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The New York Review of Science Fiction http://www.nyrsf.com/ Reading science fiction like it matters since 1989. en-US 2016-07-04T13:46:00-04:00 NYRSF Issue 333 Editorial: A British Story http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/nyrsf-issue-333-editorial-a-british-story.html Recent events have reminded me of an incident from a few years back. At Anticipation, the 2009 Worldcon in Montréal, I noticed that there was an event each morning called "Stroll with the Stars." The strolls, the invention of Stu...

Recent events have reminded me of an incident from a few years back.

At Anticipation, the 2009 Worldcon in Montréal, I noticed that there was an event each morning called "Stroll with the Stars." The strolls, the invention of Stu Segal, were simply an opportunity to get a pleasant walk in the area outside the convention center in the company of other fans, some of whom might also be writers, artists, puppeteers, editors, or otherwise professionally involved in the field. The Sunday stroll was an hour before one of my panels, so this seemed like an excellent opportunity to get my brain working through light physical activity and light conversation, and Old Montréal is so lovely one needs no excuse to wander it.

One of the billed Stars on the stroll was Paul Cornell, who had recently begun writing comics for Marvel—the Wisdom miniseries (with art by Manuel Garcia and Trevor Hairsine) and then its successor, Captain Britain and MI-13 (with art by Leonard Kirk), both of which I enjoyed immensely. The stroll group was fairly large, and I didn't get a chance to talk to Cornell, so I very fannishly buttonholed him at the base of the escalators inside the Palais des congrès so that I could gush at him. MI-13 was an offbeat superhero team book: the characters worked for the division of British intelligence devoted to "weird happenings" like faeries, vampires, alien invasions, and the sinister Dr. Plokta. I told him that MI-13 compared favorably to two of the great oddball superhero team books of years past, Steve Gerber and Sal Buscema's Defenders and Grant Morrison and Richard Case's Doom Patrol. Well, I could barely have handed him a more on-point compliment, and we started babbling joyfully about our mutual love of Doom Patrol (he had actually a fan letter published in issue 31).

Shortly, we both realized that we were running late for panels at 10:00, and we set off up the escalators. I was scheduled for a two-person discussion of fairy tales in the comics alongside Bill Willingham, the writer-creator of the very successful Fables series. I walked into the room ... followed by Cornell, who had been invited by Willingham at the last minute to join the panel.

So we fell to talking about fairy tale comics and other folk/myth/public domain magical figures. At one point, Willingham, who is deeply conservative, brought up the matter of Faiza Hussain and the sword Excalibur.

Faiza Hussain is one of the core members of MI-13 during Cornell's run. She's a hijab-wearing medical doctor, the daughter of Pakistani immigrants, possessing (through Comic Book Supersciencetm) the ability to manipulate organic material by thought. She's explicitly a reader identification character, a charming woman with a pure heart, dazzled by the superheroes, the Marvel universe's greatest celebrities. Before the first story is done, she becomes the worthy bearer of Excalibur. Yes, that Excalibur, which has been a part of Captain Britain's fantastic background since his first appearance.

Willingham thought that he should be upset that Excalibur, so central to the heart of the myth of Britain, should be in the hands of a Muslim immigrant. He hastened to add that the story was so well done that he wasn't shocked, and he asked how that could have happened.

I jumped in and said, "Look, Faiza Hussain taking up Excalibur is as completely English as chicken tikka masala."

England, the England in which MI-13 lived, the England that Cornell saw outside his window, was the cosmopolitan heir of a global empire. The national dish is curry (chicken tikka masala itself was invented in Glasgow), and cricket stars named Hussain and Afzall play alongside Jones and Sidebottom. Of course there's a Pakistani woman wielding Excalibur—why on Earth wouldn't there be? In the years since, Faiza has in two different "alternate futures" herself become Captain Britain, the living symbol of England's power and glory.

Those are better futures than the one we have this week. Let's try to get back to them.

—Kevin J. Maroney
and the editors

 Editorial TOC Alex Donald 2016-07-04T13:46:00-04:00 NYRSF Issue 333 (May 2016): Table of Contents http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/nyrsf-issue-333-may-2016-table-of-contents.html Christopher S. Kovacs and Susan M. MacDonald: A Sixth Survey of Medical Myths and Errors in Genre Fiction Mike Barrett: Under the Sign of the Unicorn's Head: The Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism: Judith Merril's...

