AFTERWORD

THE YEAR IN SF (1966)
I believe that SF attracts the more imaginative, inquiring child,
the type who can make a success in the scientific field. God
knows we need that type.
Dr. JULES T. SIMON, U. S. Atomic Energy Commission

It was definitely  the  year  of  the  book  in  1966.  One
speciality book dealer, the F. and S.F. Book Co., informed us
that he had to work overtime to fill his orders and that he
looked forward to an even better year ahead. There were
approximately 319 science fiction books published during this
twelve-month period; of this number, seventy-three were
hardbound and 241 were paperback books. Doubleday and
Company led the hardbound publishers with twenty-six books,
and Ace Books topped the other paperback houses with
seventy-two titles.
These figures are not entirely accurate; as soon as you look
at them closely they begin to shimmer and change. Though
the publishers were co-operation itself, it proved immensely
difficult to track down all of the publishers. Many of the titles,
once discovered, proved to be in that shadowy borderland of
"but is it science fiction?" Should we include the Doc Savage
books from Bantameven though the editors of Bantam
themselves do not consider the bronze man's heroic exploits
to be SF? And what about that mysterious paperback firm of
Corinth who published 48 titles in 1966 that they dredged up
from the old pulps, names to bring a tear to the middle-aged
eye: Phantom Detective, Operator No. 5, Dusty Ayres? Are
they SF? In the light of this, we present the above figures as
being about asscience-fictional as the works under discqssion
and, in essence, a partly personal conclusion.
So much for quantitywhat about quality? Here we are on
firmer ground and, in two men's opinions, the books seemed
far superior to the short stories, an observation which we shall
examine in some detail in a moment. Perhaps one reason for
the superiority of the novel is the remarkable vitality of
well-liked works of SF. Some of these books, though beaten
to death with critical crowbars, annually assemble their scat-
tered bones and spattered blood and rise from the grave born
anew. E. E. Smith, Ph.D. ("Doc" to his friends and fansand
the world, since this is the title his publishers now label him
with on their covers) began writing his Lensman saga a
longish time ago; the oldest volume was copyrighted in 1937,
and he produced a good half million words about his hero
before he finished. Pyramid Books have seen fit to bring out a
complete edition of all of the volumes this year (Triplanetary,
First Lensman, Galactic Patrol, Gray Lensman, Second Stage
Lensman, Children of the Lens), and they must have their
reasons. Perhaps it is possible to agree with the critic who
argues that, after the opening sentence, "Two thousand mil-
lion or so years ago two galaxies were colliding," we are in
for six volumes of anticlimax, and, at the same time, to
remain fascinated by Doc's workthe longest of the hard-
core SF sagas. This was fine stuff in the golden days of our
youth, and it still remains fresh in a rather charming and
wooden way, and must certainly produce some feeling of
satisfaction in the youngsters of today.
Not quite as hoary, but certainly as enduring, is the
Foundation series by Isaac Asirnov, also a Ph.D., though he
misses being referred to as "Doc" on his covers. If anything
proves that magazine and paperback readers are essentially
two different groups, the publication of this series does. For
years beyond counting the Science Fiction Book Club has
been enticing new members with the offer of this trilogy for
the sum of 10<f. Avon, ignoring this with enthusiastic disdain,
have elected to publish Foundation, Second Foundation, and
Foundation and Empire in three volumes in a new edition for
a total sum of $1.80. It is to be assumed that they know what
they are doing, for they did it also with James Blish's Cities in
Flightthe Okiesseries. Once more in They Shall Have
Stars, Life for the Stars, Earthman, Come Home and The
Triumph of Time the spin-dizzies whine and the cities fly off
to the far reaches of the galaxy. Heady stuff this, and all three
series certainly deserve some place in a.scientifictional hall of
fame, not only. for their intrinsic interest but certainly for
their durability.
