Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction

by Leigh Grossman

  As in the United States, it is usually not possible today to make a living solely writing science fiction. Therefore, authors tend to have professional careers, often in journalism, academia, or the technical fields, and write in their spare time. There are also active fan clubs in each country. These clubs range from the casual recreational interest to professional quality activities. For instance, members of the Andymon club in Berlin, Germany have been instrumental in publishing fledgling writers under their Shayol label. Many authors also come out of fandom. Due to this phenomenon and the smaller geographical and linguistic scale, there is closer connection between fans and authors in Western Europe than in the United States. For readers interested in science fiction in a particular language, such fans are easy to contact via the Internet and are often eager to share their knowledge about their country’s science fiction. Moreover, the European science fiction community has been gathering every year since 1972 at Eurocon, which is organized by the European Science Fiction Society.

  Works Cited

  Barreiros, João Manuel Rosado. “Synchronicity.” Fantastic Metropolis. October 22, 2001. Web. January 4, 2011. .

  ——. “The Test.” Fantastic Metropolis. March 10, 2002. Web. January 4, 2011. .

  Bell, Andrea and Yolanda Molina-Gavilán. Cosmos Latinos. An Anthology of Science Fiction From Latin America and Spain. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003.

  Fischer, William B. The Empire Strikes Out. Kurd Lasswitz, Hans Dominik, and the Development of German Science Fiction. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1984.

  Harland, Paul and Paul Evenblij. Systems of Romance. Netherlands: Babel Publications, 1995.

  Innenhofer, Roland. Deutsche Science Fiction 1870–1914. Literatur in der Geschichte Geschichte in der Literatur 38. Wien [Vienna]; Köln [Cologne]; Weimar: Böhlau Verlag, 1996.

  Jha, Alok and Adam Rutherford “Fantastic answers to universal questions.” The Guardian August 26, 2004. Web. January 2, 2011.

  Nagl, Manfred. Science Fiction in Deutschland. Tübingen: Tübinger Vereinigung für Volkskunde, 1972.

  Nolane, Richard D. Terra SF. The Year’s Best European Science Fiction. New York City: DAW, 1981.

  ——. Terra SF II. The Year’s Best European Science Fiction. New York City: DAW, 1983.

  Rottensteiner, Franz, ed. The Best of Austrian Science Fiction. Riverside, CA: Ariadne Press, 2001.

  ——. The Black Mirror & Other Stories. An Anthology of Science Fiction From Germany & Austria. Trans Mike Mitchell. Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008.

  ——. View from Another Shore. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999.

  Silva, Luís Filipe. “Still Memories.” Fantastic Metropolis. January 15, 2002. Web. January 4, 2011. .

  Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1979.

  Wolf, Christa. “Self-Experiment.” What Remains and Other Stories. New York : Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1993.

  Wollheim, Donald A. ed. The Best from the Rest of the World: European Science Fiction. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co, Inc. 1976.

  * * * *

  Sonja Fritzsche is Co-Chair of the Department of Modern and Classical Languages and Literatures and an Associate Professor of German and Eastern European Studies. She received her Ph.D. in Germanic Studies from the University of Minnesota, her M.A. in Modern European History from UCLA, and her B.A. in History and German from Indiana University. Her book, entitled Science Fiction Literature in East Germany appeared in 2006 with Peter Lang. She has also had articles appear in the German Studies Review, the German Quarterly, the Women in German Yearbook, Film & History, Utopian Studies, and Extrapolation on the topics of science fiction film, fandom, East German ostalgia, Ursula Le Guin, Nature and Heimat in GDR cinema, and the German-Jewish writer Esther Dischereit. Besides courses in language, literature, and culture in German at all levels, she teaches courses in English on “German Postwar Film,” “From Utopia to Science Fiction: Imagining the Future in Russia and Germany,” and a freshman seminar on comparative German and American ecotopian literature.

  ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  (1917–2008)

  What Arthur C. Clarke accomplished over nearly sixty years as a writer, inventor and science enthusiast is staggering, even before you consider that he was paralyzed for the last four decades of that career. One of the “big three” of SF along with Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, the three were friends but at times played up a pretended rivalry. He’ll probably always be most associated with the invention of the communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit (now called the “Clarke orbit), which he did twenty-five years before the technology existed to make it work; and for 2001: a space odyssey, his collaboration with filmmaker Stanley Kubrick that originated in the story below. He also suggested Clarke’s Laws:

  When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right; when he states that something is impossible, he is probably wrong.

  The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.

  Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

  As a writer, Clarke’s focus was less on style and character than on setting up a problem for the reader—often leaving a haunting dilemma or a puzzle to chew on rather than suggesting a solution in the way Asimov usually did, for example.

  Over the course of his career, Clarke won virtually every award in the field, and was granted a knighthood. He also established the Arthur C. Clarke Award, given to the best book published in the U.K. every year.

  After 1956, Clarke largely relocated from Britain to Sri Lanka. He died of complications from the same polio that left him paralyzed in 1962.