Christopher S. Kovacs and Susan M. MacDonald: A Sixth Survey of Medical Myths and Errors in Genre Fiction

Mike Barrett: Under the Sign of the Unicorn's Head: The Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series

The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism: Judith Merril's Nonfiction, edited by Ritch Calvin, reviewed by Arthur D. Hlavaty

Sarah Yoon: Differences over Dualisms: The Left Hand of Darkness

Brian Stableford: Nightmares of a Utopian: The Science Fiction of Régis Messac

Mack Hassler: Quark Sonnet

Science Fiction Double Feature: The Science Fiction Film as Cult Text, edited by J.P. Telotte and Gerald Duchovnay, reviewed by Joe Milicia

Watch This

Screed

Editorial: A British Story

 Editorial TOC Alex Donald 2016-07-04T13:42:00-04:00 The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism: Judith Merril's Nonfiction, edited by Ritch Calvin, reviewed by Arthur D. Hlavaty http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/the-merril-theory-of-litry-criticism-judith-merrils-nonfiction-edited-by-ritch-calvin-reviewed-by-ar.html Seattle: Aqueduct Press; 2016; $22.00 tpb; 360 pages Like many other fields, science fiction is being reminded that the women were here all along. There were always some writing for the prozines (cue James Blish grumbling about "Tony Boucher's gaggle...

Seattle: Aqueduct Press; 2016; $22.00 tpb; 360 pages

Like many other fields, science fiction is being reminded that the women were here all along. There were always some writing for the prozines (cue James Blish grumbling about "Tony Boucher's gaggle of housewives"), and by the '60s Bantam was telling us on the back of other paperbacks that WOMEN (in this case Margaret St. Clair) are writing sf, and it was strange and wonderful. Along with the writers, women began to direct the shape of the field then. From 1958 to 1965, Cele Goldsmith edited Amazing and Fantastic for the Ziff-Davis magazine factory. She proceeded to discover and publish Ursula K. Le Guin, Thomas M. Disch, Roger Zelazny, et al., and when her employers' needs changed, she went off to Modern Bride Magazine, presumably with the same aplomb and skill.

And there was Judith Merril. She wrote widely appreciated fiction. (NESFA Press has given us Homecalling, her collected short stories, and Spaced Out, an omnibus of the three novels she wrote with C.M. Kornbluth.) She also was part of the sf culture and lifestyle, known for her freedom from Mrs. Grundy. (In a famous incident, she was praised at a Hugo banquet for anthologizing other writers. Dr. Asimov, in front of a microphone he may or may not have known was live, muttered, "Euphemisms, always euphemisms.") But most of all, she was a great critic and anthologist.

I grew up reading sf, and much of it was, as we were warned, Buck Rogers Stuff. But I didn't find that fun, and so I sought out the kind that provided me with material that was Good to Think With. There was Galaxy and some Ballantine Books, and every year there was a collection of the "Year's Best" from Judith Merril. One thing I liked about those is that she did not merely comb the usual prozines but wandered afield, finding material in The New Yorker, Good Housekeeping (Do they still publish any kind of fiction?), and other unlikely sources. One imagined some of them pondering whether the reprint fee was worth the sci-fi cooties.

The Merril anthologies gave me concepts and images I still use. "The Public Hating" by Steve Allen was a plotless vignette in which a stadium is filled by a mob that stares at a public enemy left alone in the middle of the playing field and hates him to death. "Body Ritual among the Nacirema" (spell it backwards) was an imagined study by one Horace Mitchell Miner that was not all that good itself but gave a useful term for considering the tribe we live in with the lightly veiled condescension of the anthropologist. For more story value, there was an Inner Space tale, "All the Sounds of Fear," which all by itself inspired me to hunt down the battered paperbacks of its author (Harlan Ellison) in the used book stores (you remember used book stores) and then read his new books as they appeared.

