladies are the best of us currently, I’m quick to add I don’t even care to make the cop-out reservation that held for so many years. It went like this:

  “This Leigh Brackett/C. L. Moore/Katherine Maclean/Margaret St. Clair/E. Mayne Hull (fill in the appropriate name for your own past sins, guys) is a helluva writer. She writes so good you think it’s a man. You can’t tell the difference.”

  Well, that was nonsense, too. Another glaring example of what we did to our women writers for so many years. We made them feel—and quite rightly—that their sex would lobby against their receiving serious consideration or their work being judged from the git-go on the same plane as a man’s. George Sand and George Eliot were not alone in having to assume male pseudonyms in self-defense. God knows what such charades did to the talents and personal lives of not only Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin and Mary Ann Evans but all the potential Shirley Jacksons and Dorothy Parkers against whose sex restrictions were placed. For no one knows how many hundreds of years in literature-in-general, and for almost fifty years in speculative fiction, we have denied ourselves perhaps half the great writers who might have been. By insisting that women could only write well if they wrote as men, by hardboiling themselves, by subscribing to the masculine world-view, we have disenfranchised and even blotted out an infinitude of views of our world as seen through eyes different and wonderful.

  Happily, that situation is disappearing. Not nearly fast enough for me, but happening nonetheless. There is still a great deal of what was commonly referred to as “ladies’ writing” going on, mostly in the major slicks intended to be read under hair dryers; but that is no more representative of the lofty level of quality attained by serious women writers than is the adolescent Ruark-muscle-flexing of stories in the “men’s adventure magazines” typical of the best of serious writing being done by men. Hopefully both idioms will be recognized for what they are: sheer pandering to the lowest possible common denominators of fiction-need by women and men.

  The reasons for my joy at the ever-stronger position being assumed by women writers in our genre, and my feelings that women’s lib in general is a godsend not only for literature but for the world as a whole, are one and the same.

  Men have had it their way for thousands of years. The machismo concept, the dominant male attitude, the picture of women as weak and essentially brainless, the deification of Mars as god of war and male supremacy . . . these have led us to a world of futility, hatred, bigotry, sexual confusion, pollution and despair. Perhaps it is time the women took a turn at bat. They can certainly do no worse. And while I am not unmindful that women can proliferate even these unsavory cultural attitudes (Mothers who send their sons out to battle with the admonition that they return with their shields or on them, and then pay homage to the ruins returned to them in plastic bags from Viet Nam by the display of tacky gold stars in living room windows, strike me as little better than ghouls), still I see more kindness and rationality in the average woman than in the average man.

  Surely I am in the truest tradition of the Utopian by conceiving of a world saved by women, and equally surely I’m laying an unfair responsibility on women to clean up what men have sullied. (I’m reminded of the young college student who, when advised sappily by a gray-haired elder that the salvation of the world
rested with her and her “more aware generation,” responded with the urging that the nice old gentleman go fuck himself: why is it up to me, she demanded? You had all the time in the world and you screwed it, and now it’s up to me to clean up your garbage dump. No thanks, dad. Her point was well taken.)

  Still, I cannot escape the feeling that if women had but the oneness of purpose of the ladies of Lysistrata, they could end war in half a day.

  Don’t tell me. I know. I’m expecting a nobility of females that men certainly don’t possess, and I’m expecting them all to think the same on major issues. I said I was an Utopian, didn’t I?

  But I can hope.

  I can hope that the world, seen through the minds and eyes of women, will come to be a more pleasing and acceptable view than the one we men have proffered all these centuries. And it is this view, wholly new and different, because it comes from a different systemic orientation, that forms the core of the best new writing in sf and outside the field, by our passionate and dedicated women writers.

  Not the least of whom is Joanna Russ.

  Terry Carr, editor of the Specials at Ace Books, once told me that Joanna’s first novel, the excellent Picnic on Paradise, was rejected by every major hardcover house before he saw it and snapped it up for publication. I may be wrong about the specifics, but I would be willing to bet that at least one of those hardcover editors, males all, unconsciously put the kibosh on the novel because it came from a woman. I have absolutely no evidence to back up that theory, and I don’t even know to what houses the book was submitted, but I’ve been in this business a couple of minutes and I’ve encountered ingrained prejudices that are imbedded so cellularly they are wholly unknown to the men from whom they leach so much fairness and rationality.

  How sad and silly those editors now seem, having passed up a novel of clearly such eminence. Picnic on Paradise was nominated for, and missed winning by a hair, the 1969 Nebula award as best novel of that year. With her first novel, Joanna Russ found herself in the first rank of major sf talents, up against competition like James Blish, Philip K. Dick, Robert Silverberg, R. A. Lafferty, John Brunner and that year’s winner, Alexei Panshin.