The Engines of the Night (6 page)

It really did. It appeared possible to remake the field. By the end of the forties, Campbell and his contributors had put the technical equipment of the modern short story, the rigors of scientific extrapolation into the hands of those ready to begin where the rest, through struggle, had finally peaked. Hiroshima and television, the cold war and the mass market had delivered unto the new writers and editors what appeared to be an enormous audience for a kind of fiction that would truly come to terms with the potential changes in lives caused by new and virtually controllable technology.

Horace Gold earnestly believed that
Galaxy
could eventually appeal to as many people as
The Saturday Evening Post
. Boucher and McComas, world-weary types, had less evangelistic obsession and more cynicism, but saw no reason why the audience for literate science fiction should be any smaller than that for fiction itself.
⁹
These major editors and John W. Campbell who was, at his worst, not
impervious
to good writing (a story would not, at least, be rejected for literary quality if it did not lack more immediate Campbellian virtues) gathered about them fifty to a hundred writers who, demoniacally inspired, were willing to try to take the field to the limit of their abilities, knowing that whatever they did they would not be rejected for trying too hard. These writers could not, of course, sell the major editors everything, but they could write passionately and often and the overflow, much of high quality, was being laid off to those thirty or forty magazines which appeared and disappeared like Flying Dutchmen.

(A few magazines such as
Infinity
or
Venture
or, at the beginning of the decade,
Worlds Beyond
, were created for the specific purpose of publishing a more literate and stylistically ambitious, thematically uncomfortable kind of science fiction, and these magazines were not publishing rejects so much as working on direct commission. They all failed, and except for
Infinity
failed quickly, but who in 1960 or 1981 would consider for the mass market a magazine devoted to the publication of non-mass-market fiction?)

It was a period which had never before occurred in mass-market fiction, perhaps in fiction of any kind. There was a wide market
and
one of exceeding range; work of quality was as readily acceptable within the confines of the genre as less ambitious science fiction.
Black Mask
and some of the other detective pulp magazines of the thirties had had no prejudice against art and had published Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Cornell Woolrich, but there were many more science fiction magazines and (
pace
Pronzini) more genuinely gifted science fiction writers in the fifties than mystery writers in the thirties. But almost
any
writer who had a decent reading knowledge of the genre and could reproduce it to minimum standard could find a market. Thirty magazines times eight stories a month times twelve meant close to three
thousand
science fiction stories published a year, to say nothing of the original anthologies:
Star Science Fiction
,
Star Short Novels
, and
New Tales of Space and Time
. (Today magazines and original anthologies together accommodate perhaps three hundred new stories a year.) In 1955 there were in the United States and England perhaps two or three hundred writers who had managed some degree of professionalism. (Today there are over a thousand.) And the book market was not negligible. Wollheim was at Ace, Doubleday had begun a small program, Simon & Schuster were committed to a dozen titles a year, Signet, Avon and Pocket Books were toe in the water and Ballantine, beginning a flourishing program in 1953 with
The Space Merchants
, started by offering advances of five thousand dollars.

Magazine rates were about what they are now. The top magazines paid three to five cents a word, the middle range one and a half to two, the bottom rarely less than a penny. In New York (or anywhere) at that time it was possible for a family to live with passable adequacy on five thousand dollars a year, comfortably on twelve. One without a family could get by on half that. It was not at all difficult to make five hundred dollars a month writing science fiction.

Five hundred dollars a month was, perhaps figuring in the rejects and aborted stories, twenty-eight thousand words for a professional, and twenty-eight thousand words a month is a thousand a day with most Sundays off. A thousand words a day fall on three typewritten pages: some bleed more than others, of course, but three pages are nevertheless three pages (and no true professional will ever admit to an editor or even his peers how very quickly they can be done, particularly under pressure). There was more than enough time for bull sessions conspiring on plans for the field, drinking sessions ditto, club meetings, travel, conferences, parties and the exchanging of wives. (These were not wife swappers, the male writers, they were wife
exchangers
. They would divorce and remarry. Members of this generation were perhaps the last to bend to the so-called new morality; they would rather marry than burn.)

The feeling in this rather insulated and socially peripheral circle of writers and their editors was that piece by piece they were remaking not so much the world (Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Dresden, Hiroshima, Joseph McCarthy had proved exactly what effect the seers and poets would have on the political and social reality of their time) but the field, that science fiction was being at last reconstructed toward that idealized form it might have attained a long time ago if Hugo Gernsback had not, for cynical publishers’ reasons, slammed it into a format of bizarre adventures or marvelous inventions for kids and potential engineers.

Certainly the best of the magazine work was equal technically to the best of American fiction.
¹⁰
Kornbluth’s “The Altar at Midnight,” Bester’s “The Men Who Murdered Mohammed,” “Fondly Fahrenheit,” “Hobson’s Choice,” “They Don’t Make Life Like They Used To,” Wallace’s “Delay in Transit,” Clifton’s “Clerical Error,” Pohl’s “The Knights of Arthur” or “The Tunnel Under the World” and Sheckley’s “Warm” (these titles are plucked virtually at random, sheer stream-of-consciousness; there are hundreds at this level, many by writers less well-known) were as accomplished and moving as “The Country Husband,” “For Esme with Love and Squalor,” “In the Zoo,” “Among the Dangs,” “Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time” or “The Man Who Studied Yoga.”
¹¹

There was, however, a tiny little problem.