Judith Merril is being remembered and reprinted. Her posthumously published memoir, Better to Have Loved (Wesleyan, 2002), begins fascinatingly and informatively but unfortunately gets sketchier and sketchier after a while and peters out completely (rather like Harry Harrison, Harry Harrison, except that Harrison got further). Judith Merril: A Critical Study by Dianne Newell and Victoria Lamont (McFarland, 2012) gives much appreciative discussion and valuable biographical material and asserts that the structure of the memoir is not a matter of age progressively running the author out of spoons but a deliberately fragmented means of communicating a nonlinear message. (Criticism is often a form of creative nonfiction.) Now Aqueduct Press has compiled a collection of her essays and reviews.

We are given the title The Merril Theory of Lit'ry Criticism, which at first seems just toxically cute but may be a symbolic warning that the book has significant chunks removed to the detriment of understanding. What I hold in my hand is a 350-page codex taken from a larger e-book, which is automatically available to purchasers of the physical text. I suppose that for every book, there is the ideal version in the author's mind and the mere reality that is all we have access to, and perhaps we are fortunate to have the intermediate stage that the e-book offers, but I am an old guy who is used to reading lengthy texts on slices of dead tree, and I like it that way. Therefore, all I can tell you about is the physical book. I have no knowledge of the economic conditions that led Aqueduct Press to do it this way and will stipulate that it was necessary if we were to have a physical book at all, but I do find some of the results annoying.

For instance, every so often, there is a bracketed ellipsis telling us that we are missing something. A few items have been deleted and summarized such as a tribute to her friend, Theodore Sturgeon, that sounds as if it might have been enjoyable to read; many of the sections have interstices, and sometimes one wonders if she is referring to text we can no longer see. (Unlike Brother Langford in a recent issue, I will mention only once that this book desperately needs an index and does not have one.)

The reviews are particularly annoying because they lack a consistent format. The first (March 1965) begins with a list of five books, which are not reviewed in that order, followed by three more reviews with headers giving author and title. That one tells us more than we usually get. Usually a review starts in medias res with a phrase such as "This book...," and we are eventually told, in the later body of the text or in a footnote, what this book is. Readers of the paper version apparently do not need to know the name of the Brian W. Aldiss collection reviewed in February 1967, though we get the names of some of the stories in it. (It was Who Can Replace a Man?)

Merril gave much consideration to the question of defining "science fiction," and seeing it all here reminds me that I have come around to the view, promulgated by some of my favorite writers (Karl Popper, Samuel R. Delany, et al.), that defining is not a terribly interesting activity. Delany suggests giving examples rather than trying to frame a verbal cage in which to capture the specimen, and one of the great things about Judith Merril was the way she expanded her definition to include excellent examples from the "mainstream" and other genres that appealed to many of us in the same ways labeled sf did.

But those are minor complaints, and I found much to enjoy. (I presume there's even more in the e-book.) I was particularly fascinated by the reviews in which a brilliant and imaginative mind follows the course of sf through what I consider its most interesting phase (1965–1968).

To give you an idea of where we are starting, that first review begins with five old pros (Isaac Asimov, Fritz Leiber, Murray Leinster, Richard Matheson, Theodore Sturgeon) followed by three promising newbies (Cordwainer Smith, Robert Silverberg, Keith Laumer). A review that perhaps typifies the breadth of her vision compares and contrasts Gordon Dickson, Fred Hoyle, and William S. Burroughs.

Her voyages outside the sf community are particularly productive. She discovers Jorge Luis Borges's Labyrinths, falls in love with it, notes that the first person to translate him into English was her friend and mentor, Anthony Boucher, and wishes he had translated all of Ficciones when it was new so that it would have gotten into sf's bloodstream sooner. She picks up Giles Goat-Boy, a lengthy and decidedly nonmimetic work by academic fave John Barth, and discusses it in thoughtful depth in a review that it shares with the graphic novel Barbarella.

And she discovers England. I seem to recall someone expressing displeasure at a book review column that begins with lengthy chit-chat about the climate in London. Perhaps it was me. The important part is that she is discovering British writers, most of all J.G. Ballard, whom she considers "the first conscious and controlled literary writer s-f has yet produced." The review resembles what the fiction writer is alleged to consider the ideal criticism, thousands of words of closely reasoned adulation, and it makes the case for him thoroughly and eloquently. (But it does not persuade me to like Ballard's first three novels. Nothing can.) There was also much new and different sf being done over here, and she selectively praises Samuel R. Delany, Thomas M. Disch, R.A. Lafferty, and Dangerous Visions.

