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Short Story Review: “The Muted Horn” by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

(Cover by Virgil Finlay. Fantastic Universe, May 1957.) Who Goes There?
Occasionally looking up an author through ISFDB can be misleading, if what that author wrote was mostly not SFF; such is the case with Dorothy Salisbury Davis, who over her extremely long life (she was born in 1916 and died in 1914) wrote almost too many mystery and crime novels to count. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these novels in the wild, but in the ’50s Davis was apparently big enough of a deal to be President of the Mystery Writers of America at the time when today’s story was published. Going off of her ISFDB profile, though, you’d think she wrote practically nothing, which is why you should always consult a second source for these things. “The Muted Horn” is very much an outlier in Davis’s body of work, in that while there’s a sense of mystery it’s ultimately a tale of supernatural horror. How it found its way into the predominantly SFnal Fantastic Universe is itself a mystery, but I assume this has to do with the lack of markets for short horror in the latter half of the ’50s.
Placing Coordinates
First published in the May 1957 issue of Fantastic Universe. It’s actually been reprinted more times than I would’ve thought, appearing in The Fantastic Universe Omnibus (ed. Hans Stefan Santesson), The Dark of the Soul (ed. Don Ward), and Ladies of Fantasy: Two Centuries of Sinister Stories by the Gentle Sex (ed. Gogo Lewis and Seon Manley).
Enhancing Image
Jeb Sayer is a young man tending the same farm that his family has kept for generations, somewhere in New England in what was probably then the present day, in a cozy little town called Tinton. Nathan Wilkinson, “town moderator, deacon of the church, and publisher of the oldest weekly in the state,” has stopped by the Sayer home in the hopes of making Jeb an elder in Tinton Church, but Jeb declines the offer. (It’s unclear what sect of Christianity this is.) The reason for Jeb declining is that he’s unsatisfied with being just another upstanding New England redneck in a dead-end town, and he has other plans, namely that he wants to marry Ellen, who he’s been dating for some time and who works in a record store. (Jeb understands that any woman who works in a record store is probably wife material.) He’s even thought about leaving Tinton before, and it doesn’t help that the town has, allegedly, supposedly, a dark history going back to the Puritan days, when it was a den full of scum and villainy, “so wicked that once the church elders had gone among the citizens in chains lest one of them fall into temptation.” Said chains have survived into the modern day, first in the church belfry and then moved to the cemetery by a younger Jeb, the chains being wrapped around the tombstones of dead vicars. Those chains will eventually come back, so put a pin in that.
This does raise a question, though: What does this have to do with a horn? Not much, actually. One problem I realized I had with this story, looking back on it, is that Salisbury introduces two supernatural horror elements which, at least on a surface level, don’t have anything to do with each other. We get the impression that there’s something off about Tinton, but then we’re introduced to this other, tangential thing in the form of an ancient horn that’s supposed to be golden but which has been covered so thickly with dust and gunk that it’s been “tarnished black.” It and a few other old instruments have been moved to the record store, and Ellen asks Jeb to clean to the horn. Fine. This ends up being a mistake, though. Of course a curiosity shop is involved, which even in the 1950s would’ve been a tired old horror trope. So how does Salisbury differentiate “The Muted Horn” from other similar stories that came before it?
Well…
The other problem, and this could be because while Salisbury was a professional when it came to crime fiction but inexperienced with writing supernatural horror, is that “The Muted Horn” doesn’t really stand out other than the conspicuousness of its being published where and when it was. Had Salisbury written “The Muted Horn” just five years earlier it would’ve appeared in Weird Tales without issue; unfortunately for Salisbury, and really for everyone writing horror at the time, Weird Tales was dead at this point. The market for short genre fiction in the late ’50s was not great generally (the shutdown of American News Company in 1957 was one reason for the magazine market all but imploding), but it was especially bad for short horror fiction. There was basically nothing specializing in horror or dark fantasy in the US at this time. Fantastic Universe occasionally published fantasy and horror but was primarily an SF magazine, and not a first-rate one at that. “The Muted Horn” stuck out to me when I was scrounging for ’50s stories written by lady authors, because it’s a rarity for the magazine it appeared in, but if it had appeared in Weird Tales in the early ’50s it probably would not have been on my radar. And really, if for some reason you do read this one, it’s for the novelty of the thing.
There Be Spoilers Here
Once Jeb cleans off the horn he started playing it, and well, some weird stuff happens. A hurricane blows through Tinton, except not really. Nobody has died, or at least not yet. The animals are acting weird, though. And lo, the chains in the cemetery are gone! SpOoOoOoKy. What could this mean? Does the horn have the power to quite literally raise the dead? Has Jeb inadvertently brought about the apocalypse? We don’t get a straight answer, the story just kinda ends there. Yeah, if you wanted to see the consequences of Jeb’s actions, you’ll be disappointed.
A Step Farther Out
It took me longer to write a review than I would’ve liked, not because I struggled to get through “The Muted Horn” but because when I finished it I realized I didn’t have much to say about it. It’s fine. It’s a perfectly average rural horror yarn that really anybody could’ve written, except it happened to be written by someone who was a pretty respected crime writer at the time. This did give me an idea, though, since Salisbury was by no means the only crime writer who occasionally dipped their toes in SFF. I don’t cover crime fiction here unless it’s also SFF in some way, but I can cover SFF works by crime fiction writers.
See you next time.