Good science fiction wears well, that is obvious; though it is
immensely difficult to find out in just what ratio new and old
books appear. The situation is complex, to say the least. To
take an example: one major paperback publisher released
twenty-two titles during the year, thirteen of these were new
booksand of this number three were first bookswhile five
were reprints of hardbound volumes. The remaining four
were reissues of earlier titles. To further confuse the situation,
some of the new books were anthologies of previously pub-
lished stories and the reissues had new covers to entice old
readers.
In addition to good old books, a number of good new
books were published. We do not pretend impartiality or
completeness, other than the complete statement that the
following titles impressed and left their mark and memory
behind them. The following list is, can only be, partial and
partisan.
Who Can Replace a Man? by Brian W. Aldiss (Harcourt,
Brace and World). The original English title of this book was
The Best Science Fiction Stories of Brian W. Aldiss, and that
is most descriptive. These stories compare favorably with any
written in the English language and are a landmark of some
kind in SF which has, for the most part, been long on idea but
very short on literary quality. The author has combined both
qualities in a number of masterful short stories that can be
unconditionally recommended. (Harcourt, Brace and World)
John W. Campbell: Collected Editorials from Analog', Se-
lected by Harry Harrison. One of the must-buys of the year.
From the shower of sermons rattling from the Astounding-
Analog pulpit ever since most of us were lads, Harrison has
selected a representative thirty-and-three, some dating back to
the forties, all stamped with Campbell's individual brand of
coat-trailing sagacity. They stand up surprisingly well as a
book. (Doubleday)
John Christopher:  The  Ragged Edge. Great opening
chapters. Cotter, like author Christopher, lives on the island
of Guernsey. After a bad night, he goes out to find the
shattered island is an island no longer; he can now walk to
Englandwhich he eventually does. . . . Christopher is an old
hand at the convulsed landscape, social as well as geographic,
of catastrophe; but here he gets involved in sentimental loose
ends. Result: too ragged, too little edge. Damnably readable,
for all that! (Simon & Schuster)
William Dexter: World in Eclipse and Children of the
Void. One story in two volumes. The old themes again,
threats from aliens, flying saucers, Earth torn out of orbit . . .
all  terribly  unsophisticated  and  unscientific.  But  William
Dexter writes as if he genuinely enjoyed writing and telling
this far-out tale of odd races and odd illusions. He has just the
style for it, a rather ponderous, unamazed style, which recalls
Fowler Wright. Great fun, if you aren't too blase. (Paperback
Library)
Philip K. Dick: Now Wait for Last Year. Not the best
Dick, but brilliant by the standards of lesser SF writers.
Dick's great theme of the questionable nature of reality, many
realities, is one he has examined over and over since he first
entered the field; with each novel he comes closer to it, draws
forth more insights. This time, it is unhappy Dr. Sweetscent,
whose wife Cathy drifts in and out of drugged states, involved
with his millionaire boss Ackerman and, through Ackerman,
planetary politics. Earth is allied to one repulsive interstellar
race against another. Time-travel is involved; so is the suffer-
ing world leader, Molinari. Dick is as subtle as ever with
complex plots and ramified detail of future worlds. One
reason why this is not quite so prime an example of his art
may be that in structure it rather closely resembles Dick's
masterwork Martian Timeslip. (Doubleday)
Gordon R. Dickson: No Room for Man. "Who Am I?
What Am I?" asks the blurb, on this retitled reprint of
Necromancer. In fact, metaphysics goes out the window in
preference for a menace-to-men theme, in this fast-moving
Van Vogtian tale, where a guild using Absolute Laws and
Magic opposes an intricate technological civilization, and a
third force sorts them both out. (Macfadden)
Harry Harrison: Make Room! Make Room! A marvelously
saddening novel, the most effective warning ever against
over-population, and consequently for  birth-control. Ham-
son's story of New York in 1999, crammed with thirty-five
million people leading substandard lives, needs no gimmicks
or sudden catastrophes, relying on compressed emotion and
strong atmospheric detail for its effect. (Doubleday)
Fred Hoyle: October the First Is Too Late. A wonderful
idea crippled by inadequate handling. Hoyle must be given all
the credit for a novel and broad-screen twist on the hoary
time travel theme. Here we have different parts of the globe
existing in different eras at the same time. We are teased to
attention at modern Britain looking with horror across the
channel where the First World War is still in progress, but we
no sooner face the problem than we are whipped away. If Mr.