Her last review (it is followed by an appreciation of Fritz Leiber) looks at John Brunner. She's been dealing with him throughout, enjoying The Day of the Star Cities and The Whole Man, but not so much The Long Result (because of her distaste for Message Fiction). And here comes the big one: Stand on Zanzibar. One phrase from her review, "Brunner conducts himself brilliantly," appeared on the cover of the first Ballantine paperback, but her view is more complex and nuanced. She is dissatisfied with the characterization but says, "In a sense Brunner has written the first true science fiction novel." We are obviously on the threshold of something strange and different. And here the book ends.

At around the time she stopped reviewing, she grew so disgusted with the Vietnam War and other aspects of U.S. culture that she moved to Canada, where she spent the rest of her life. She had one more gift for us: She donated all the books and magazines in her own collection to the Toronto library, to begin what she called the Spaced Out Library. (It has since been given her name.) All in all, she was a multifaceted, major figure in our field, and it is good to see her getting the recognition she deserves.

Arthur D. Hlavaty lives in Yonkers, New York.

 Review Alex Donald 2016-07-04T13:34:00-04:00 Brian Stableford: Nightmares of a Utopian: The Science Fiction of Régis Messac http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/brian-stableford-nightmares-of-a-utopian-the-science-fiction-of-r%C3%A9gis-messac.html Régis Messac was the first writer of French roman scientifique to become acquainted with American science fiction and to write his own work in the French genre with a sophisticated knowledge of the manner in which the analogous genre had...

Régis Messac was the first writer of French roman scientifique to become acquainted with American science fiction and to write his own work in the French genre with a sophisticated knowledge of the manner in which the analogous genre had developed and was evolving, thus becoming an interesting special case in the evolution of the still-separated literary brethren.

Messac was born in Champagnac in 1893, and he attempted to complete his initial program of academic study at the École Normale Supérieure, an establishment primarily geared to training scientists and engineers, but he had to renounce any such ambitions temporarily when he was conscripted at the beginning of the Great War in August 1914. After being seriously wounded in the head in December of that year, he obtained an initial teaching qualification during his convalescence; he spent the rest of the war working in various auxiliary services, retaining the lowest possible rank throughout for ideological reasons.

Messac learned English during the war from English soldiers and also became involved with Germaine Desvachez, a young woman widowed by the conflict in 1914, whom he subsequently married in 1922, a year after the birth of their son Serge. After his demobilization in 1919 he wrote two autographical novels describing his wartime experiences, which had helped to complete his deep cynicism regarding human nature and crystallize his strong commitment to pacifism. He completed his teaching qualification and was awarded his agrégation in 1922, in letters rather than the sciences he had originally planned to study; he went on to become a highly regarded literary scholar but never abandoned his interest in the physical sciences and also maintained a strong interest in the development of the social sciences.

After teaching at the University of Glasgow in 1923–24, Messac went to Canada, where he spent five years at McGill University in Montreal. It was there he was introduced to American pulp fiction including science fiction. Although his primary academic concern was crime fiction, which was considered far more respectable than science fiction by virtue of its middlebrow extensions and its long history, it seems to have been the subject matter and narrative devices of science fiction that spurred his own creative inspirations, as evidenced by his early works of roman scientifique, written in the 1930s. The doctoral thesis on which he worked at McGill but completed and sustained in Paris following his return to France in 1929 was entitled Le "Detective Novel" et l'influence de la pensée scientifique [The "Detective Novel" and the Influence of Scientific Thought].

The subsequent years proved difficult for Messac, by virtue of a series of personal disappointments and tragedies, which he described and dramatized in a third autobiographical novel L'Homme assiégé [A Man Under Siege] (1936), and his anguish was clearly reflected in a sequence of exercises in roman scientifique that he produced in the 1930s, culminating in the publication of the novel La Cité des asphyxiés (1937; tr. as Stranglehold City). The early works in the sequence appeared, two of them pseudonymously, in the pacifist periodical Les Primaires, after Messac became its editor-in-chief. "Musique arachnéenne" (tr. as "Spider Music") appeared in the December 1932 and January 1933 issues under the signature Sancho Llorente. "Les Doléances de j.o.r. 2AM. L., citoyen de l'âge du rayon" (tr. as "The Grievances of j.o.r. 2AM. L., Citizen of the Age of Radiation") appeared in the March 1933 issue, in Messac's regular column Propos d'un utopien [Discourses of a Utopian], in which he frequently used fictional devices in the service of satire and propaganda. "Le Miroir flexible" (tr. as "The Flexible Mirror") was serialized in seven parts from November 1933 to November 1934, with a frame narrative signed Columbus North.