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Novella Review: “Wolves of Darkness” by Jack Williamson

(Cover by H. W. Wesso. Strange Tales, January 1932.) Who Goes There?
Despite the sheer length of his career and how much of SF history he was involved with, there’s been relatively little retrospective material on Jack Williamson. He made his debut in 1928 and kept writing, albeit with quiet periods in his career, until his death in 2006. By the time First Fandom arose in the late ’30s, Williamson was already considered something of a titan in fandom circles, yet he also outlived most of the young folks in First Fandom who looked up to him. Williamson’s obscurity could be tossed up to him being a B-tier writer who occasionally wrote A-tier material, and also because despite being pretty popular within SF fandom, especially in the ’30s and ’40s, his influence is nowhere near as pronounced as, say, Robert Heinlein’s or even A. E. van Vogt’s. As he more or less admits in his memoir, Wonder’s Child, Williamson didn’t think of himself as a capital-A Artist™, but rather he wrote genre fiction because he enjoyed it. In a way he was the longest-lived and most persistent of the pulpsters, having more in common with the likes of Robert E. Howard and Edgar Rice Burroughs than Heinlein. “Wolves of Darkness” itself is a curious if imperfect SF-horror blend that marked one of several turning points for Williamson as a writer. It was, up to that point, his biggest paycheck for a single story, it was made the cover story for the January 1932 issue of the short-lived Strange Tales, and it was also his first attempt at applying an SFnal rationalism to what was then considered purely the ground of fantasy: lycanthropy.
Placing Coordinates
First published in the January 1932 issue of Strange Tales. It was stranded there for 35 years, until it was reprinted in the November 1967 issue of Magazine of Horror. It’s also been reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Classic Science Fiction: Short Novels of the 1930s (ed. Isaac Asimov, Martin H. Greenberg, and Charles G. Waugh), Rivals of Weird Tales (ed. Stefan R. Dziemianowicz, Martin H. Greenberg, and Robert Weinberg), Echoes of Valor III (ed. Karl Edward Wagner), and the Williamson collection The Collected Stories of Jack Williamson: Volume Two.
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Clovis McLaurin is a med student, so somewhere in his twenties, who makes his way to the rural Texas landscape on account of his weird scientist dad needing his assistance for some vague purpose. Dr. McLaurin had inherited a ranch plus some funds from his brother, and has apparently been using the combo of free home and secluded location to conduct experiments. Clovis convinces one the locals, Judsgon, in the town of Hebron, near enough to the ranch, to help him on his way, although traveling by night ends up being a huge mistake for both of them. We’re already told early on that the landscape in these here parts of the state seem to be tormented at night by a pack of wolves, or maybe a werewolf. The introductory blurb for “Wolves of Darkness” tells us that this story will have to do with lycanthropy, which is true enough, although Williamson’s treatment of it pretty unconventional by the standards of pulp fiction. It’s also worth mentioning that one major plus in this story’s favor is its sense of place, which is no doubt inspired by Williamson spending much of his life in rural areas. He was, in fact, born in what is now Arizona, before it had become a state (that’s how old he is), before his family moved to Texas and then New Mexico, literally in a covered wagon in the 1910s. Despite being ostensibly set in what was then modern times, “Wolves of Darkness” is a depiction of the southwest at a time when it was still in the early stages of modernization. It’s set in the 1920s or early ’30s, but could almost just as well takes place circa 1900, as if the past and present were converging. Incidentally Jack Williamson and Robert E. Howard were close contemporaries who were both from the southwest, and thus reading their work from the ’30s you can get an idea of what early modernization for that region was like, albeit from quite different perspectives: Howard had a very love-hate relationship with Texas while Williamson was more forgiving.
Anyway, Clovis
it’s such a weird name I’m sorryand Judson are attacked by wolves and a rather skimpily dressed lady with glowing green eyes—in fact the wolves have the same sort of uncannily green eyes, as depicted in the cover. Judson gets killed off-screen, but the woman and her wolf pack take Clovis back to the ranch as a captive. Clovis swears he recognizes the girl from somewhere, and realizes it’s at least the body of Stella Jetton, the daughter of Dr. Jetton, who is (or was) Dr. McLaurin’s colleague. The problem is that Stella doesn’t recognize Clovis, and going by her actions it’s more likely that some outside force has taken control of her body. This turns out to be the case, not just with Stella and the wolves but Dr. McLaurin himself, who is, let’s say not quite himself once Clovis meets him. Both the people and wolves Clovis meets all have green eyes, and all seem to be possessed of some fierce intelligence that while in the bodies of “lower” animals appears to give them extra intelligence, while in the bodies of people they become more animalistic. The big weakness of this outside force becomes apparent early on when Dr. McLaurin (or the thing inhabiting his body) tells Clovis that they really dislike light of any kind, so as to why the interior of the ranch is only shown in a dim red light. The beings who have taken over these bodies are nocturnal, or rather they come from a world that is deprived of light—a notion that seems outlandish, although there are many organisms in the depths of our own planet’s oceans that have never known sunlight. “Wolves of Darkness,” like much if not necessarily all of weird fiction, is basically about someone trespassing beyond the boundaries of the natural order and in so doing fucking around and finding out, as we say. In the case of this story it’s Dr. McLaurin who, prior to the beginning, had tampered with studies in