  THE SENTINEL, by Arthur C. Clarke

  First published in 10 Story Fantasy, Spring 1951 as “Sentinel of Eternity”

  The next time you see the full moon high in the south, look carefully at its right-hand edge and let your eye travel upward along the curve of I the disk. Round about two o’clock you will notice a small, dark oval: anyone with normal eyesight can find it quite easily. It is the great walled plain, one of the finest on the Moon, known as the Mare Crisium—the Sea of Crises. Three hundred miles in diameter, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of magnificent mountains, it had never been explored until we entered it in the late summer of 1996.

  Our expedition was a large one. We had two heavy freighters which had flown our supplies and equipment from the main lunar base in the Mare Serenitatis, five hundred miles away. There were also three small rockets which were intended for short-range transport over regions which our surface vehicles couldn’t cross. Luckily, most of the Mare Crisium is very flat. There are none of the great crevasses so common and so dangerous elsewhere, and very few craters or mountains of any size. As far as we could tell, our powerful caterpillar tractors would have no difficulty in taking us wherever we wished to go.

  I was geologist—or selenologist, if you want to be pedantic—in charge of the group exploring the southern region of the Mare. We had crossed a hundred miles of it in a week, skirting the foothills of the mountains along the shore of what was once the ancient sea, some thousand million years before. When life was beginning on Earth, it was already dying here. The waters were retreating down the flanks of those stupendous cliffs, retreating into the empty heart of the Moon. Over the land which we were crossing, the tideless ocean had once been half a mile deep, and now the only trace of moisture was the hoarfrost one could sometimes find in caves which the searing sunlight never penetrated.

  We had begun our journey early in the slow lunar dawn, and still had almost a week of Earth-time before nightfall. Half a dozen times a day we would leave our vehicle and go outside in the space
-suits to hunt for interesting minerals, or to place markers for the guidance of future travelers. It was an uneventful routine. There is nothing hazardous or even particularly exciting about lunar exploration. We could live comfortably for a month in our pressurized tractors, and if we ran into trouble we could always radio for help and sit tight until one of the spaceships came to our rescue.

  I said just now that there was nothing exciting about lunar exploration, but of course that isn’t true. One could never grow tired of those incredible mountains, so much more rugged than the gentle hills of Earth. We never knew, as we rounded the capes and promontories of that vanished sea, what new splendors would be revealed to us. The whole southern curve of the Mare Crisium is a vast delta where a score of rivers once found their way into the ocean, fed perhaps by the torrential rains that must have lashed the mountains in the brief volcanic age when the Moon was young. Each of these ancient valleys was an invitation, challenging us to climb into the unknown uplands beyond. But we had a hundred miles still to cover, and could only look longingly at the heights which others must scale.

  We kept Earth-time aboard the tractor, and precisely at 22.00 hours the final radio message would be sent out to Base and we would close down for the day. Outside, the rocks would still be burning beneath the almost vertical sun, but to us it was night until we awoke again eight hours later. Then one of us would prepare breakfast, there would be a great buzzing of electric razors, and someone would switch on the short-wave radio from Earth. Indeed, when the smell of frying sausages began to fill the cabin, it was sometimes hard to believe that we were not back on our own world—everything was so normal and homely, apart from the feeling of decreased weight and the unnatural slowness with which objects fell.

  It was my turn to prepare breakfast in the corner of the main cabin that served as a galley. I can remember that moment quite vividly after all these years, for the radio had just played one of my favorite melodies, the old Welsh air, “David of the White Rock.” Our driver was already outside in his space-suit, inspecting our caterpillar treads. My assistant, Louis Garnett, was up forward in the control position, making some belated entries in yesterday’s log.

  As I stood by the frying pan waiting, like any terrestrial housewife, for the sausages to brown, I let my gaze wander idly over the mountain walls which covered the whole of the southern horizon, marching out of sight to east and west below the curve of the Moon. They seemed only a mile or two from the tractor, but I knew that the nearest was twenty miles away. On the Moon, of course, there is no loss of detail with distance—none of that almost imperceptible haziness which softens and sometimes transfigures all far-off things on Earth.

  Those mountains were ten thousand feet high, and they climbed steeply out of the plain as if ages ago some subterranean eruption had smashed them skyward through the molten crust. The base of even the nearest was hidden from sight by the steeply curving surface of the plain, for the Moon is a very little world, and from where I was standing the horizon was only two miles away.

  I lifted my eyes toward the peaks which no man had ever climbed, the peaks which, before the coming of terrestrial life, had watched the retreating oceans sink sullenly into their graves, taking with them the hope and the morning promise of a world. The sunlight was beating against those ramparts with a glare that hurt the eyes, yet only a little way above them the stars were shining steadily in a sky blacker than a winter midnight on Earth.

  I was turning away when my eye caught a metallic glitter high on the ridge of a great promontory thrusting out into the sea thirty miles to the west. It was a dimensionless point of light, as if a star had been clawed from the sky by one of those cruel peaks, and I imagined that some smooth rock surface was catching the sunlight and heliographing it straight into my eyes. Such things were not uncommon. When the Moon is in her second quarter, observers on Earth can sometimes see the great ranges in the Oceanus Procellarum burning with a blue-white iridescence as the sunlight flashes from their slopes and leaps again from world to world. But I was curious to know what kind of rock could be shining so brightly up there, and I climbed into the observation turret and swung our four-inch telescope round to the west.

