American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  Another member of the class of 1962, Delany, five years Ze­lazny’s junior, was only twenty when The Jewels of Aptor appeared as part of an Ace Double paperback in 1962 (a publishing gimmick in which two short novels were printed back-to-back). As with Zelazny, the novel combined a familiar postnuclear setting—virtually a genre convention by then—with a plot drawn from older quest-fantasies, involving an effort to retrieve a jewel with special powers. A similarly conventional setting and structure governed his next three novels, a trilogy collectively titled The Fall of the Towers (1963–65). Increasingly, however, significant themes of language, poetry, and mythmaking became dominant in later novels such as The Ballad of Beta-2 (1966), which received the Nebula Award, the first in a remarkable string of four such awards for short fiction over the next three years. With The Einstein Intersection (1967), Nova (1968), and short stories such as “Aye, and Gomorrah . . .” (1967) and “Time Considered as a Helix of Semi-Precious Stones” (1968), it was clear that Delany was emerging as the leading exemplar of the New Wave in the U.S. Nova in particular is interesting for its pointedly revisionist relationship to pulp-era space opera, combining large-scale outer space spectacle with themes drawn from Prometheus and Grail legends, and an outlaw protagonist hitherto rare in science fiction—a black trickster musician and poet echoing the tradition of many such transgressive outsider figures. In one of the more famous contemporary reviews, the critic and novelist Algis Budrys proclaimed in Galaxy that “Samuel R. Delany, right now, as of this book, Nova, not as of some future book or some accumulated body of work, is the best science fiction writer in the world, at a time when competition for that status is intense.”

  Except for one story published in 1959, Russ might also have been counted among 1962 debuts, with her accomplished vampire tale “My Dear Emily.” A graduate of Cornell and the Yale School of Drama, Russ shared some of Ze­lazny’s academic sophistication, and later became an influential reviewer and one of the formative figures of feminist science fiction criticism with essays for academic journals and in books like How to Suppress Women’s Writing (1983) and To Write Like a Woman: Essays in Feminism and Science Fiction (1995). In 1967, she began publishing short stories about a shrewd, acerbic time-traveling mercenary named Alyx—unusually, two of these stories first appeared in the same volume of Damon Knight’s important series of Orbit anthologies—and in 1968 Alyx became the central figure of Russ’s first novel, Picnic on Paradise. While not as polemical as her groundbreaking feminist novel The Female Man, written in 1970 but not published until 1975, its taut style, knowledgeable deployment of familiar science fiction tropes, and sharply satirical voice were striking; as the critic John Clute later wrote, “The liberating effect of the Alyx/Trans Temp tales has been pervasive, and the ease with which later writers now use active female protagonists in adventure roles, without having to argue the case, owes much to this example.”

  As individual and innovative as the fiction of Russ, Ze­lazny, and Delany might have been, possibly the most brilliantly idiosyncratic author to enter the field in the 1960s—in fact, one of the most idiosyncratic authors in midcentury American literature—was born more than two decades before any of them, in Iowa in 1914. From early childhood, Lafferty lived in Oklahoma, serving in the U.S. Army in World War II, but he did not begin publishing fiction until 1959, with his first science fiction story in 1960. While he earned a considerable following in the 1960s, largely among fellow writers, his debut as a novelist was as striking as any of the decade; three novels—Past Master, The Reefs of Earth, and Space Chantey—appeared within a few months of each other in 1968, with Past Master bearing endorsements from Delany, Zelazny, and Ellison. Lafferty’s unique approach to fiction seemed to owe little to any earlier science fiction at all, or to any coherent sense of genre; his work combined deeply conservative Catholicism with quirky readings of history and philosophy and an energetic, headlong style that often echoed the American tall tale tradition. Despite admiration from later writers such as Wolfe and Gaiman, much of his work fell out of print; at one point, only his 1972 historical novel Okla Hannali, tracing the history of the Choctaw Indians, remained available. Many of Lafferty’s manuscripts remained unpublished even years after his death in 2002, despite his acknowledged influence on the genre.

  American Science Fiction: Eight Classic Novels of the 1960s presents a necessarily incomplete but varied portrait of a genre in rapid transition and with a newfound sense of literary ambition, yet with a clear sense of traditions that had evolved over the preceding decades. The authors, born as early as 1904 and as late as 1942, have in the last half-century proved to be as influential on the genre’s development as their forebears, but in the 1960s the nature of that influence began to shift noticeably from matters of plot and theme to matters of style and structure, and that shift, in its various iterations, is a large part of what this collection attempts to represent.

  THE HIGH CRUSADE

  Poul Anderson

  To JENS CHRISTIAN and NANCY HOSTRUP—

  as well as PER and JANNE—

  gratefully and hopefully

  As the Captain looked up, the hooded desk lamp threw his face into ridges of darkness and craggy highlights. A port stood open to alien summer night.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I’ve got it translated, sir,” answered the sociotechnician. “Had to extrapolate backward from modern languages, which is what took me so long. In the course of the work, though, I’ve learned enough so I can talk to these . . . creatures.”

