Seekers of Tomorrow (2 page)

Sam Moskowitz

Newark, N. J.

June, 1965

The hypothesis of an expanding universe was first formula-ted in 1912, when Vesto Melvin Slipher applied what is today known as the Doppler-Fizeau effect to the Andromeda nebula, establishing that it was one of only a few not receding into space. Despite this, the imagination of the science-fiction world stagnated within the confines of our solar system until 1928, when Edward E. Smith's
The Skylark of
Space
lifted mental horizons to the inspiring wonder of the galaxy. Why the awakening had to await the coming of Smith is difficult to say. It should have occurred when Camille Flammarion, the famed French astronomer and author, popular-ized the theories of worlds around other stars in the nine-teenth century. It seemed to have arrived in 1904 when Jean Delaire's heroes outraced light on their way to the far places in
Around a Distant Star
(John Zony, London), or when, the following year, the Rev. W. S. Harris merchandised
Life in a Thousand Worlds
(G. Holzapfel, Cleona, Pennsylvania) into a best-seller by subscription.

It is possible that because Delaire and Harris were primar-ily intent upon expounding religious ideas their spotlight on the devil blinded men to a new approach to reverence. When
The Skylark of Space,
which began as a three-part serial in the August, 1928, amazing stories, reached its final install-ment, publisher Hugo Gernsback said: ". . . We are certain you will agree with us that it is one of the outstanding scientifiction stories of the decade; an interplanetarian story that will not be eclipsed soon. It will be referred to by all scientifiction fans for years to come. It will be read and reread." Eighteen-year-old John W. Campbell, Jr., on summer va-cation preparatory to entering Massachusetts Institute of Technology, would haunt the newsstands relentlessly, impa-tient at the wait between installments. Because of the impact that story would have on him and others like him, science fiction would never again be the same.

What were the elements that have caused writers as well as readers to cherish
The Skylark of Space
as the seedling of cosmic literature destined to burgeon limitlessly in awesome concepts? It was not that it stood alone. That same month of August, Edmond Hamilton began a two-part novel on an extra-solar-system scale,
Crashing Suns,
in weird tales. Ear-lier that year, invasion and counterinvasion had criss-crossed the vastness between earth and the system of Sirius in J. Schlossel's
The Second
Swarm
(amazing stories quarterly, Spring, 1928).

Perhaps it was the description of an atomic explosion perilously close to prophecy. More likely it was the suspense-ful presentation of scientific dilemmas solved by miracle men with bus bars and test tubes. Unquestionably, the marvel of distances and places which strained comprehension, unrolled in an enthralling odyssey, contributed.

Certainly it could not have been the plot line, involving cloak-and-dagger manipulations for scientific secrets or the "corny" kidnapping of Dorothy Vaneman, the betrothed of the almost superhuman scientist Richard Seaton, by the vil-lainous Dr. Marc "Blackie" DuQuesne. Surely the stilted love scenes and the use of ephemeral slang in the dialogue de-tracted more than they added.

Yet, despite the superficial Victorianisms of the plot, most likely it was the combination of these very elements with the superscience concepts that gave
The Skylark of Space
titanic stature in science fiction's hall of fame. The events described were happening to people, some of them stereotypes, others superhuman; but what happened in the novel was more than an attempt at prediction, it was a
story.
Characters
reacted
to mind-staggering situations.

Not all the characters were cardboard. No more remark-able villain has been depicted in the annals of science fiction than DuQuesne. He steals the show. Physically powerful, mentally a genius, distinctly amoral, he is the ultimate prag-matist: murder without compunction for an end, but do not lift a finger for mere sadistic satisfaction nor permit a prom-ise of pleasure to distract you from your purpose. Despite the fact that Smith had a Ph.D. after his name and his character Seaton was prone to semitechnical monologues with jarring frequency, such hard-to-accept notions as speed many times that of light and the manipulation of matter by the power of the mind were strongly challenged in the "Discussion" department of subsequent issues of amazing stories. These criticisms failed to alter the fact that apotheo-sis to the Olympus of science fiction was immediately in prospect for the author. This soon-to-be saint of the starways, the second youngest of five children, was born to Fred J. Smith, an ex-whaler working at shipping on the Great Lakes, and Caroline Mills Smith on May 2, 1890, in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Both par-ents were of British extraction and staunch Presbyterians. They christened the boy Edward Elmer, and the same year moved to Spokane, Washington, where the father became a contractor in carpentry and cabinet work. A poor business-man, after many lean times he settled on a homestead of 160 acres on the Pend d'Oreille River in northern Idaho, raising baking potatoes for the dining cars of The Great Northern Railroad.