Neither these stories nor the novels were recognized outside of the field at all. They made no impression. Outside of genre science fiction they did not, in fact, exist.

This failure of science fiction to reach outside its immediate audience was not of itself among the factors which blew away the false spring, but it might have been the factor that underlay everything. Science fiction remained small. It remained a small field. The audience upon which it could draw was perhaps half a million souls who were being asked to support their forty magazines and three hundred books, and with all their dedication they were too limited in numbers and too strapped for funds to do it. Most of them, after all, were kids. On allowances.

This core audience which perceives science fiction as important and to some degree necessary to their lives has never really increased from this half a million since the late forties. This is the central reason for the boom and bust phenomenon, as overextension inevitably hit the wall imposed by a readership which would not expand. The only difference between the fifties and the present, perhaps, is that the fringe audience—those who can be induced to buy two or three given titles a year through word of mouth, movie publicity or intense promotion—has expanded to several million. No science fiction novel in the fifties sold more than a hundred thousand paperback copies. Science fiction itself was regarded with disinterest or contempt outside the walls. Its very audience was an unorganized constituency; they were not in the main evangelical (in fact, like many of the academics, they were secretive), and those who were simply fed the popular perception of science fiction as a strange field: bizarre, endlessly incestuous and utterly defensive.

The genre made no impression upon the academic-literary nexus which controls critical perception (and eventually for serious writers may even create a large audience) in this country. Only two stories from the decade were reprinted in Martha Foley’s
Best American Short Stories
annual: Sturgeon’s “The Man Who Lost the Sea” and Judith Merril’s “Dead Center.” (Both from
Fantasy and Science Fiction
.) None ever appeared in the
O. Henry Prize Stories
. Not a story from
Galaxy
,
Astounding
,
Worlds of If
,
Worlds Beyond
,
Venture
, or
Infinity
achieved even the thin gruel of the Foley roll of honor. (Some writers at the fringes of the field who published work in the quarterlies did make the Foley or O. Henry volumes, increasing the sense of injustice for the committed science fiction writers.)

No science fiction writer other than Ray Bradbury, that non-science fiction writer, appeared in textbooks. No science fiction novels other than Bradbury’s were reviewed outside the genre departments of the press, gray caverns of brief notation. Most were ignored.
The Demolished Man
was published in hardcover by Shasta, a semiprofessional house operated by thieves, presumably because no reputable publisher wanted it.
¹²
The
Space Merchants
stayed in print but
Gladiator-at-Law
and
Wolfbane
did not.

By 1958, death and divestiture rolled around; the genre had been gutted. Many of its best writers were burnt-out cases. Aware of the anonymity of their work and lives outside of the small enclosure, aware of the necessity to go on and on just as they had simply to make an ever more difficult living, most either could or would write no longer. Probably if ANS had not been torn apart or Horace Gold had stayed together the field would have collapsed anyway. An entire generation of writers had been used up in the struggle to make science fiction a reputable literary medium. They had won—the evidence is there—and they had learned that for all the world cared they might not have bothered at all. They had made a living but an equivalent effort in insurance or the universities would have paid more and extracted less and the money was all gone anyway. Some of these writers have done no work for decades now. Others have done no good work. A couple have reemerged as if from behind barricades, hurled a couple of stories into the editorial mills and run for their lives again (often cut down by flying rejections).

A very, very few, Pohl, Bester and Budrys being the best examples, have returned to do outstanding work but only after a sabbatical of many years, and then at a slow rate. Between
Rogue Moon
(1959) and
Michaelmas
(1978) Budrys published one minor novel and a couple of short stories. He might have been the best of them; he certainly had the most profound, subtle mind, the best insight, the darkest perspective.

Gone, then. All gone away. After the energy of the late sixties to early seventies there came another slack period, a return to traditional themes and approaches, editorial hostility toward or bewilderment at stylistic or thematic innovation.

Not to complain particularly: Varley has gotten through and Benford and Tiptree did or are doing major work. One can postulate that things will turn around eventually: new writers, new publishers, new editors . . . maybe a different politic and of course a new audience.

But virtually all the great innovators of the decade will carry on their work, careers, and lives as if the fifties generation had never written. They will not know the work. That work may live in the undertext of the field, influence piled atop work influenced by the canon, but these writers will not know to whom they owe what. That decade, already done for for more than twenty years, will for most intents and purposes appear to have been for naught.

Was it?

Each generation, Donald Wollheim once said, has its own tragedy, must learn again on its own what every generation had had to learn and can never teach. Betrayal, circumstance, defeat. The Loyalists, the Cold War. Vietnam. And end broken in silence. There is no answer to any of this.

But
pace
, Gertrude, we may take up the question. Yes. I think it was for naught.

1977/1980: New Jersey