possible alternate dimensions. This is what I mean by the story being SF rather than fantasy, since we’re given an SFnal explanation for why these things are happening.Even in 1932 the premise of humanity coming into contact with malicious alien life was by no means new, although what’s more novel here is that “Wolves of Darkness” is an early example of aliens of the body-snatching variety. We never see what they look like, although from what I can tell they’re more like energy beings of the sort of that appear regularly in Star Trek; rather we only see them as filtered through the organic Earth bodies they take over. The conflict thus boils down to Clovis being held hostage, to help the aliens make a machine that would basically facilitate an invasion of Earth, or die a horrific death. Of course, he figures he’s gonna die either way, but he’d much rather defeat the aliens and save Stella in the process (he’s not as concerned about saving his dad). I’ve read enough early Williamson that I can tell Clovis very much fits in the mold of what Williamson was doing at the time, which is to say Clovis is a typical early Williamson protagonist: he’s sort of shy and intellectual, but also antsy, and he has a hunger for adventure that puts him in dangerous situations despite his social insecurities. In a way this is wish-fulfillment, a fact which Williamson was not exactly secretive about when it came to his ’30s output. (Some writers intentionally keep the methods behind their madness hidden while others, especially in the age of social media, are a little too eager about sharing with us all the boring fucking processes of their work. Williamson, in Wonder’s Child, takes a pleasant middle ground and only gives us insight into what really mattered to him as both a writer and person. If I ever become a professional writer of fiction, please put a gun to my head if I start oversharing about the miserable and solitary process of writing and getting my stories accepted wherever.) The “romance” between Clovis and Stella (the two barely interact if we discount scenes where the latter is still possessed) is also indicative of pulp fiction, in that it’s totally unconvincing.
What’s more convincing is the thinly veiled sexual angst, which Williamson also points out in his memoir as being rooted in his own failed attempts at romance and sexual intimacy at that time. There’s a memorable scene in which Stella bites Clovis’s leg in retaliation and licks the blood, in a way which is animalistic but also evocative of a merciless dominatrix. Clovis carries that leg wound for the rest of the story, and it gets brought up a few times so as to remind us that Clovis is not in the best physical shape to run from these horrors, but it’s also a connection he has with this woman he is irrationally driven to save. The idea is that he really want to fuck Stella, although this sentiment is never made explicit, or rather it’s shrouded under the guise of “true love.” Their relationship is unconvincing when taken on its face, but is more convincing when read as repressed lust, helped by the fact that Stella is barely clothed for pretty much the whole thing. Another neat thing is that the energy beings are apparently able to inhabit any organic life, even those who are dead, resulting in a small army of green-eyed zombies, including the resurrected Judson. There’s a memorable little passage in which Williamson describes one of the zombies, apparently missing its head, with a pair of gaseous green eyes protruding from its neck stump. This is the kind of gory and unabashedly horrific stuff that would’ve been fine in Weird Tales but would probably not have been fine for Unknown a decade later. “Wolves of Darkness,” aside from just being too long (it’s a novella but has the plot and character depth of a novelette), is a slight challenge to recommend because it has elements of both pulpy weird fiction and more sophisticated SF and fantasy that would appear later.
There Be Spoilers Here
After a lengthy infodump, in which Clovis manages to put Stella under hypnosis and make the energy being recede from controlling her temporarily, and also a failed escape attempt, Our Hero™ knows what he must do. The aliens really hate light, to the point that enough exposure might be able to kill them, or at least make them retreat from the bodies they control. With the help of a few locals, some dynamite, and some matches, he kills the fuck out of some of the zombies and ultimately is able to turn the tables on the aliens. Of course everyone who fell under the possession of the aliens is dead now, including Clovis’s dad, a fact which he doesn’t seem to mind much, leaving Stella as the sole survivor. All’s well that ends well, I guess? It’s a weirdly upbeat ending, considering the death toll and also the strain it put on Clovis’s mental health; meanwhile Stella conveniently doesn’t remember being a meat puppet. Not one of the more convincing endings among Williamson’s fiction.
A Step Farther Out
A few years ago, when I really started to get into magazine fiction, I remember being instantly captivated by H. W. Wesso’s splendid cover for this issue of Strange Tales. I didn’t even know what Strange Tales was at the time; it was actually the horror/fantasy sister magazine to Astounding Stories, back when both were published by Clayton. Astounding almost didn’t make it, but Street & Smith came to the rescue, although Strange Tales was left to rot. Since it was the cover story for this issue, I’d been wanting to read “Wolves of Darkness” for a minute, and I’m glad I finally did. I will say that it does pale a bit in comparison with Williamson’s later attempt at putting an SFnal twist on lycanthropy, “Darker Than You Think,” which I had read a couple years ago, although I may revisit that for the sake of writing about it. “Wolves of Darkness” is a liminal piece in Williamson’s career that I’d recommend for anyone interested enough in the trajectory of the man’s career and/or the history of old-school weird fiction.
See you next time.
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Short Story Review: “The Pilot and the Bushman” by Sylvia Jacobs

(Cover by Ed Emshwiller. Galaxy, August 1951.) Who Goes There?