The youthful E. E. Smith logged in the winter, swamped brush, felled trees, worked in sawmills, did stretches as a lumberjack, and floated lumber down the river. His grammar school education was in the Spokane schools and he began high school at Priest River, five miles from home, where he was regarded as an outsider by the other children and had to pulverize every other boy in the school pugilistically to achieve minimal toleration, let alone friendship.

There might have been no education beyond that had the father been less of an emotional disciplinarian. The break came at the age of 18 in a near-violent disagreement over the fine points of fertilizing a potato field with a load of manure. Young E. E. stormed off to Spokane for a brief stint as a conductor on a horse-drawn streetcar.

There had been great closeness and affection between E. E., his two brothers, and his two sisters. His older brother, Daniel, soon teamed up with him to haul asphalt for a street-paving job. The profits from this enterprise, together with contributions from his older sister Rachel, were used to send him to prep school at the University of Idaho.

After the first year, he decided he wanted to be a civil engineer. At the age of 19, he helped run a railroad line north from Belton, Montana, into Canada, but seven months of life in the wilderness changed his mind about civil engi-neering. He went to work in a mine to get enough money to re-enter school. One night he awoke in his room on the fourth floor of a boarding house to find that his bed was afire. In a single convulsive leap he was out through the window, sash and all. He broke five ribs and a leg, but the worst damage was to his wrist, which couldn't be used for a year and hurt for ten years more. Manual labor was now out of the question and home he came.

The resourceful brother, Daniel, soon afterward emerged from a Saturday-night-to-Monday-morning poker game with the pot, $310.50 in winnings. "You," he said, gesturing at E. E., "with your gimpy wing can't earn much. Take this money and go back to college." Not only sister Rachel, but sister Mary Elizabeth, as well, sent money to help him through.

Their confidence was justified. Majoring in chemical engi-neering, he secured a junior year scholarship for the highest scholastic rating. The schedule called for 160 credits to graduate and he got "A" in all 160

credits. Before gradua-tion, he had taken a civil service examination for junior chemist in Washington, D.C., and had been offered the posi-tion. He had no money, so Daniel, who was now working as a railroad clerk, collected $150 in five minutes from his fellow employees for the fare.

There was one piece of unfinished business to take care of before he left. During his senior year, roommate Allan MacDougall had shown him pictures of a sister, Jeanne Craig MacDougall, back in Boise, Idaho. Bowled over, Smith started a correspondence with her. He went to Washington, D. C, via Boise, where he met Jeanne for the first time. He discov-ered that a contributing reason for the superlative photos of her was that Jeanne worked as a photographer's model. They were engaged within 10 minutes of their meeting.

Working for the U.S. Bureau of Standards in Washington, D.C., Smith helped establish tolerances on the weight of commercially sold butter. He established standards for oys-ters in New England in a laboratory on the prow of a ship at the price of perpetual seasickness. By the fall of 1915 he had saved enough money to marry and bring his wife to Washing-ton, D.C. It appeared, though, that his ambition of obtaining a doctorate would have to be sacrificed to the responsibility of supporting a family. But Jeanne went to work as a stenographer to help out, and in 1919 he got his Ph.D. from George Washington University. Smith's writing career started at a men's smoker in 1915. It was a hot, humid night and a discussion ensued with a former classmate of his, Carl D. Garby, Ph.D., who now lived across the hall from him, on what the temperature was in outer space. Others present contributed their ideas on the subject. That night, Carl told his wife, Lee Hawkins Garby, about the conversation. She thought the idea was intriguing and urged Smith to write a story based on it. He was dubious because he felt a story had to have love interest and he doubted his ability to handle that part of the plot. She suggested a collaboration in which Smith handled the science and action and the love element could be left to her.