The publications that appeared in Les Primaires remained confined to the esoteric pages of the periodical for a long time, until they were "rediscovered" in the 1970s. The first item in the series to appear in book form was the novella Quinzinzinzili (1935; tr. under the same title), although one section had been previously published as "Comment fut déclarée la guerre de 1934 par Boudou-Bada, professeur à l'Université de Capetown" [How the War of 1934 was declared, by Boudou-Bada, Professor at the University of Cape Town] in Les Primaires in April 1934, as a column in the Propos d'un utopien series, while "Le Miroir flexible" was being serialized. Messac did write one more work of futuristic fiction after La Cité des asphyxiés, the novella "Valcrétin," in 1943, not long before he was murdered by the Nazis in 1945—no one knows exactly how, when, or where, official records having lost track of him after his deportation—but it could not be published at the time, for evident reasons, and it did not appear until 1972; it belongs to the same adventurous satirical category as its predecessors, and it can be regarded as a component of the sequence.

Although Messac's interest in American science fiction undoubtedly played some part in prompting the planning of his own works of speculative fiction, his works have very little in common with American science fiction in terms of their manner and purpose. His work is more sophisticated, both stylistically and philosophically. Even "Musique arachnéenne," which is a relatively trivial conceit in which a prisoner of the Inquisition comes to believe that he has learned the secret of arachnean music from a spider in his cell, has an unusual polish and wit. "Les Doléances de j.o.r. 2AM. L., citoyen de l'âge du rayon" is even slighter, being a vignette in which an inhabitant of a drastically altered future looks back on the "good old days" of twentieth-century industry, but it too illustrated the extent of Messac's imaginative reach as well as the satirical motivation that impelled it to such extremes. His work belongs to the Voltairean tradition of contes philosophiques, to which the two longer novellas are much more obviously related in their imaginative verve, their mordant satirical bite, and their relentless harassment of human stupidity.

It is just about conceivable that "Musique arachnéenne" could have been published in English translation in 1932, and "Les Doléances de j.o.r. 2AM. L., citoyen de l'âge du rayon" could have been published in English as a wry satirical reflection on a commonplace kind of nostalgia, but neither of the first two novellas could possibly have found a market at the time, offering ideological meat that was far too raw and bloody for the queasily prudish arenas of interbellum American and English publishing. "Le Miroir flexible" would probably still be capable of driving at least some Americans to fury today, were they ever to deign to read it. Nowadays, the righteous wrath with which it attacks religious Fundamentalism and Bible Belt culture is by no means unfamiliar, but in 1933, the story was exceptional in its vitriolic stridency.

The main story told in "Le Miroir flexible" is framed by a narrative in which the ostensible author explains how he encountered a reclusive woman known as "the old spinster" in a boarding house in Esterel and received from her a manuscript relating her experiences many years before, in a small town in Alabama, where her father, Joseph Favennens, an ambitious inventor, had bought a cheap plot of semi-desert land in order to install his laboratory.

Already regarded with disapproval by the Fundamentalist preachers of the town by virtue of his atheism, and by the local Ku Klux Klan because of his lack of racial bigotry, Favennens becomes the object of a more intense hostility in the wake of the apparent murder of a local vagrant, when rumors of sightings of a mysterious "giant serpent" cast a shadow of suspicion over his activities.

When the "serpent" disrupts a Klan meeting, causing a stampede in which there is another fatality, a detective called in to investigate the case sets a trap for the "monster," and succeeds in "killing" it—only for it to be revealed that it is actually a living machine constructed by Favennens, a functionally designed automaton capable of learning and primitive intelligence. When he proudly refuses to be run out of town following the destruction of his creation, he is murdered by an enraged mob whipped up by a preacher indignant at his alleged blasphemy in daring not only to compete with the creator but to claim that he has done a better job of the work of creation.

