This conceit broke down during the early days of World War II. One of the major and successful attacks against it was delivered by Dr. Lyman Spitzer of Harvard who quietly proved that the whole mechanism of glancing blow, or close approach, with or without binaries, would not work. Anything like that would produce a filament of star matter in space, as the theories demanded, but this filament would, under no circumstances, condense itself into planets. It would expand so rapidly that the mutual gravitational attraction of the molecules would not have a chance. Great celestial fireworks, but no planets. Doctor Spitzer’s work left astronomers temporarily without any hypothesis of plant formation whatever. Actually, Dr. Spitzer had just demolished something, but it was the demolition of a hazard and an eye sore.
Soon afterwards K. Aa. Strand of Sproul Observatory, Swarthmore College, announced the discovery of a dark companion of the double star 61 Cygni, a companion of planetary size. Other such dark companions were found on other nearby stars. They are all very massive, else we could not have found them. And where there are massive companions there are obviously smaller ones too. And again a few years later new theories of the formation of planetary systems were advanced, notably by Dr. Karl von Weizsäcker and by Dr. Gerard P. Kuiper. They still remain to be tested mathematically. But they work without rare catastrophes and they all lead to the conclusion that virtually every sun ought to have planets.
So we now have good reason to believe in millions of planets elsewhere in the galaxy. And we can start out on another type of speculation, based on much firmer grounds than those upon which de Fontenelle had to stand.
We can reason like this: Our island universe, our galaxy, contains at least 15 billion suns. They are of all types, tenuous Red Giants and feeble Red Dwarfs, sputtering Wolf-Rayet stars and highly compressed White Dwarfs, periodically exploding U-Geminorum stars and pulsating variables of all kinds. And in between all those strange stars there lies the majestic Main Sequence of normal stars of which our sun is one of the lesser and Sirius one of the more prominent members. Being as pessimistic as is consistent with good sense we’ll put the number of suns with planets down as one billion, or 1,000,000,000. Each of these can be expected to have at least two planets of the type of Earth and Mars. This gives us two billion planets in our galaxy that can be expected to harbor life.
If we say that just one out of a hundred of these planets has progressed far enough in the evolutionary scale to produce intelligent life of some sort, we arrive at the fantastic figure of twenty million planets with intelligent beings. Again, if only one out of a hundred of these intelligent types has progressed as far in the engineering sciences as we have, we get two hundred thousand planets on the verge of space travel.
And if, again, one out of a hundred is no longer just “at the verge” - but here begins the realm of science fiction.
Willy Ley
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Preface
I
n a large Pacific Coast bookstore, a browser picked up a copy of Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot and, with a puzzled frown, examined it. As a clerk came up, the prospective buyer held out the book.
“It’s science fiction, I know,” he said. “But what’s it all about?”
A few moments later I stood before the display of science fiction and marveled at the choice of books which a few years ago hadn’t existed. I had no doubts about what it was all about. At least I thought I hadn’t. After all, I’d read fantasy and science fiction for twenty years—a veteran at the age of 32, I thought, and had to laugh. And yet there was something which the other fellow had said. . . .
“Half the time I don’t savvy what they’re talking about—parsecs and space-warps and androids—heck, it sounds like a refresher in higher physics!”
. . . why, the thought struck me, the guy was right! It was a problem of familiarity, not higher education. I write Western novels, so I drew a comparison: the average reader reads a Western—about surcingles, bits, single-action Colts, hog-tieing, jingle-bobbing and takes them in his stride. Not because of actual experience or training, but a familiarity with the terms in relation to the story. And he enjoys that familiarity.
A lot of reasons have been assigned to the present popularity of science fiction. For myself, I read it because it’s different, a sort of entertainment that requires some mental cooperation for the fullest enjoyment. A great many book buyers must take home science fiction for that reason. And it is for them, the casual reader, that the science fiction dictionary in this anthology has been devised.