Overall we know about as much about Sylvia Jacobs as we know about Jesus of Nazareth. I can’t find any pictures of her, or find out when she was born or when she died; but then we at least have writings from her, so there’s that. I was pointed towards a useful piece by Rich Horton which covers what little we know about Jacobs’s life and what little fiction and non-fiction she had published in the genre magazines. She had studied oceanography, and was married to a professional deep-sea diver. She apparently had done some research for Robert Heinlein (regarding the ocean, of course) for a juvenile novel he had planned but sadly never got to write. She was a California denizen for at least some of her adult life. She wrote about half a dozen SF stories, mostly in the early ’50s, which is unsurprising given that was when the magazine market saw an immense bubble; and, just as unsurprisingly, she mostly went dormant after 1960. This is the basic narrative of a lot of lady SF writers from that period, although by no means all of them. Horton describes “The Pilot and the Bushman” as like a prototype for the light satire Christopher Anvil later wrote nonstop, although I don’t think he gives Jacobs’s story quite enough credit—not to say it’s a hidden gem, really, but there’s a fair bit going on here.
Placing Coordinates
First published in the August 1951 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. This is my third time plundering this issue for gold, and it’s quite possible I will have covered all of this issue’s fiction contents eventually. The copyright must’ve run out at some point, because “The Pilot and the Bushman,” along with a couple other Jacobs stories, is on Project Gutenberg. It’s also been reprinted in Women Wrote the Future: Vol. 1: Tales from Galaxy (ed. J. LaRue). Other than that it’s not seen print at all.
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The first and easily longest scene is a Socratic dialogue between two men, although despite both appearing to be human one of them is, in fact, an alien. The Ambassador from Outer Space (we never get his actual name) is having a behind-closed-doors meeting with Jerry Jergins, a marketing man and predictably a bit of a scoundrel. The two are in the situation because the Ambassador had made what was called a “boner” in the old days, by that I mean he had made a slip at the UN Assembly by saying the aliens have what they call a Matter Repositor. The problem is that the Matter Repositor can replicate anything, and I do mean anything, which is no real issue for a society that does not run on industrial capitalism. (The Ambassador is quick to point out that the aliens’ economic model is NOT some brand of socialism, IT’S NOT SOCIALISM, GUYS.) The Matter Repositor may as well be magic, but the point is that mankind is too “primitive” to have it. The problem is that once you inform someone of something’s existence and then tell them they can’t have that thing, then that someone is no less incentivized to take the whatever-it-is. God told Adam and Eve to not eat fruit from the tree of knowledge, but that did nothing to stop Eve from having a bite. If you tell your kid they can’t have more cookies from the cookie jar than they ought to, what do you think they’re gonna do at some point? The aliens, as you can tell by the comparisons I’ve made, see themselves as being in a parental or patronizing position with regards to the humans. Jerry isn’t happy about the Ambassador’s smarmy attitude, but if he has a plan (and he does), he’s not upfront about what he has in mind.
This is a story about two races from radically different cultures, with one actually immersing itself in the other’s culture for the first time. “The Pilot and the Bushman” is, on its surface, about the immediate aftermath of mankind making first contact with a fellow intelligent race, but it takes no more than a single brain cell to figure out Jacobs is comparing her SFnal situation with the real-life occurrences of one human culture making first contact with another human culture, with one side being far more advanced on a technological level than the other. I have to italicize that one part because, of course, the Spaniards and later the English who set foot in North America were no more inherently intelligent or morally upright than the indigenous peoples of the land. There were things the indigenous peoples were not and could not be prepared for, namely diseases they had no prior contact with or knowledge of, and thus you had whole populations introduced to diseases they had no immunity against. Similarly the Ambassador fears that introducing mankind to the Matter Repositor would have apocalyptic consequences, since virtually every country on Earth has (whether lefties wanna admit it or not) a capitalist economy based on scarcity. The people of the Ambassador’s home world have been born and raised into a post-scarcity environment, which understandably has created a radically different mindset from what humans are acquainted with. The aliens are not necessarily superior but are certainly very different—the huge gap in cultures being the races being the problem.
As the Ambassador says:
To a Micronesian bushman, the pilot who can be trusted with the power and speed of a B-29 seems a veritable god. But the pilot is only an ordinary Joe, very likely no more intelligent than the bushman—he just had a different background. Fighting each other for necessities and luxuries, the process that you people call business competition, has so long been needless to our people that they would no more think of competitive gain than you would do an Indian harvest dance before you signed a contract. They aren’t necessarily more intelligent or more virtuous than your people—they just have a different background.
Of course, the aliens are the pilot and the humans are the bushman. It’s not exactly a hard comparison to make. What’s strange, reading it now, is that Jacobs goes about it with the mindset that the aliens really do mean well despite their smug attitude around humans, or at the very least that they aren’t looking to divide and conquer Earth as hot new real estate, like with their real-life counterparts. It’s a commentary on colonialism and the relationships invasive cultures have historically had with indigenous peoples, but it lacks serious bite because it does not interrogate the myriad ways in which a colonizing force can subjugate a colonized people’s development. The biggest complaint I have with this story, other than it being overly chatty (there is nonstop talking for over half of it, which can dull one’s attention span), is that Jacobs does not treat her own subject matter with enough seriousness. Horton compares it to Christopher Anvil, but I also thought of a less funny and less vicious Robert Sheckley—granted that Jacobs’s story was published about a year before Sheckley made his debut. My point is that it’s easy to overlook the territory “The Pilot and the Bushman” covers because the story itself doesn’t pay said territory that much mind. It’s a social satire, of the sort that appeared quite often in Galaxy, especially in its early years, and for that it’s an adequate example.
But it could’ve been better.