Had Messac not been the editor of a magazine, the likelihood is that "Le Miroir flexible" would never have been published; there was no other likely outlet for it at that time, and it is a fervently combative and bitterly angry story. Precisely for that reason, however, it is one of the most powerful works of speculative fiction produced in the 1930s, and its fugitive existence prior to its belated resurrection in a book edition published in 2009 illustrates the fact that the difficulties previously faced by Cyrano de Bergerac in pioneering scientifically inspired contes philosophiques in the seventeenth century had not disappeared even in three centuries. The agents of the Holy Office had lost their teeth in the interim, but the sentiments that inspired them had not lost their avidity to bite, and although the primary target of stories like "Le Miroir flexible" is religious intolerance, that was only one of the sources of potential hostility and disaffection likely to hobble the circulation of sophisticated contes philosophiques in the 1930s. When they wanted to employ fiction as a means of dramatizing and spreading their message, the champions of technology and the science behind it were not working in a benign, or even a neutral, environment.

"Le Miroir flexible" is deliberately framed as a philosophical riposte to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, perhaps not so much to the novel as to the far cruder and then-recent 1931 movie version, but it is also explicit in reacting against a contemporary glut in tales of mechanical robots. One of three pulp science fiction stories by David H. Keller that Messac translated into French was "The Psychophonic Nurse" (1928), and he might well have been familiar with Keller's "The Threat of the Robot" (1929) as well as other pulp fantasies employing the term in the same way, with reference to metallic humanoids—in contrast to the play in which the term was coined, Karel Čapek's R.U.R. (1921), in which the individuals in question are creatures of artificial flesh and blood rather than mechanical devices. The philosophical issues raised and argued in Messac's story, however, cut far deeper than the simplistic thinking of pulp sf or Karel Čapek, addressing the central question of artificial intelligence in more detail and with greater rationality, anticipating discussions of its practicality that would not reach a similar sophistication elsewhere for decades. It is a great pity that the story remained buried for so long in the pages of an obscure political periodical, as it can now be recognized as one of the most remarkable speculative works of its era.

The same can also be said about Quinzinzinzili, although it addresses a more familiar theme in depicting a world devastated by a Second World War, that possibility having been one of the dominant motifs of French roman scientifique and British scientific romance since 1919. The novella does not add a great deal to the account of the "war of 1934" published in Les Primaires in that year, which is primarily concerned with the likely reactions of contemporary politicians and journalists to the advent of a new war, and its account of the superweapon whose unleashing temporarily turns the atmosphere poisonous is cursory. The narrator of the savagely tragic story written around that satirical fragment knows very little about the war itself, only having a handful of documentary sources. He survives because he happens to be visiting a cave high in the mountains of the Massif Central when the poison is unleashed, in the company of a group of children, which includes the two tutees in his charge. Their guide dies, perhaps leaving him the only living adult—at least so far as he can determine—in the entire world.

The principal focus of the enveloping story is its description of the bizarre culture formed from scratch—with very little input from the disaffected and ineffectual adult observer—by the children, who represent a slight, if somewhat precarious, chance that the human race might not become extinct, even though there is only one girl among them. The narrator does not see that slight chance as a hope, but merely as an absurdity, and his account insists on presenting his observations as a kind of black comedy, although his scathing sarcasm cannot entirely disguise the underlying tragic sensibility.

In one respect, Quinzinzinzili belongs to an interesting subcategory of "castaway stories" in which children have to build a society from scratch without the support of any kind of educational system or effective adult guidance—other notable examples include W.L. George's Children of the Morning (1926) and William Golding's Lord of the Flies (1954)—but Messac's version goes further than other stories of that type in having the children devise their own language, based on French but deviating from it in ways partly determined by circumstance and partly by chance, producing such occasional meaningful bizarreries as the word that gives the story its title.

Coupled with the development of that new language, and intimately entangled with it, is the development of new superstitions and a new religion, which sarcastically reflect theories as to how traditional superstitions and religions might well have originated and evolved; that feature of the story adds a considerable anthropological interest to the speculative venture, as well as adding to the puzzles that continually confront the protagonist. The narrator of Quinzinzinzili has no one to whom to turn for any kind of consolation; he is utterly alone, in spite of the children in whose midst he lives and whose survival he documents, and he eventually feels that he has no alternative but to be brutally honest in filling the final page of a notebook that no one will ever read:

When I think about the future, I see a new collective Calvary, a new painful and dolorous ascension toward an illusory paradise, a long sequence of crimes, horrors, and sufferings.... A new society is about to be born, as ridiculous, perhaps more ridiculous, than the other, full of an infinite stupidity, larded and interlarded with barbaric cunning and puerile refinements, complicated and useless: everything that they too will name science, progress, intelligence, and civilization, or something similar.