  I could see just enough to tantalize me. Clear and sharp in the field of vision, the mountain peaks seemed only half a mile away, but whatever was catching the sunlight was still too small to be resolved. Yet it seemed to have an elusive symmetry, and the summit upon which it rested was curiously flat. I stared for a long time at that glittering enigma, straining my eyes into space, until presently a smell of burning from the galley told me that our breakfast sausages had made their quarter-million-mile journey in vain.

  All that morning we argued our way across the Mare Crisium while the western mountains reared higher in the sky. Even when we were out prospecting in the space-suits, the discussion would continue over the radio. It was absolutely certain, my companions argued, that there had never been any form of intelligent life on the Moon. The only living things that had ever existed there were a few primitive plants and their slightly less degenerate ancestors. I knew that as well as anyone, but there are times when a scientist must not be afraid to make a fool of himself.

  “Listen,” I said at last, “I’m going up there, if only for my own peace of mind. That mountain’s less than twelve thousand feet high—that’s only two thousand under Earth gravity—and I can make the trip in twenty hours at the outside. I’ve always wanted to go up into those hills, anyway, and this gives me an excellent excuse.”

  “If you don’t break your neck,” said Garnett, “you’ll be the laughing-stock of the expedition when we get back to Base. That mountain will probably be called Wilson’s Folly from now on.”

  “I won’t break my neck,” I said firmly. “Who was the first man to climb Pico and Helicon?”

  “But weren’t you rather younger in those days?” asked Louis gently.

  “That,” I said with great dignity, “is as good a reason as any for going.”

  We went to bed early that night, after driving the tractor to within half a mile of the promontory. Garnett was coming with me in the morning; he was a good climber, and had often been with me on such exploits before. Our driver was only too glad to be left in charge of the machine.

  At first sight, those cliffs seemed completely unscale-able, but to anyone with a good head for heights, climbing is easy on a world where all weights are only a sixth of their normal value. The real danger in lunar mountaineering lies in overconfidence; a six-hundred-foot drop on the Moon can kill you just as thoroughly as a hundred-foot fall on Earth.

  We made our first halt on a wide ledge about four thousand feet above the plain. Climbing had not been very difficult, but my limbs were stiff with the unaccustomed effort, and I was glad of the rest. We could still see the tractor as a tiny metal insect far down at the foot of the cliff, and we reported our progress to the driver before starting on the next ascent.

  Inside our suits it was comfortably cool, for the refrigeration units were fighting the fierce sun and carrying away the body heat of our exertions. We seldom spoke to each other, except to pass climbing instructions and to discuss our best plan of ascent. I do not know what Garnett was thinking, probably that this was the craziest goose-chase he had ever embarked upon. I more than half agreed with him, but the joy of climbing, the knowledge that no man had ever gone this way before and the exhilaration of the steadily widening landscape gave me all the reward I needed.

  I don’t think I was particularly excited when I saw in front of us the wall of rock I had first inspected through the telescope from thirty miles away. It would level off about fifty feet above our heads, and there on the plateau would be the thing that had lured me over these barren wastes. It was, almost certainly, nothing more than a boulder splintered ages ago by a falling meteor, and with its cleavage planes still fresh and bright in this incorruptible, unchanging silence.

  There were no hand-holds on the rock face, and we had to use a grap
nel. My tired arms seemed to gain new strength as I swung the three-pronged metal anchor round my head and sent it sailing up toward the stars. The first time it broke loose and came falling slowly back when we pulled the rope. On the third attempt, the prongs gripped firmly and our combined weights could not shift it.

  Garnett looked at me anxiously. I could tell that he wanted to go first, but I smiled back at him through the glass of my helmet and shook my head. Slowly, taking my time, I began the final ascent.

  Even with my space-suit, I weighed only forty pounds here, so I pulled myself up hand over hand without bothering to use my feet. At the rim I paused and waved to my companion, then I scrambled over the edge and stood upright, staring ahead of me.

  You must understand that until this very moment I had been almost completely convinced that there could be nothing strange or unusual for me to find here. Almost, but not quite; it was that haunting doubt that had driven me forward. Well, it was a doubt no longer, but the haunting had scarcely begun.

  I was standing on a plateau perhaps a hundred feet across. It had once been smooth—too smooth to be natural—but falling meteors had pitted and scored its surface through immeasurable eons. It had been leveled to support a glittering, roughly pyramidal structure, twice as high as a man, that was set in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted jewel.

  Probably no emotion at all filled my mind in those first few seconds. Then I felt a great lifting of my heart, and a strange, inexpressible joy. For I loved the Moon, and now I knew that the creeping moss of Aristarchus and Eratosthenes was not the only life she had brought forth in her youth. The old, discredited dream of the first explorers was true. There had, after all, been a lunar civilization—and I was the first to find it. That I had come perhaps a hundred million years too late did not distress me; it was enough to have come at all.