  “Good,” grunted the captain. “Now maybe we can discover what this is all about. Thunder and blowup! I expected to come across almost anything out here, but this—!”

  “I know how you feel, sir. Even with all the physical evidence right before my eyes, I found it hard to believe the original account.”

  “Very well, I’ll read it at once. No rest for the wicked.” The captain nodded dismissal, and the sociotech departed the cabin.

  For a moment the captain sat motionless, looking at the document but not really seeing it. The book itself had been impressively ancient, uncials on vellum between massive covers. This translation was a prosaic typescript. Yet he was nearly afraid to turn the pages, afraid of what he might find out. There had been some stupendous catastrophe, more than a thousand years ago; its consequences were still echoing. The captain felt very small and alone. Home was a long ways off.

  However . . .

  He began to read.

  Chapter I

  * * *

  ARCHBISHOP WILLIAM, a most learned and holy prelate, having commanded me to put into English writing those great events to which I was a humble witness, I take up my quill in the name of the Lord and my patron saint: trusting that they will aid my feeble powers of narrative for the sake of future generations who may with profit study the account of Sir Roger de Tourneville’s campaign and learn thereby fervently to reverence the great God by whom all things are brought to pass.

  I shall write of these happenings exactly as I remember them, without fear or favor, the more so since most who were concerned are now dead. I myself was quite insignificant, but since it is well to make known the chronicler that men may judge his trustworthiness, let me first say a few words about him.

  I was born some forty years before my story begins, a younger son of Wat Brown. He was blacksmith in the little town of Ansby, which lay in northeastern Lincolnshire. The lands were enfeoffed to the Baron de Tourneville, whose ancient castle stood on a hill just above the town. There was also a small abbey of the Franciscan order, which I entered as a boy. Having gained some skill (my only skill, I fear) in reading and writing, I was often made instructor in these arts to novices and the children of lay people. My boyhood nickname I put into Latin and made my religious one, as a lesson in humility, so I am Brother Parvus. For I am of low size, and ill-favored, though fortunate to have the trust of children.

  In the yea
r of grace 1345, Sir Roger, then baron, was gathering an army of free companions to join our puissant King Edward III and his son in the French war. Ansby was the meeting place. By May Day, the army was all there. It camped on the common, but turned our quiet town into one huge brawl. Archers, crossbowmen, pikemen, and cavalry swarmed through the muddy streets, drinking, gaming, wenching, jesting, and quarreling, to the peril of their souls and our thatch-roofed cottages. Indeed, we lost two houses to fire. Yet they brought an unwonted ardor, a sense of glory, such that the very serfs thought wistfully about going along, were it but possible. Even I entertained such notions. For me it might well have come true, for I had been tutoring Sir Roger’s son and had also brought his accounts in order. The baron talked of making me his amanuensis; but my abbot was doubtful.

  Thus it stood when the Wersgor ship arrived.

  Well I remember the day. I was out on an errand. The weather had turned sunny after rain, the town street was ankle-deep in mud. I picked my way through the aimless crowds of soldiery, nodding to such as I knew. All at once a great cry arose. I lifted my head like the others.

  Lo! It was as a miracle! Down through the sky, seeming to swell monstrously with the speed of its descent, came a ship all of metal. So dazzling was the sunlight off its polished sides that I could not see its form clearly. A huge cylinder, I thought, easily two thousand feet long. Save for the whistle of wind, it moved noiseless.

  Someone screamed. A woman knelt in a puddle and began to rattle off prayers. A man cried that his sins had found him out, and joined her. Worthy though these actions were, I realized that in such a mass of people, folk would be trampled to death if panic smote. That was surely not what God, if He had sent this visitant, intended.

  Hardly knowing what I did, I sprang up on a great iron bombard whose wagon was sunk to the axles in our street. “Hold fast!” I cried. “Be not afraid! Have faith and hold fast!”

  My feeble pipings went unheard. Then Red John Hameward, the captain of the longbowmen, leaped up beside me. A merry giant, with hair like spun copper and fierce blue eyes, he had been my friend since he arrived here.

  “I know not what yon thing is,” he bellowed. His voice rolled over the general babble, which died away. “Mayhap some French trick. Or it may be friendly, which would make our fear look all the sillier. Follow me, every soldier, to meet it when it lands!”

  “Magic!” cried an old man. “’Tis sorcery, and we are undone!”

  “Not so,” I told him. “Sorcery cannot harm good Christians.”

  “But I am a miserable sinner,” he wailed.

  “St. George and King Edward!” Red John sprang off the tube and dashed down the street. I tucked up my robe and panted after him, trying to remember the formulas of exorcism.

  Looking back over my shoulder, I was surprised to see most of the company follow us. They had not so much taken heart from the bowman’s example, as they were afraid to be left leaderless. But they followed—into their own camp to snatch weapons, then out onto the common. I saw that cavalrymen had flung themselves to horse and were thundering downhill from the castle.