No pretense is made that this is a complete dictionary. The unlimited scope of the field itself prohibits a complete reference work. But certain words and terms have, as in Western or Detective fiction, become standard and the science fiction writer feels no explanation or definition is required. It is these commoner words and terms that are treated in this dictionary.
Science fiction, per se, is not a new form of literary expression. Only the present popularity of the form is new, for imaginative fiction is as old as man’s imagination. It has carried many labels through the years, ranging from Scientifiction to Romances of Science. As in Detective or Mystery or Western or Supernatural fiction, any definition must be of an arbitrary nature. A Detective story, for example, may be a comedy, a romance, or a tragedy; it may be logical or illogical; it may be compounded of whole fiction, or a literal fictional presentation of an actual occurrence. So, like science fiction, there is no set rule-of-thumb to go by. Like any fiction story with no set pattern or style within the form, the piece may be pure romance, character-study, pseudo-technical treatise, history, exposé or hoax.
The earliest American publication readily identifiable as science fiction is Symzonia by Adam Seaborn (presumably a pseudonym for John C. Symmes), published in New York in 1820. The first widespread popularization of the form came with Jules Verne’s successes. It is interesting to note that even after a hundred years science has not yet caught up with the imaginative genius of Jules Verne.
By 1900 magazines both in the United States and Great Britain had accepted science fiction as legitimate romance, and stories by H. G. Wells, Garrett Putnam Serviss and George Griffith gained enormous public interest. But it remained for Hugo Gernsback in 1926 to bring forth the first magazine devoted exclusively to the form. The first issue of Gernsback’s Amazing Stories was dated April, 1926. In rapid succession in the next decade a host of similar magazines appeared. Some few of them have thrived or have been revived for the present day, with strange or lurid titles proclaiming “Amazing,” “Astonishing,” “Astounding,” “Fantastic,” “Cosmic,” “Dynamic,” “Wonder,” etc.
These magazines, devoted almost exclusively to science fiction, evolved the first comprehensive story patterns. But the type was not science fiction as it is known today; the pulp magazine formula called for over-powering action with little characterization or plot. There were exceptions, of course—stories by Taine, E. E. Smith, Keller, Cummings, Merritt, Kline, Burroughs. The fact that even today their stories of the twenties and thirties are being reprinted is testimony that what they wrote was entertaining by any standard.
One of the earliest of those magazines was Astounding Stories, originally published by Clayton Magazines and later by Street and Smith. It followed in Gernsback’s footsteps until the second major change in science fiction occurred. Under the guidance of a young science fiction writer, John W. Campbell, Jr., Astounding Stories made the first break with the stilted, tongue-in-cheek attitude most editors had assumed toward the form. Prognostication was put on a scientific basis, and writers were urged to speculate without limitation, saving only logic. It is significant that almost every novel-length story since 1938 published in Astounding Stories, or Astounding Science Fiction, as it is now known, has been re-published in hard covers for the entertainment of a far less specialized audience.
Today the magazine stalls are crowded with science fiction publications. Some of the old magazines, notably
Astounding Science Fiction, Thrilling Wonder Stories, and Startling Stories, are carrying on in fine style, but there are fine new publications, setting even higher standards, such as Galaxy Science Fiction, under the guidance of Horace L. Gold. The old pulp format has been giving way to semi-slick presentation. Men like Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov and a host of others are doing more than writing science fiction—they are writing stories, of a calibre equal to that in any literary form. The new magazine titles and quality of stories are varied. How many will survive remains to be seen. But their number is proof of current public interest.
But, as that book buyer had asked, what is it all about? The question is almost unanswerable. What do you expect from a story? Imagination, provocative ideas, action, glamorous settings, terror or suspense? Science fiction excels in these. But a definition is impractical. About the only limitation is the use of a scientific basis—and then it’s up to the writer’s ingenuity.