Hoyle had only worked harder and gone into the detail and
extrapolation needed for this kind of book he might very well
have written a modern masterpiece. As it is, he writes lyrically
for the first time. (Harper & Row)
Daniel Keyes: Flowers for Algernon. Remarkable, beauti-
ful,  and  penetrating  novel  about  the  gentle  moron  who
becomes something like the world's greatest genius, and then
charts his own descent down into the intellectual depths again.
"The message is rather schmaltzy: maybe you're a nicer guy as
a moron; which may account for its success (as a short story,
in translation, as TV drama, as film, now as novel); but for all
that, its fine qualities of pity and intelligence make it one of
the year's, possibly  decade's  best.  (Harcourt,  Brace  and
World)
John Norman: Tamsman of Gor. Another long Burroughs-
like series begins,  certain to  wow the fans  and bore the
eggheads. This first dose of the saga of Tarl Cabot on
Counter-Earth reveals itself to be decently written and a bit
less camp than you might expect. (Ballantine)
Edgar Pangborn: The Judgment of Eve. After the Holo-
caust (jacket blurb's capitalization) again, and well-plowed
ground it is. In a most civilized way, Pangborn uses the
setting only as  a stage  for his  characters to  ask many
questions about Life (reviewers' capitalization) and it is to his
credit that he manages to sustain interest to the very end. A
weak book from a strong writer, yet enjoyable nevertheless.
(Simon & Schuster)
Mack Reynolds: Of Godlike Power. Another excellent
polemical novel by a neglected novelist. In this one, Reynolds
has his tone just right. The story of a prophet of a new
religion opposed by a cheapskate radio  announcer never
becomes too stodgy or whimsical and, marvelously, prophet
and announcer are credible. So are the new religion, and all
the thrusts against our too-fat society. It happens to be fun to
read as well as ringing true. (Belmont)
Robert Silverberg: Needle in a Timestack. A collection of
ten Silverberg stories, Silverberg in a rather thoughtful mood.
There's a lot of contemporary point to such stories as "The
Pain Peddlars"when the latent sadism of those medic sagas
on the idiot box is not so damned latentand a sound moral
trim to the punishment used by a future society in "To See
the Invisible Man." (Ballantine)
E. E. Smith; The Lensman Series: Triplanefary, First Lens-
man, Galactic Patrol, Gray Lensman, Second Stage Lensman,
Children of the Lens. It can be argued that, after the opening
sentence, "Two thousand million or so years ago two galaxies
were colliding," we are in for six volumes of anticlimax, and,
at the same time, to remain fascinated by this workthe
longest of the hard-core SF sagas. Even if it remains cops and
robbers without transcending into Good and Evil, it still stays
fresh in its rather charming wooden way, and the various
aliens remain more human than the human characters. (Pyra-
mid)
The John Wyndham Omnibus. Contains Wyndham's three
best novels, The Day of the Triffids, The Kraken Wakes, The
Chrysalids. Too little has appeared from the once-prolific
Wyndham of late; here's the reason in one unparallelled
volume; he is resting adequately on his laurels. The very
English method of narration suits the theme of the leisurely
magnitude of civilization's fall. (Simon & Schuster)
William F. Temple: Shoot at the Moon. Perhaps an SF
first,  with  a  Spillane-type  wise-cracking  tough-guy  novel  all
about rocketships. (Simon & Schuster) While Bill Temple is
too nice a guy to be as foul as this exercise demands, he still
moves the story along at a nice clip -so that it has the
readability of a good mystery. This despite the rough and
tough characters' startling ability to throw quotes at each
other rather than brick bats. "Because I'm in mourning for
my life," the heroine declaims, and the hero instantly recog-
nizes it as Masha's line from The Seagull. There is a lot more
like this, and, surprisingly enough, Pangborn's The Judgment
of Eve is shot full of the same kind of thing. Perhaps we
make too much of a small coincidence, but can it be possible
that these are first signs of intellectual awareness, that science
fiction is part and parcel of literature and not a form of
super-pulp somewhere between the western and the romance?