There Be Spoilers Here
Conditions improve, thankfully, when we finally see an end to the dialogue and some action can kick in, although it’s not much. The back end of this story has enough of a sense of humor and also a viciousness that the first half or so was rather lacking; like I would’ve appreciated it if Jacobs had not spent so much time setting things up. The gist is that Jerry agrees to coordinate a huge propaganda campaign to disincentivize people from looking into the Matter Repositor, while at the same time playing up humanity’s quickly growing reputation as “savage” compared to the aliens. The plan works—in fact it works better than the Ambassador would’ve wanted, although Jerry is perfectly happy with the results. Earth becomes a tourist destination for the aliens, who are so unaccustomed to things to like drinking, whoring, theft, and other vices that they see it all as an alluring novelty. They think stealing some doodad from a convenience store and spending a night in jail is fun. They’re totally unprepared for the eccentricates of human culture and are thus unequipped to resist it. This is clearly a satire of how people in the Anglosphere see certain “backwards” countries as lovely tourist spots. Even circa 1950 this would’ve been very the case with how Americans treated Hawaii, which was a US territory but a state yet. The othering of indigenous people and East-Asians in Hawaii has been a thing for decades now, but ya know, nobody likes a tourist.
A Step Farther Out
I have to assume, given how little she wrote, that Jacobs saw writing SF as like a hobby more than anything. In the early ’50s it was possibly to write SF for a living, so long as you wrote at a mile a minute and knew how to sell a story to the right editor. Maybe Jacobs was into it but not that into it; she did, after all, have a respectable day job. “The Pilot and the Bushman” was her second published story, and I’d be interested in reading the rest of her SF, although I don’t expect to find a hidden master of the form. Jacobs’s career as an SF writer is like a ship that passed in the night.
See you next time.
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Novella Review: “Proxima Centauri” by Murray Leinster

(Cover by Howard V. Brown. Astounding, March 1935.) Who Goes There?
When John W. Campbell became editor of Astounding with the October 1937 issue, there was a sort of mass extinction event for genre SF—although not quite. For one, the changing of the guard from F. Orlin Tremaine to Campbell was gradual, with many of the writers who submitted to Tremaine still being around in the early ’40s, but also a few of the pre-Campbell writers did survive well past what should’ve been their expiration date. The most remarkable example of one of these authors succeeding against the odds might be Murray Leinster, which was the pseudonym for real-life inventor Will F. Jenkins. Of course, Leinster also occasionally used his real name as a byline, most memorably with one of his forward-thinking stories, “A Logic Named Joe.” Leinster had his first SF story published in 1919, making him so old that he came about before the launch of Amazing Stories. In the ’30s he wrote his first major work, including today’s short novella, but the consensus among genre historians is that the years 1945 to about 1960 are where Leinster really hit his stride. This is impressive for someone who turned sixty in 1956. “Proxima Centauri” is decidedly pre-Campbell in that it’s an example of the pulpy space opera that dominated SF magazines (it even appeared sometimes in Weird Tales) in the late ’20s through much of the ’30s. It’s more Star Trek than something more intellectual like, say, Robert Heinlein’s “Universe,” which is often regarded as having extrapolated on Leinster’s premise; but really, the two stories have little in common past their settings (big spaceship) being similar.
Placing Coordintes
First published in the March 1935 issue of Astounding Stories. It’s been reprinted in Before the Golden Age (ed. Isaac Asimov), From Wells to Heinlein (ed. James E. Gunn), and too many Leinster collections to count, including Sidewise in Time, The Best of Murray Leinster, and First Contacts: The Essential Murray Leinster.
Enhancing Image
The Adastra is big. Like monstrously big. Indeed “monstrous” is a word Leinster uses to describe it maybe one too many times; the vocabulary for pulp writing was not that varied. The Adastra is a spaceship that has been journeying out to Proxima Centauri for the past seven years, with its crew of a few hundred, plus a fair number of children. When someone brings up “Proxima Centauri” it’s as a precursor to the generation ship subgenre of SF, if you can even call it a subgenre. The idea behind the generation ship is that people live, from cradle to grave, on a spaceship, generation after generation. Going by this criteria, however, this is not an example of a generation ship story, since the people aboard the Adastra are supposed to reach Proxima Centauri and then return for Earth. The trip even one-way takes several years, though. At some point, enough people aboard got tired of the day-to-day monotony that a mutiny happened, although it did not succeed. At the beginning of the story there are basically two factions, those who side with the officers and the captain of the ship, and those who side with the “Muts,” short for mutineers. Jack Gary is one of these Muts; he came aboard as a teenager, when he wasn’t even old enough to serve as crewman, but his father died during the trip and Jack took his place. Jack’s in love with Helen Bradley, who (of course) is the captain’s daughter. Doing some basic math tells us that Jack is 23 while Helen is 21. Unfortunately for the both of them, Captain Bradley does not approve of them marrying, on account of Jack being a Mut; meanwhile Alstair, the first mate, approves of them being a couple even less, given he also has eyes on Helen. Helen, for her part (being “the girl” [Leinster’s words, not mine] of the story), doesn’t seem interested in Alstair at all, which is understandable given that he’s an asshole who wants Jack’s head on a pike.