  Sir Roger de Tourneville, unarmored but wearing sword at hip, led the riders. He shouted and flailed about with his lance. Between them, he and Red John got the rabble whipped into some kind of fighting order. They had scarcely finished when the great ship landed.

  It sank deep into pasture earth; its weight was tremendous, and I knew not what had borne it so lightly through the air. I saw that it was all enclosed, a smooth shell without poop deck or forecastle. I did not really expect oars, but part of me wondered (through the hammering of my heart) why there were no sails. However, I did spy turrets, from which poked muzzles like those of bombards.

  There fell a shuddering silence. Sir Roger edged his horse up to me where I stood with teeth clapping in my head. “You’re a learned cleric, Brother Parvus,” he said quietly, though his nostrils were white and his hair dank with sweat. “What d’you make of this?”

  “In truth I know not, sire,” I stammered. “Ancient stories tell of wizards like Merlin who could fly through the air.”

  “Could it be . . . divine?” He crossed himself.

  “’Tis not for me to say.” I looked timidly skyward. “Yet I see no choir of angels.”

  A muted clank came from the vessel, drowned in one groan of fear as a circular door began to open. But all stood their ground, being Englishmen, if not simply too terrified to run.

  I glimpsed that the door was double, with a chamber between. A metallic ramp slid forth like a tongue, three yards downward until it touched the earth. I raised my crucifix while Aves pattered from my lips like hail.

  One of the crew came forth. Great God, how shall I describe the horror of that first sight? Surely, my mind shrieked, this was a demon from the lowest pits of hell.

  He stood about five feet tall, very broad and powerful, clad in a tunic of silvery sheen. His skin was hairless and deep blue. He had a short thick tail. The ears were long and pointed on either side of his round head; narrow amber eyes glared from a blunt-snouted face; but his brow was high.

  Someone began to scream. Red John brandished his bow. “Quiet, there!” he roared. “’Steeth, I’ll kill the first man who moves!”

  I hardly thought this a time for profanity. Raising the cross still higher, I forced limp legs to carry me a few steps forward, while I quavered some chant of exorcism. I was certain it would do no good; the end of the world was upon us.

  Had the demon only remained standing there, we would soon have broken and bolted. But he raised a tube held in one hand. From it shot flame, blinding white. I heard it crackle in the air and saw a man near me smitten. Fire burst over him. He fell dead, his breast charred open.

  Three other demons emerged.

  Soldiers were trained to react when such things happened, not to think. The bow of Red John sang. The foremost demon lurched off the ramp with a cloth-yard arrow through him. I saw him cough blood and die. As if the one shot had touched off a hundred, the air was suddenly gray with whistling shafts. The three other demons toppled, so thickly studded with arrows they might have been popinjays at a contest.

  “They can be slain!” bawled Sir Roger. “Haro! St. George for merry England!” And he spurred his horse straight up the gangway.

  They say fear breeds unnatural courage. With one crazed whoop the whole army charged after him. Be it confessed, I, too, howled and ran into the ship.

  Of that combat which ramped and raged through all the rooms and corridors, I have little memory. Somewhere, from someone, I got a battle-ax. There is in me a confused impression of smiting away at vile blue faces which rose up to snarl at me, of slipping in blood and rising to smite again. Sir Roger had no way to direct the battle. His men simply ran wild. Knowing the demons could be killed, their one thought was to kill and have done.

  The crew of the ship numbered about a hundred, but few carried weapons. We later found all manner of devices stored in the holds, but the invaders had relied on creating a panic. Not knowing Englishmen, they had not expected trouble. The ship’s artillery was ready to use, but of no value once we were inside.

  In less than an hour, we had hunted them all down.

  Wading out through the carnage, I wept with joy to feel the blessed sunlight again. Sir Roger was checking with his captains to find our losses, which were only fifteen all told. As I stood there, atremble with exhaustion, Red John Hameward emerged. He had a demon slung over his shoulder.

  He threw the creature at Sir Roger’s feet. “This one I knocked out with my fist, sire,” he panted. “I thought might be you’d want one kept alive awhile, to put him to the question. Or should I not take chances, and slice off his ugly head now?”

  Sir Roger considered. Calm had descended upon him; none of us had yet grasped the enormity of this event. A grim smile crossed his lips. He replied in English as fluent a
s the nobleman’s French he more commonly used.

  “If these be demons,” he said, “they’re a poor breed, for they were slain as easily as men. Easier, in sooth. They didn’t know more about infighting than my little daughter. Less, for she’s given my nose many hefty tweaks. I think chains will hold this fellow safe, eh, Brother Parvus?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I opined, “though it were best to put some saints’ relics and the Host near by.”

  “Well, then, take him to the abbey and see what you can get out of him. I’ll send a guard along. Come up to dinner this evening.”

  “Sire,” I reproved, “we should hold a great Mass of thanksgiving ere we do anything else.”