Science Fiction Today and Tomorrow

by Reginald Bretnor

  Each one of these things would be anchored in reality—in the real appearance of quartz rock, the smell of woodsmoke, and so on. The art of the writer is not so much to tell the reader a story; but to evoke, through the medium of a highly restrictive code of black marks on white paper, the images of a story which the reader will build out of his own experiences with life. Each time the author sets out an anchor in reality by evoking a sight, sound, or smell which the reader has tucked in his own memory, he increases the plausibility of his story to the critical point where the reader will give up all resistance to belief and live it in his imagination, as fully as the author did in his while writing it.

  This, then, is the operative principle in fiction with regard to plausibility; and it is common to all fiction. In science fiction, however, it has acquired an added dimension in developing to meet the needs of a story form beyond those of the past and present story, for which its original dimensions were sufficient.

  The needs placing their demand on this principle originate in the lack of that straw of reality I mentioned at the very beginning. As I pointed out, with the story laid in present reality, the anchors of reality are there to be experienced firsthand. Anyone can light a fire in the woods and smell its smoke; anyone can have a piece of quartz identified to him and remember what it looks like. Similarly in the story laid in past reality, while the physical evidence may no longer be there to be experienced directly by the author, accounts and descriptions of it are often available, which can be absorbed by the author (if he has the necessary talent) to the point where he can see these in his mind's eye just as clearly as a contemporary, directly experienced evidence—and proceed to convey them to the reader with similar effectiveness.

  The difficulty with this technique only emerges in the science fiction story, where the author has neither real experience directly available nor the record of it to draw upon. In spite of these lacks, the unconscious response of the reader still demands of him that he justify his extraterrestrial scene, his alien creature, and his unconventional action as if all these things had anchors in familiar, Earthly reality.

  To treat the reader's demand as unreasonable, and ignore it, is not the solution. In the end, every author must come to terms with the reader's demands, or lose him, a loss which means little to the reader—he simply goes on to some other author who does come to terms with his demands—but which can destroy the writer. The answer to this situation is that if the reader wishes his story anchored in reality, he must have it so anchored, by one means if not by another.

  The means which has developed to meet this demand is the anchor in reality at second remove.

  Briefly, this is the extraterrestrial scene, the alien form and response, anchored to a reasonable extrapolation of an existent possibility, which is itself anchored by way of research or theory to present reality. In brief, imagination is justified by an hypothesis, which is in turn justified by fact.

  For example, an intelligent alien life form existing on a world at temperatures above anything a human could stand for more than a few seconds could be justified by a relatively recent discovery of miniature aquatic life existing in natural hot springs here on Earth at temperatures only a little below the boiling point.

  However, plausibility in science fiction is not merely a simple matter of the author informing the reader of such a chain of justification; any more than naming rock, woodsmoke, and fire-crackle was enough to give the illusion of reality to the contemporary scene of the encampment. For the chain of justification to convince the reader of what he is reading, he must experience the connection at first hand in his own imagination.

  In short, the author must show him—through the eyes of one of the human characters in whom the reader's conviction has already been established—the minute Earthly organism surviving in nearboiling water, then the path by which such an organism could evolve to size and intelligence comparable to the high-temperature aliens, then the similarity—connection between the high-temperature alien and the evolved Earthly organism.

  This creates a logic-chain which in effect answers the reader's desire for an anchor in reality by tying the completely fanciful alien to the sober reality of contemporary Earth. It is, of course, not easy to do. The images that make up the logic-chain must be worked into the narrative without interrupting or slowing down the action, for which they only provide the scene. To do this poses two requirements, both of which are troublesome, but can be fulfilled by the writer who is willing to work.

  The two requirements are for experience and information— the experience necessary to render a scene to the reader in a series of images, rather than tell it to him in chunks of narrative where the author speaks with his own voice, and the information about such things as the minute organisms living in the water of the hot spring, which is not found in the general large-circulation trade papers and magazines. In short, continuing practice and continual research for information.

  As far as experience and practice are concerned, there is little point in talking or writing at length about it. The writer either will work at his art, or he will not—the decision to do one or the other is an interior one, not amenable to outside argument. As far as research goes, however, there are some useful things to be said.

  Information comes to the science fiction writer by two main channels. One is through the written word in books and those publications which specialize in information—and that channel at the present time is as wide as from the daily newspaper through the National Geographic magazine, to Science Magazine, Science News-Letter, and a host of small, specialty publications in the fields of scientific and academic research. A hallmark of the science fiction field has been that its successful practitioners are by natural inclination, apart from their writing, avid observers in many areas. Each author usually has a small number of fields in which he is particularly interested, but he will tend to take at least a passing interest in an additional and much larger number. This type of curiosity has been traditionally typical of the writer in general; but those writing in the science fiction field, with its concern for the future scene, have given the trait a special meaning. Although most of them enjoy the process of literary research for its own sake, it pays off immeasurably in the process of their writing— not only directly supplying the sort of plausibility connections of which the small organisms in the hot spring were an example, but, almost more importantly, setting the writer himself on the right track to search out the specific information he needs.