The love triangle between Jack, Helen, and Alstair forms the human drama of the narrative, which… is fine, I guess. You could do worse. Aside from the aforementioned characters there’s nobody else really worth considering; maybe if Leinster had expanded it to a longer novella we would’ve gotten more from the rest of the crew, but alas. The point of the story is really not the borderline generation-ship conditions of life aboard the Adastra, but instead what the crew meet by total accident as they get close to the star. See, this is actually first contact narrative, and the aliens we meet end up being really something. The crew hide in the ship’s depths when the aliens (let’s call them Centaurians) come aboard, although one unlucky redshirt gets killed instantly for his troubles, the Centaurian’s weapon not only killing him but rapidly mummifying his body. One might think this was just a case of misunderstanding, or that maybe the boarding party of Centaurians were too quick with the trigger and realized their mistake; but no, these aliens are very happy to take home some human corpses. After a skirmish in which armed crewmen are able to fight off the boarding party and taken one of the aliens captive, we find out a few things: that the Centaurians are not animals but rather sentient plants; that the Centaurians see animal life as both a food source and the corpses of animals as collectors’ items; and also that the Adastra is woefully ill-equipped to deal with the Centaurian ship. While some people aboard have weapons with which to defend themselves, the Adastra itself does not, and at the same time the ship is too bulky to maneuver out of the way of attack. To make matters worse, Captain Bradley has died offscreen, from… something. Now Alstair is in command, and Alstair is not the right man for the job.
I’d been meaning to review more Leinster since I tackled his SF-horror yarn “Pipeline to Pluto” about 18 months ago, because I wanted to read a Leinster story that’s maybe less bleak, and also because when I reviewed “Pipeline to Pluto” I was in a terrible headspace myself. Turns out that “Proxima Centauri” is only marginally less dark than that other story, although its body count is higher by several orders of magnitude. Death hangs like a shroud over pretty much every page, and the situation Our Heroes™ find themselves in is really hopeless; there is no magical solution in which both sides get to sort out their differences. Leinster’s Centaurians are unambiguously evil, but his human characters are only better by virtue of sometimes being able to make rational decisions. Much of the conflict comes from Jack and Alstair hating each other’s guts and Helen being able to do very little about that. Even when they devise a way to communicate with the captured Centaurian, there’s no way to see eye-to-eye with the alien; the two races are fundamentally opposed to each other’s existences. This is all a curious foil to Leinster’s later and more beloved story, “First Contact,” in which (spoilers) the human and alien space crews are able to resolve their conflict peacefully. In “Proxima Centauri” there is no such option. The crew of the Adastra were already on the brink of killing each other, but for a lot of them being confronted with the pure evil that is the Centaurians proves to be the tipping point. As you can see with the cover for this issue of Astounding, which depicts “Proxima Centauri,” the Centaurians are vaguely humanoid but do not have heads or necks; instead their eyes are rendered as slits in the upper abdomen, and their limbs are rather spongy, which makes sense given that they are walking plants. The Centaurian ship used radio waves to kill non-animal life before boarding the ship, but then of course the Centaurians themselves are non-animal life so that’s what they would think to use.
Assuming you can put aside the insane logistics of the Adastra, a ship whose dimensions and internal workings either cannot or should not exist, it’s internally consistent enough of a story. Most SF writers at this point were not scientists or inventors, despite people like Hugo Gernsback really wanting to push the “credibility” of scientists as writers, but Leinster could actually claim to have in-depth knowledge of some technology. There’s a seriousness with how Leinster imagines the Adastra and its alien foes, even if the tone of the thing is very pulpy.
There Be Spoilers Here
By the time we get to the final chapter the vast majority of the Adastra‘s crew is dead, either killed by the Centaurians or via suicide. There’s a disturbing little passage wherein one of the officers, about to be taken prisoner by the aliens, kills his family and then himself; unfortunately Leinster does not give this sort of grimness the proper sense of weight, either through pacing or his choice of words. The pulp method of writing is ill-equipped for dealing with a story where by the end a few hundred people have died, along with an entire race of intelligent lifeforms. Since that cat is out of the bag, we may as well talk about the ending, which in looking up opinions on “Proxima Centauri” I’ve found surprisingly little material for. It could be that in the context of when it was written the kill-them-all ending is probably far from unique, but I still think it’s worth noting the sense of inevitability in how Alstair, being the last people aboard the Adastra, rigs its engines so that the ship, in exploding, destroys the Centaurians’ home world. Alstair’s decision to sacrifice himself and let Jack and Helen run off together is treated as heroic, but in sacrificing himself he also commits an act of genocide. The extermination of a whole species. It was them or us. A human ship, following the Adastra by a few years, has apparently been on its way to Proxima Centauri, with no way for the Adastra‘s crew to warn them that the Centaurians would be waiting for them. Worse yet, once the Centaurians heard about Earth, they saw a goldmine in the form of a planet, full of animal life that was for the taking.
What’s curious about Leinster’s resigned position that the Centaurians must be exterminates is that it’s not because they’re a warmongering people, but because they’re such resource hogs that they’ve eliminated all animal life from their home planet, as well as others containing life in their solar system. They see non-plant life like how humans see precious metals, and Leinster makes this comparison explicit because he’s not really talking about some hypothetical race of plant people—he’s talking about us. Human greed may become so all-consuming that it threatens life on an existential level. Spoilers for The Day the Earth Stood Still, but after Klaatu, an alien visiting Earth with his cool robot, is resurrected and able to call upon the leaders of as many human governments as could be managed, he warns us that the galactic council he’s a part of might have to take drastic action if the governments of Earth persist in researching nuclear weapons. Powers from another galaxy apparently see the hydrogen bomb, or at least what it can lead to, as enough of a threat to other planets hosting intelligent life that the message is basically: “Sort your shit out, or we will sort your shit out for you.” Surely if the race of people Klaatu belonged to was real, we would all be dead by now. Likewise the Centaurians are so devastating to whatever environment they come upon that something must be done about them. It’s an extremely bloody ending for how hopeful it is.