There is certainly some evidence for this belief. Critical
books about SF appear regularly and stay in print. 1966 was a
bumper year. Pride of place goes to the MIT Index to the
Science Fiction Magazines, 1957-1965. This index, of all the
stories and all the authors in all the magazines during this
period, was published by the university science fiction society
who, with fitting justice, used a computer to process the
material.
Advent, a speciality publishing house that produces only
nonfiction about SF, brought out James Blish's The Issue at
Hand, a collection of this author's best critical essays. They
also published The Universes of E. E. Smith, the same "Doc"
referred to earlier, by R. Ellik and B. Evans, an unusual
volume that is referred to as "a concordance to the Lensman
and Skylark novels." Well! A symposium conducted by the
American Academy of Arts and Sciences produced Mumford
Utopias and Utopian Thought (Houghton, Mifflin) which
analyses in detail all the aspects of Utopias, both in fiction and
in practice. The inexhaustible Sam Moskowitz produced two
companion volumes. Seekers of Tomorrow and Modem Mas-
terpieces of SF (World), the latter being an anthology of
stories  written  by  the  authors  who  are  examined  in  the
former. While the effort is a laudable one, it might be wished
that a bit less personal opinion and a shade more accuracy
went into this author's work.
On a more scholarly level is Professor H. Bruce Franklin's
Future Perfect: American Science Fiction of the Nineteenth
Century (Oxford University Press). The Professor punctuates
his discussion with  stories  by  Hawthorne,  Poe,  Melville,
Bierce, Bellamy, O'Brien, Twain, and others. Some critics
have claimed that, in fact, the stories discussed are not science
fiction; their readability has also been questioned. But Frank-
lin's contributions repay careful study. He has many insights
to offer that illuminate the present. Possibly the humanistic
approach of his examples also offers an exemplar for today.
Another scholarly fascinatorand rather funis 1. F.
Clarke's Voices Prophesying War, 1763-1984 (Oxford Univer-
sity Press), English, or Scottish rather, in origin, dealing with
the plethora of invasion and rebellion stories that the nine-
teenth century, expecially France, Germany,  and Britain,
inflicted  on  itself.  Clarke  is  skilful  at  showing  how  the
development of a new weapon led to a new attack of nerves
and consequently a new attack of invasion SF. Now we are
saddled with the parallel theme of alien invasion. The transi-
tion point is marked by H. G. Wells's The War of the Worlds;
Clarke's examination of this epoch-making novel is one of the
best things in an extremely useful critical history. Fuller
extracts from the scarce works he discusses would have been
appreciated; presumably space did not permit this. As com-
pensation, there are a number of prime illustrations from
various sources.
Memorial to a great and various man is the collection of
essays and stories by C. S. Lewis, edited by Walter Hooper
and entitled Of Other Worlds (Harcourt, Brace and World).
Lewis was born in Queen Victoria's reign. Like remarkably
many other Victorians, he invented a fantasy-world at a very
early age; his great trilogy, which begins with Out of the
Silent Planet, has, in its almost obsessive attention to detail,
the hallmarks of this sort of water-tight refuge from the real
world, plus ironic references to that real world, which charac-
terise Carroll's, the Brontes', and many Victorian painters'
fantasy-worlds. The essays included here shed some light on
Lewis's methods of creation, and on his breadth of under-
standing of myth-creating, as well as reminding us that he was
a friend of Tolkien's. There is also the interview he gave on
science fiction which was first published in SF Horizons; two
short stories first published in F&SF; and two stories, one
incomplete, published for the first time.