  There is a second channel of information which tends to grow with time in the case of the individual writer. Over a period of years as he works, he tends to make the acquaintance of a number of people who are experts in their own fields and to whom he can turn directly with specific questions about information in their specialty. This is the other main channel by which necessary information comes as grist to the literary mill; and its existence grows out of the entirely honest interest of the writer in what the specialist is doing, apart from any writing needs.

  Down these two conduits flow the raw material of plausibility in science fiction. But to begin with, it is raw material only. It remains for the writer to process it into anchors in reality for the scenes, actions, and characters of his otherwise wholly imaginary stories. This processing is an art in itself—one of the most difficult of arts, in fact, for it must take place entirely in the immaterial laboratory of the writer's thoughts. The process of creativity is an unexplainable as well as a highly individual accomplishment. All that can be said about it with certainty is that the primitive, raw elements which will make up any created work are fed into some particular mental furnace, where a melting together and a transmutation of their basic natures take place, so that they emerge from the furnace combined, transformed, and solidified into an ingot of value in some way greater than the total of their original worths. This transformation, however, is only the unconscious end—part of the process. In preparation, there is the necessary selection of just the corr
ect raw elements and materials—the real and invented facts of the story which the writer will need to justify the actions of his imagination; and the marshaling of these facts until they strike enough sparks from each other to kindle a unique and special life of their own.

  The words unique and special are the operative ones in this context. Plausibility in a story—any story —depends upon the inevitability of its action, and this inevitability must derive from one of two

  sources: either the inevitability of circumstance—as when the rope by which a man is climbing down a cliff breaks, so that he has no choice but to fall; or the inevitability of character—in which, say, the nature of the climbing man is such that, although he knows the rope will probably break, he chooses to try the climb down, regardless.

  Because inevitability finds its reason either in event or character, and because event and character are necessarily bound together in any competent story—the event determining the choice which the character must make, and the character determining by his choice what event will follow upon his choosing—these two elements must share this unique and special life. They must be related together by it, or the imaginary world (in sf, the imaginary universe) that they share will not be able to put out the signals of reality necessary to convince the reader that his literary experience is the true counterpart of life. Without that conviction, the story will fail in its effect.

  Therefore, in the preparation that goes before the writing, during the process of assembling the elements of the story, all necessary parts must be brought into contact, until they spark off their own creative fire. For the alien life form to be real, it must have a point of view, which almost necessitates an alien character. For the reader to be convinced of the roots of extrapolative logic that lead from the hot spring on Earth to the high-temperature alien world, a point of view must be established which surveys that connection. This almost necessitates a human character. But behind the alien, and behind the human point-of-view character are those other characteristics of their races that make them the unique individuals they are. Therefore, other characters, both human and alien, may be needed. Finally, human and alien must interact in the logical chain of events that spring from their point of first contact in the story, and proceed through the developments that make the story itself something more than an anecdote. When they do interact, their interactions must come inevitably and realistically out of what the characters are in their own human and alien terms.

  In the end, inescapably, character determines action and both determine scene. So that, in the final essential, the story's plausibility depends upon the homogeneity of the resultant literary ingot, including that added and particular science fictional element of justification at second remove, for everything that will be alien or strange to the reader.

  More than for an author writing in any other fictional form, there is a requirement upon the sf writer to do his homework completely in advance. Only when enough justifying factors have been worked out, only when enough speculation on the alien character and scene has been made, will the creative kindling occur. Then, if everything had been done faithfully and in full, will come a moment in which all the facts, imaginary and real, will flow together into a gestalt of the fictional scene, characters, and action; the whole science fictional universe of his story will have become both real and alive, so that he will no longer need to puzzle out specifically just what a particular character will do in a particular situation. The resultant action will come out of the gestalt, automatically, as if he had asked himself what some relative or old friend would do in such a case.

  When that happens, he need only go ahead and write; because everything within the story area will now be suffused with a justification of reality. Everything will be plausible, because any implausibility now would be an intrusion on, and a violation of, a pattern already brought to three-dimensional life.

  Gordon R. Dickson

  Born November 1,1923, in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. On graduating from high school in 1939, at the age of fifteen, he entered the University of Minnesota to work toward a degree in creative writing.

  Left the University for military service from 1943 to 1946, but returned from California in 1947, and received a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1950. He then became a full-time writer, and has written uninterruptedly ever since. His "Soldier, Ask Not," won the science fiction Hugo Award for best shorter-than-novel-length-fiction of 1964, which was presented at the World Science Fiction Convention at London, England, in September 1965. He also won the Science Fiction Writers of America Nebula Award for best novelette: Call Him Lord, in 1966.