Who hasn’t wondered what it would be like to be the last man alive? Or about the future? Or the challenging mystery of the stars? Who hasn’t escaped his workaday life in a few wonderful hours of reading?—And in order to help you enjoy the escapism of science fiction, the fullest adventure in imaginative reading you will ever find, is the purpose of the dictionary that follows. Glance through it, not as a chore or a task, but simply for the fun of finding the romance of words, words unknown a few years ago. It is exciting adventure in itself, for you can absorb without study, learn without trying; and the full scope of science fiction will be open to you. These words are becoming a part of the American language; new ones are appearing every day—and you’ll find them first in science fiction. To the new reader of science fiction, to you to whom these words are directed, goes my heart-felt wishes for enjoyment— and all my envy!
Samuel Anthony Peeples
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A Dictionary of Science Fiction
Android—Literally “resembling a man.” Given generally to “thinking” machines, i.e., automatons, robots, etc. The primary difference arbitrarily assumed by most SF writers between a “robot” and an “android”: a robot’s actions are purely mechanical, but an android is capable of thought. However, sometimes the author follows the rule of physical appearance: a robot looks machinelike while an android looks humanlike. Two excellent extrapolations of automatons are I, Robot by Isaac Asimov (Gnome Press, N.Y. 1950) and The Humanoids by Jack Williamson (N.Y. 1949). In the first, a future history of robots is outlined, outstanding for the thematic variations. In the second novel, the effect of automatons (of non-human origin) on humanity is studied. In a lighter vein, the “Adam Link” short stories by Eando Binder cover much robot characterization now considered standard. This series was anthologized partially, notably in The Other Worlds edited by Phil Stong (N.Y. 1941). (See: robot)
Asteroid—Literally “starlike.” Used generally to define a small planet in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. Used also for minor, usually unnamed planets and planetoids. Passage through the “asteroid belt” dividing the inner and outer planets has often made exciting story material. SF theories for interplanetary background range from an origin of an exploded unknown planet to world-collision debris. Unusual variants with unique problems are presented by Will Stewart (Jack Williamson) in two CT novels, Seetee Shock (N.Y. 1949) and Seetee Ship (Gnome Press, N.Y. 1951).
Astrogator—Coined from Astrognosy, the science of fixed-stars. Implies someone qualified to navigate among the stars; an extraterrestrial navigator in the common sense. Astrogation (also Astronautics) in SF is considered an exact science, although the many problems of three-dimensional space navigation are still to be met and solved. Considered de facto in SF, some scattered short stories have outlined this science.
Atom—A unit of minute “energy” particles. SF has considered the possibility of smaller particles forming the atomic particles, perhaps ad infinitum. Thus, besides space-exploration (macrocosm), SF writers have journeyed into tiny atomic worlds (microcosm). Ray Cummings pioneered in stories of the atom-worlds, his earliest being The Girl in the Golden Atom (N.Y. 1923). A similar approach was considered in The Green Man of Kilsona (or Graypec) by Festus Pragnell (London 1936), but modified by Will Garth in Dr. Cyclops (N.Y. 1940). (See: nuclear physics; disintegrator)
B.E.M.—”Bem” or “Bug-Eyed Monster.” Used to designate unreasonable monstrosities for mere story sensationalism. The problem of creating believable alien life has always confronted SF writers and even contemporary space travel stories are guilty of illogical grotesqueries invented as unusual “monsters.” Writers, however, are now more apt to concern themselves with the logic of their ingenious creations, both psychologically and physiologically. The two central stories of A. E. van Vogt’s Voyage of the Space Ship Beagle (N.Y. 1950) illustrate the attempt at this standard. Just as the painstaking physical detail of alien life forms by Edgar Rice Burroughs in his Martian and Venerian stories added convincing authenticity to his works, attention to psychological aspects makes for entertaining, as well as thought-provoking, fiction. Examples are A Martian Odyssey by Stanley G. Weinbaum (Reading, Pa. 1949), representative of all his other work, and The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury (N.Y. 1950). (See: biology)
Biology—Although SF has treated innumerable aspects of biology, the emphasis has been on the human element. The final evolutionary stages of human life concerned H. G. Wells in The Time Machine (N.Y. 1895). Thematic variants are in S. Fowler Wright’s works, e.g., The World Below (London 1930), and Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men (London 1930). Of recent years, with attention to atomic energy, emphasis has shifted from evolution to mutation. John Taine’s remarkable Seeds of Life, first published in magazine form in 1931, considered this theme. (See: b.e.m.; supermen)
Blaster—SF term for hand weapon. Also descriptive of tools for mining operations on alien worlds employing atomic energy or disintegration. The variety of hand weapons is endless, mostly described as “ray guns” ranging from deadly “rays” (usually hard radiation) to sonic disturbance. A sonic-blaster destroys the molecular balance, adjustable to kill or maim; a heat-blaster employs direct or sympathetic radiation; a disintegrator totally destroys matter by molecular dissemination. Particularly vivid use of ray guns is found in Maza of the Moon by Otis Adelbert Kline (Chicago 1930) and in the “Lensmen” series by Dr. E. E. Smith. (See: disintegrator; weapons)
Blast-off—The initial expenditure of energy by a space ship leaving a planet, or in emergency takeoffs.