A Step Farther Out
“Proxima Centauri” is one of the most important pre-Campbell SF stories of the ’30s, although it’s not necessarily one of the best. It’s a story that gives hints of a deceptively bright talent, but is also beholden to pulp-era tropes that not mix well with modern sensibilities. I also recommend not going into it as a precursor to generation-ship narratives since that’s really not the point of the thing, although it might strike some (like it did Asimov, when he first read it as a teenager) as a pleasant surprise. Leinster would adapt with the time, up to a point, so that a decade after “Proxima Centauri” he would emerge as one of the more mature writers in the field. It helps that the story itself is not a slog to get through; it doesn’t overstay its welcome and it mostly go down smooth. Still, this is the kind of thing you read in 2025 for the sake of studying it than enjoying it.
See you next time.
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Short Story Review: “The Man in the Mailbag” by Gordon R. Dickson

(Cover by Wallace Wood. Galaxy, April 1959.) Who Goes There?
Who was the first author to win two Hugos for fiction in the same year? George R. R. Martin. Which is wild to think about, because this was in 1980, and nobody outside SF fandom knew who Martin was at this point; nobody knew he would eventually become one of the most famous authors in living memory, and also that he would have possibly the most famous (or infamous) case of writer’s block for all the world to see. So who was the second person to win two Hugos for fiction in the same year? Believe it or not, it happened only one year after GRRM pulled this amazing feat, although nowadays far fewer people know who Gordon R. Dickson is. Dickson was born and raised in Canada (Alberta), but his family moved to the US when he was a teen and he stayed there for the rest of his life. I like Dickson in a similar way to how I like Clifford Simak, which is to say I see their works often as like comfort food. The same can be said for Poul Anderson, although Anderson is more pessimistic. Incidentally Dickson and Anderson were besties, to the point where they had a long-running series, about the teddy-bear alien race called the Hoka, that they wrote together. Dickson was less of a jingoist than Anderson; actually I’m not even sure if Dickson was of the pro-war sort, since reading some of his Dorsai series and others, including today’s story, he didn’t seem keen on warfare.
I said at the beginning of the month that “The Man in the Mailbag” was a standalone, but this turned out to be a bit inaccurate, since it’s actually the first entry in a short series involving the Dilbians, a race of aliens that are sort of a cross between gorillas and bears. “The Man in the Mailbag” was much expanded into the short novel Spacial Delivery, which I haven’t read, although I did read Spacepaw, its sequel.
Placing Coordinates
First published in the April 1959 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction. It could be because Dickson cannibalized it for a novel, but “The Man in the Mailbag” has only been reprinted three times: in The Good Old Stuff and by extension The Good Stuff (ed. Gardner Dozois), and the Dickson collection Steel Brother. These are all out of print.
Enhancing Image
John Tardy (yes, that’s his name) has been tasked with rescuing Ty Lamore, a human sociologist who’s been studying the Dilbians on their home planet and who has apparently been kidnapped by the Streamside Terror, one of said Dilbians. Humans on Dilbia have their own name, but also a Dilbian name, or rather a name the Dilbians give them: Lamore’s is Greasy Face. Tardy will get one of his own, but we’ll get to that in a bit. The Dilbians themselves are a curious race, in their customs but also how they look, being eight-to-ten-foot-all giants covered in fur, being, as I said, somewhere between a gorilla and a bear, albeit one that walks totally upright. There seems to be some disagreement with illustrators as to how gorilla- or bear-like the Dilbians are, since here Wallace Wood’s interiors paint them as akin to Bigfoot, whereas various book covers for Spacial Delivery and Spacepaw (and the omnibus collection The Right to Arm Bears) depict them as anywhere from uncannily human-like gorillas to just grizzly bears that always walk on their hind legs. The introduction for “The Man in the Mailbag” in Steel Brother says that the Dilbians were inspired by Dickson’s non-violent encounter with a bear while growing up in Alberta. Also, The Right to Arm Bears depicts the Dilbians as, well, carrying guns, but having read my fair share of this series by now I can say the Dilbians are not keen on using guns; if they resort to violence, which they do on occasion, they much prefer hand-to-hand—or rather paw-to-paw.