It wasn't necessary to twist Smith's arm too hard to get him to agree. A regular reader of argosy, he was particularly fond of that magazine's science fiction. In book form, he cherished everything published of H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, H. Rider Haggard, Edgar Allan Poe, and Edgar Rice Bur-roughs. Beyond that, his reading enthusiasms included poetry, philosophy, ancient and medieval history, and all of English literature.

The two worked at the novel industriously through 1915 and 1916, finishing about one-third of it. Then interest waned, and the work was put aside.

At the end of the war Smith became chief chemist for F. W. Stock & Sons, Hillsdale, Michigan, a position he was to occupy until 1936. His specialty was the infant field of doughnut mixes, the formulation of which is regarded as a specialized art by cereal chemists.

One evening late in 1919, bored with baby sitting while Jeanne was out to a movie, he took up the unfinished novel and continued where it had been left off. He kept Garby informed about his progress, but wrote the remainder of the story himself,
including
the love interest. In the spring of 1920, the completed story began to make the rounds of the publishers.

The consistency of rejections was ego-shattering. The only encouragement he received in eight years of submissions was a three-page letter from Bob Davis, editor of argosy, in 1922. Davis liked the story immensely, but felt it was just too "far out" to be accepted by his readership.

"Every" book publisher in the country had a look at the manuscript and turned it down. Whenever a new magazine appeared, Smith hopefully sent it out. Finally, one day he picked up the April, 1927, amazing stories at a newsstand, read a few pages on the spot of the first story,
The Plague of the Living Dead,
by A. Hyatt Verrill, dashed home, got the manuscript, and mailed it out.

Editor T. O'Conor Sloane replied with high enthusiasm and a low offer of $75 for the 90,000 word novel. Smith accepted (though he had spent more than that on postage through the years), but by the time the novel appeared, amazing stories had examined its conscience and a check arrived for $125. He split the sum with Mrs. Garby and
The Skylark of Space
was published as a collaboration. The first installment had not been on sale a month when Sloane wrote asking for a sequel. Mrs. Garby wasn't inter-ested in participating further, so Smith started on his own.

The sequel,
Skylark Three,
was in every sense a continuation of the first novel. As science fiction it was also a better novel. The story was unified and the pace sustained. Most important, Smith showed that, whatever his weaknesses at dialogue and love interest, his ability to develop suspenseful action grippingly on a cosmic scale was limited only by the scope of his imagination. He was probably the only writer alive who could weave a thousand words of scientific explanation into a battle scene and not slow the pace for an instant.

Skylark Three,
upon its appearance in the August, Septem-ber, and October, 1930, issues of amazing stories, did more than even its predecessor to change the paraphernalia of science fiction. Tremendous battles of conflicting forces with an assortment of offensive rays and defensive force screens were popularized by the new novel. Spaceships miles in length and a fabulous array of bizarre aliens which justified the novel's subtitle: "The tale of the galactic cruise which ushered in universal civilization," became standard science-fiction fare. Science-fiction writers would never again be bound to their solar system. Smith had sold all rights to
The Skylark of Space
but he released only magazine privileges for its sequel, amazing stories voluntarily paid him 3/4 of a cent a word for that second story, 1/4 of a cent more per word than they had paid any author up to that time.

The Skylark stories had been carried as far as Smith planned, and he now proceeded on what he thought would be a new series.
The Spacehounds of IPC
began in the July, 1931, issue of amazing stories, before the letter column had ceased ringing the praises of
Skylark Three.
It was an excit-ing, imaginative story depicting space battles, stupendous scientific discovery, and ingeniously conceived alien intelli-gences, every bit as good and as well-sustained as
Skylark Three.
It even predicted the ion drive for spaceships decades before Herman Oberth proposed it in radio electronics magazine in the early fifties. Nevertheless, letters tem-pered praise with protest because Smith had stayed within the confines of our solar system in the development of the story. Editor Sloane sided with the readers and made a point of suggesting that Smith make the setting of his next story far out in the Milky Way.