Botany—A science greatly explored by SF writers. John Taine, in particular, investigated botanical ideas, e.g., The Forbidden Garden (Reading, Pa. 1947), as did H. G. Wells in The Island of Dr. Moreau (Chicago 1896). Sentient plant life is a common SF subject. Edgar Rice Burroughs is noted for his detailed strange, quasi-human plants in his Martian, Venerian and Pellucidarian stories. Mineral life has also been suggested in SF, A. Merritt presenting an exceptionally vivid picture in his early The Metal Monster.
Changeling—Applied in SF to those who undergo personal metamorphosis. The changes range from human to animal, animal to human, and human to superman. Excellent examples of changelings are to be found in the writings of A. E. van Vogt. (See: supermen)
Comet—In science, a luminous celestial body. In SF, a basis for threatening Earth’s destruction, but an unusual story by Austin Hall, The People of the Comet (Los Angeles 1948), humorously treated with cometary inhabitants. Another unusual Earth-comet collision novel is The Second Deluge by Garrett P. Serviss (N.Y. 1912) in which the outer space visitor is a great water nebulae or spiral. A non-fiction book of interest is Worlds in Collision by I. Velikovsky (N.Y. 1950). (See: world catastrophe)
Contraterrene— (See: seetee )
CT—(See: seetee)
Cybernetics—The science of “thinking machines,” i.e., machines with an electronic memory. In SF, this new science’s future is elaborately explored. A most striking example of such possible “giant brains” is the Game Ma
chine in A. E. van Vogt’s “Null-A” stories.
Dimensions—In SF other dimensions, besides our perceptible three of length, breadth and thickness, are often used. Most often the new dimension creates a new plane of existence, frequently with its own alien life. SF visualizes an infinite number of spheres of existence occupying the same time and space. The “fourth dimension” of Time or duration is the most common, with or without the additional plane of existence. The mode of transportation varies greatly from precise SF explanations (The Time Machine by H. G. Wells, N.Y. 1896) to unscientific incantations which SF purists decry. Romance Island by Zona Gale (Indianapolis 1906) was an early investigation of this theme while a more descriptive extra-dimensional jaunt is described in Dr. E. E. Smith’s Skylark of Valeron (Reading, Pa. 1948). Fredric Brown speculates amusingly in his What Mad Universe (N.Y. 1949). The Ship of Ishtar by A. Merritt (NY. 1926) is a beautiful extra-dimensional fantasy. Other treatments include: Side-wise in Time by Murray Leinster (Chicago 1950) and the Fletcher Pratt and L. Sprague de Camp books, e.g., The Castle of Iron (Gnome Press, N.Y. 1950). In a book of the provocative land of The Well of the Unicorn by George U. Fletcher (N.Y. 1948) the story is presented with no stress on the extra-dimensional SF theories. (See: time travel)
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