  Works include: radio plays, over two hundred short stories and novelettes, thirty published novels, and four books under way but not yet published.

  Gordon Dickson's novels have sold over a million and a half copies, here and abroad; and his writing has been translated into many foreign languages, appearing in twenty-three countries. He has served two terms as President of Science Fiction Writers of America, and is a member of Authors Guild and Mystery Writers of America, and a Director of the Science Fiction Writer's Speakers Bureau.

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Danger-Human, 1970 (Doubleday)

  Mutants, 1970 (Crowell-Collier)

  NOVELS 1950 THROUGH 1960

  Alien From Arcturus (Ace Books)

  Mankind On the Run

  Genetic General (in the Childe (Dorsai) Cycle.)

  Time to Teleport

  Delusion World

  Spatial Delivery

  Naked to the Stars (Pyramid)

  Earthman's Burden (Gnome Press) with Poul Anderson Secret Under the Sea (Holt, Reinhart, Winston)

  Necromancer (Doubleday) (in the Childe (Dorsai) Cycle.)

  NOVELS SINCE 1960

  Alien Way, 1966 (Bantam)

  Mission to Universe, 1967 (Berkley)

  Space Swimmers, 1968

  Soldier, Ask Not, 1968 (Dell) (in the Childe (Dorsai) Cycle.)

  Hour of the Horde

  Wolfling, 1969

  Secret Under Antarctica, 1962 (Holt, Reinhart, Winston)

  Secret Under the Caribbean, 1963 Space Winners, 1965

  Planet Run, 1968 (Doubleday) with Keith Laumer None But Man, 1969

  Five Fates, 1970, with Keith Laumer, Harlan Ellison, Poul Ander son, Frank Herbert Tactics of Mistake, 1970 (in the Childe (Dorsai) Cycle.)

  The Pritcher Mass

  The Ice Knives—to be published

  Spacepaw, 1969 (Putnam)

  Alien Art (Dell)

  Retribution Seven

  Sleepwalker's World, 1971 (Lippincott)

  Outposter

  Hour of the Horde, (Putnam/Berkley)

  Pilgrim and Professional (to be published) with Poul Anderson

  Star Prince Charlie (to be published) with Poul Anderson

  Jack Williamson

  Science Fiction, Teaching and Criticism

  I still recall the wonders of Hawthorne and Poe when I first happened on them long ago in the dusty cupboard that held our rural school library. Later I came upon Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court and even a yellow-paged copy of Bulwer-Lytton's The Coming Race. But Burroughs and Merritt and their exciting kind were absent from the shelves and not yet known to me, though they were running in the pulps for sale on the newsstands I hadn't learned about. Pulp science fiction was forbidden trash, morally doubtful and, so my teacher-father feared, unhealthy for the mind.

  Things are different now. The George Arents Research Library at Syracuse proudly houses the papers of science fiction people ranging from Forrest J. Ackerman to Roger Zelazny. Scores of other schools have built up major science fiction collections. Even in my own hometown, Eastern New Mexico University is preserving the papers of Leigh Bracket and Edmond Hamilton, as well as my own.

  In the past decade, science fiction has made a sudden invasion of the classroom. Though a few special lectures had been given earlier, the first officially scheduled college course called s
cience fiction seems to have been the one Mark Hillegas taught at Colgate in 1962. His beachhead has grown. In Teaching SF, I have listed more than 250 science fiction and fantasy courses offered in American colleges during the past two or three years; James Gunn estimates an actual total nearer one thousand.

  This sudden conquest is still far from complete. Tradition-bound department heads and curriculum committees still veto proposed new courses, and the would-be teacher has to be persuasive. In a brief for her course at Monroe Community College in Rochester, Carylyn Wendell announces that "science fiction has grown up and become respectable," and quotes good witnesses in its defense. Insofar as it reflects our common humanity, our common tasks, and common dangers, Isaac Asimov testifies, it "serves the world well, and America particularly well."

  Sheila Schwartz finds value in its attention to "the shared outer space which is the same for all men and dwarfs such traditional concerns as sex and religion. The focus of science fiction is the illumination of the technological society in which science and technology must be understood and rationally controlled by man lest he risk complete destruction both as individual and as species."

  The most eloquent witness is Kurt Vonnegut's Eliot, in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, who tells a group of science fiction writers: "I love you sons of bitches. You're all I read any more. You're the only ones who'll talk about the really terrific changes going on. the only ones with guts enough to really care about the future, who really notice what machines do to us, what wars do to us, what tremendous misunderstandings, mistakes, accidents, and catastrophes do to us."

  Braced with such appeals, academic science fiction is gaining ground. The number of reported courses continues to double each year. Most of those I know about are fresh and pertinent, enlivened with films, guest lecturers, and all sorts of unorthodox innovations. They're fun to teach. Many students like their focus on the urgent issues and tomorrow. In spite of the skeptics, I think they're here to stay.