These are only a few of this year's books: and we are
conscious of omitting many novels which have merit (while
meritorious regular anthologies like Damon Knight's Orbit,
Berkley; Wollheim and Carr's World's Best Science Fiction,
Ace; and Judith Merril's far-ranging Year's Best SF, Dela-
corte, must flourish on their self-continuing reputations). We
have found ourselves with no space/time, to deal with, for
instance,  new writer  Samuel  "Chip"  Delany's  BABEL-17
(Ace) or Jimmy Ballard's The Crystal World (Farrar, Straus),
which hag already attracted much attention elsewhere. And
we have avoided a swarm of novels on the well-tramped
theme of alien-invasion of Earth, or the well-tramped decks
of mighty starships.
Clearly, the science fiction novel is in a lusty state, but what
of the short story and the novelette in SF this year? As our
duty, and partial pleasure, the undersigned have read a great
number of stories to fulfill our editorial obligations. With our
towering imaginations, we have no difficulty in imagining
these yearly Nebula anthologies and the yearly Nebula Award
still being handed out in A.D. 2000,
This places us under considerable pressure to discharge
honorably our responsibilities as editors. Last year saw the
first Awards  and  the first Anthology.  The President of the
controlling body. Science Fiction Writers of America, contrib-
uted the Introduction, and was concerned with introducing
the whole scheme to the public. As the direct result of his,
Damon Knight's, hard work, SFWA, the Nebula Awards, and
the Nebula Anthology, are an established part of the literary
scene. But we still have a precedent to establish here. A
precedent of responsibility.
SFWA was established to further the interests of science
fiction writers everywhere. We do not see how those interests
can ultimately be furthered without the interests of the reader
being also cared for. We feel that, in certain vital respects, the
reader is being neglected.
And this is where our responsibilities come in. As readers
as well as writers, we see our loyalties chopped two ways. As
editors,  we see  the twin temptations  which will beset all
future editors of this series  (the editor of the A.D. 2000
volume is probably yet unborn, but his responsibility is
waiting for him!); those temptations lie between performing a
proper job of work as critics and uttering publicity matter on
behalf of Good Old SF.
Both the present editors have devoted and do devote the
adolescent and adult years of their lives to science fiction;
they contend that this demonstrates sufficiently their love for
the medium. They also edit a small irregular journal of
criticism,  SF  Horizons.  In  this  journal,  they  came  to  a
conclusion that they happily pass on here to future Nebula
story editors: that the general welfare and good of science
fiction is succored only by good science fiction stories. They
have long since believedhaving reached that mellow age
where they are as apt to discuss their waistlines as sexthat
high-powered ballyhoo does nothing for an inferior product.
The few beautiful stories garnered and be-laurelled here
were retrieved from a decidedly non-vintage year. A danger
in any art medium is that it will become victim of its conven-
tions; this danger seems to threaten science fiction. Once-
daring assumptions that man might travel through interplane-
tary space in machines built for the purpose, or visit distant
stars powered by a faster-than-light drive, or even step into
the past and future in time-machines, are daring no longer.
They are cliches. Originally, they had bold and imaginative
thinking behind them; now, they merely annihilate thinking.
An example. In one of this year's more popular stories, we
came across this passage: "The Antoranite hove close, a
Comet class with wicked-looking guns. Her probelight flashed
the command to halt. He obeyed. The other went sublight
likewise, matched kinetic velocities, and lay at a cautious
distance. The radio buzzed."
Such a passageand there are too many similar passages
in this year's storiescan only pretend to sense in a science
fiction magazine.  It suggests  the magazines  are living on
intellectually unearned income, cannibalising their past. The
horrible jingle of "probelight" and "sublight" emphasises the
decay of language that always goes hand-in-hand with decay
of ideas. There is no science here, no imagination, only a
meaningless rehash of what might once have had scientific
and imaginative meaning. This trend was all too evident in
most of the material we read.