So, despite its length the plot is pretty straightforward, although how Tardy meets with the Terror (he’s usually just called that rather than by his full name) is a different question. Tardy, despite being an Olympian (“decathlon winner in the Olympics four years back”), is still a tiny human in a world whose dominant race is a bunch of hairy giants. The solution is for a friendly Dilbian, named the Hill Bluffer, whom we do meet again in Spacepaw, to carry Tardy in a mailbag, which is apparently big enough to carry an adult human—mind you it’s a Dilbian mailbag, and the Hill Bluffer himself is big enough that he’s able to carry Tardy with ease. Tardy has a wrist-phone (it’s basically a cell phone, although one then has to wonder how he gets cell service on a planet that’s almost entirely rural) that keeps him in touch with Joshua Guy, the human ambassador at HQ. The idea is that Tardy will rescue Lamore without having a physical confrontation with the Terror—for one because such a confrontation would almost surely result in Our Hero™ getting beaten to a pulp. Something I’ve noticed about Dickson is that for someone who gets labeled as vaguely conservative his work often comes off as anti-war, and even sympathetic to pacifism up to a point. In the stories featuring Dilbia, one of the recurring elements is the notion that it’s best for everybody to avoid violence. It’s also best to avoid making rash decisions, since the biggest points of conflict in this story are when characters made decisions that fall outside of “the plan.” There’s a female Dilbian named Boy-Is-She-Built (call me immature, but I think this name is funny) who ends up stealing Tardy’s wrist-phone, which cuts him off from HQ about halfway through the story.

(Interior art by Wallace Wood.) The plot itself is rather minimal, I suspect so that Dickson gives himself a lot more space for worldbuilding. The Dilbians are about on par with humans and in some ways objectively superior (for one they’re physically stronger than humans on average), but they’re also a culture that’s rooted in honor and one’s own reputation, hence one’s name being assigned by an outside consensus rather than choosing your own name. There’s a Dilbian named Two Answers because he’s known for tending to come up with two answers to a problem. Joshua Guy, the ambassador, got the Dilbian name of Little Bite because of an embarrassing incident involving—well, you can guess. The Dilbians think of humans as cute, in a condescending way, calling them “Shorties,” which can rub the humans the wrong way, but mind you that the humans are here on the Dilbians’ home world and the Dilbians did not invite them. The series, while not all that serious (my big issue with “The Man in the Mailbag” [and by extension Spacial Delivery] and Spacespaw when taken together is that they’re similarly plotted), does deal with a few serious topics, namely colonialism and the clashing of cultures. When I started this story I thought maybe it would’ve fit better in Astounding than Galaxy, given its rather lighthearted and adventure-minded tone; but then it occurred to me that given how Dickson insists humans (white people) ought to treat the Dilbians’ (indigenous people’s) customs with respect, such a notion would’ve probably rubbed John W. Campbell the wrong way. The gender politics are not quite as forward-looking, as the only notable female characters, Ty Lamore and Boy-Is-She-Built, are mostly kept offscreen and are given to flights of fancy when in on the action; but still, they’re shown to be about as capable as their male counterparts.
On the one hand, even for 1959 this feels a bit old-fashioned in the sense that it harks back to an earlier era of planetary adventure SF, which only sometimes appeared in Galaxy under H. L. Gold’s editorship; but also Dickson is a decidedly more humane storyteller than some of his peers, including Poul Anderson and even Hal Clement, which from a modern perspective makes him seem like a breath of fresh air even if he’s not exactly an S-tier writer. I’ve been thinking about the good-but-not-great writer in SF a fair bit, recently, of the likes of Dickson and Simak; maybe I should write an editorial on the subject…
There Be Spoilers Here
Once Tardy finally does meet with the Terror, a court session happens, of a sort, since there’s a bit of a convoluted case of the Terror having stolen one of the “Shorties” but also Tardy having to fight for his right to rescue Lamore. If the humans had only their way then they could’ve left by this point, leaving the Terror with nothing, but that might’ve caused bigger problems by virtue of tarnishing the Terror’s reputation. A Dilbian’s honor is their livelihood. The humans, being outsiders, will have to play by the Dilbians’ rules. Tardy will have to earn his Dilbian name of Half Pint. One of the elders, named One Man, gives a short monologue near the end that proves pertinent to the situation, but it could also apply to any scenario involving a colonizing force and an indigenous population:
You just don’t come in and sit down at a man’s table and expect him to take your word for it that you’re one of the family. As I said to you once before,
who asked you Shorties to come here, anyway, in the first place? And what made you think we had to like you? What if, when you were a lad, some new kid moved into your village? He was half your size, but he had a whole lot of shiny new playthings you didn’t have, and he came up and tapped you on the shoulder and said, ‘C’mon, from now on we’ll play my sort of game!’ How’d you think you’d have felt?”Of course, Tardy wins his fight with the Terror, through some ingenious means, and despite ostensibly being a battle to the death both men come out of it alive. The truth is that they weren’t supposed to kill each other anyway, as the mission to rescue Lamore was a big test to see if there was a human on the planet who could stand toe-to-toe with the Dilbians. There were a few hiccups, such as Tardy losing his wrist-phone, but he was not supposed to be in that much danger. See? Everybody gets a happy ending. With hindsight it’s easy to see Dickson’s view of colonial relations as being too optimistic, if anything, but he was looking in the right direction, which is more than can be said of a lot of old-timey SF.
A Step Farther Out
I was getting a bit of déjà vu reading “The Man in the Mailbag” since Spacepaw more or less follows the same plot trajectory, which I understand is not this story’s fault, although it is Dickson’s fault for reusing it. He had bills to pay, ya know. I would probably like Spacial Delivery more than its sequel, although I do have to wonder how, even given how short Spacial Delivery is, you’re supposed to make a novel out of a short story that already feels reasonably self-contained. Ah well, this has been a fun crash course in fiction from the pages of ’50s Galaxy; and incidentally the last stop on our tour foreshadows the more adventure-oriented turn the magazine would take once Frederik Pohl becomes its new editor. As to what that’s gonna look like exactly, I’ll find out in July.
See you next time.