Too many of this year's crop of tales deal in these old
clothes. Space ship tales, robot tales, invasion tales ... these
old themes roll forth, clad in dead language. We found
carelessnesses like "Xanten presently found a bin containing a
number of containers" to downright idiocies like "Three
minutes can seem an everlasting half hour." We found old
plots; guys still fight over the last oxygen cylinder on Mars.
We found endless thick-headed toughies as heroes, but little
characterization. We found numerous coy introductions of
sex interest, but no attempts to portray women intelligently
and lovingly, except in the beautiful story by a woman which
we present here.
Clearly, one has to look for reasons for this curious state of
affairs. We were interested to notice that even that elite, the
members of SFWA, writers or editors all, voted for some
indefensible stories.  This gave us the idea that we as  a
fraternity might perhaps indeed use the fraternity as a way of
betteringnot only ourselvesbut our standards, that these
annual volumes should be a sort of bar or tribunal before
which we have to come yearly up to scratch: a public
performance in which we must do better than just root for
our buddies.
It will  not  be  enough  for  writers  to  scrape  under  the
admittedly not-very-exacting standards of the magazines. We
are not selling them yard goods, trash instantly exchangeable
for cash. We are selling them stories, by God, for real people
to read and enjoy, to derive some excitement and enjoyment
and maybe help from. Maybe they will also derive some
better understanding of the dynamically changing world about
them.
But this was the year of the yard goods, with a few
honorable exceptions.
We would have liked to include here stories that maybe
illuminated the pressing color question, the current political
situation, not to mention present scientific developments, or
the effects of those developments on art and customs, or the
war in Vietnam. We could not; no such story was voted for
or maybe written! The discrepancy between the stories in the
magazines and the often challenging and alert editorials was
never more remarkable.
The great big wonderful world of Western technology goes
on unrolling at the same exhilarating pace; beyond its borders
lie more shadowy realms, full of strange factors for SP writers
to investigate and extrapolate. Not much has been done about
either sphere, this year. although there is always Mack Reyn-
olds. Nor, on the other hand, have we had the benefit of
many pure flights of the imagination that turn the mundane
world into another and enchanted place. Well, there are
always paragons like Jack Vance, and there was Cordwainer
Smith. But we are grumbling about the rule, not the excep-
tions.
Science fiction has had good and bad years before. Why the
trouble this year?
More than most of us care to admit, science fiction is
influenced by the world around us. It may be fantasy about
Earths packed with robots, or starving people, or large green
insects that arrived here by "sublight," but the writers them-
selves have to bow to the more stimulating perils of the
here-and-now. That bothersome and endless war in Vietnam
may be having its effect.
Would it not be a relief if we had a few stories dealing
imaginatively with that situation? It should attract science
fiction writers and readers. Robert Heinlein taught us years
ago that the old saw about force solving nothing was all
nonsense, but here seems to be an interesting exception to his
law. Force, in this science fictional case, seems to be solving
very little, judging by the military in the de-militarized zone
over there.
Sure, there's plenty of force in this year's stories! More
violence than you could shake an electronic whip at! All too
often, when ideas run out, violence is brought in, jaws are
broken, mandibles crushed, planets blasted right out of exist-
ence, just to round off the plot. Friends, we're getting as bad
as television! Vision has always been the electric charge we
needed from science fiction. Let's hear it for the imagination,
eh?
Science fiction appears to be the last viable, exciting and
commercially successful market for the short story. While the
rewards, on average, are not grand, they are at least fair
payment for work done and a showcase for writers. We do
not think it right that this showcase has been filled with
nothing better than splintered chips from the true cross and
machine-made copies of original models. The showcase is not
good nor is it bad. It is just there. We writers, and we alone,
are responsible for what is placed inside it.
Brian W. Aldiss
Harry Harrison