Precisely because it could have no conceivable sequel, there was a perverse sense in which Quinzinzinzili demanded one, figuratively if not literally—and it is not at all surprising that Messac wrote one. La Cité des Asphyxiés follows on closely from Quinzinzinzili in terms of its rhetorical fervor and its mordant satire. The two works are thematically related and have several overlapping features; there is even a teasing reference in the novel capable of suggesting to readers familiar with the earlier work that—however improbable it might seem, given the apocalyptic theme of the earlier story—the novel might be set in a distant future consequent to the novella's near future.

La Cité des Asphyxiés is set very solidly in the tradition of Voltairean satire, but its fundamental mordancy harks back to the source of Voltaire's own principal inspiration, found in the works of Jonathan Swift. It is perhaps the most Swiftian of all the works of belated Gulliveriana, but it adds an extra edge to Swift's trenchant misanthropy by applying a more radical and more sophisticated political criticism, aimed at cultural targets that Swift never had the chance to encounter. There are other English influences in the work, primarily that of H.G. Wells, two of whose early scientific romances, The Time Machine (1895) and When the Sleeper Wakes (1899) are echoed in its makeup, There is also is a wry acknowledgement to Edward Bulwer-Lytton's subterranean utopia The Coming Race (1871) although Messac's initial intellectual exploration of the notion of a subterranean society probably owed more to the suggestion of Gabriel Tarde's sociologically sophisticated Fragment d'histoire future (1896; tr. as Underground Man).

The text begins with a frame narrative in which an unsympathetic and clearly unreliable narrator, Belle Sims, explains how experiments in transtemporal television carried out by her husband and her father seem to have created a time machine that has hurled one of her husband's friends, Sylvain Le Cateau, into a far future, when humankind lives underground because the depletion of the atmosphere has made the surface uninhabitable. The early phases of the main story, handicapped by Le Cateau's unreliability for reasons that seem to go far beyond his chronic stupidity, describe his first impressions of Subterranean society and his early adventures therein, concentrating on technical matters in a manner calculated to give an impression of coherent extrapolation and fidelity to scientific thinking, which is only gradually transformed for satirical purposes. A reader could easily begin to construe the main story as if it were a straightforward exercise in extrapolative speculative fiction and engage with it in that fashion before its satirical elements become vitriolically scathing, thus adding a useful measure of sensitivity to their eventual sting.

At first, Subterranean society seems to Le Cateau, who can only see a tiny fraction of its stratification, to be a sufficiently comfortable milieu which benefits from many advanced technologies, permitting extraordinary sophistications in the fields of medicine and communication. He only realizes slowly what the consequences are of the fact that the society's industrialists have to manufacture its air, thus giving them the ultimate capitalist stranglehold on the laborers who produce it. The corollaries of the methods of that manufacture add an extra twist to the vitriol of that element of the satire—and it is the gradual realization of that situation that transfigures Sylvain's personal vision of Subterranea from an eccentric eutopia to a grotesquely horrible dystopia in whose fortunes his own role comes to seem extremely problematic.

The ambiguously layered narrative method is particularly well suited to form a detailed description of a fictitious world that is, literally as well as metaphorically, "turned upside down," in order to provide a distorted reflection of our own. The description of the subterranean world's physical and biological organization cannot, in the final analysis, be said to ring true, but it is nevertheless developed with great ingenuity and considerable rational acumen; it includes many telling details whose points of plausible support add a valuable additional note of conviction to their satirical aspect as well as to the graphic surrealism of their imagery.

In the same way that the novel's worldbuilding benefits from the deft combination of earnest extrapolation and satirical endeavor, the frame narrative "explaining" the protagonist's displacement in time is also carefully earnest as well as carefully blinkered, employing the calculated eccentricity of its notional narrator to work around the fact that no proper explanation of the background endeavor is provided and that the paradox remains paradoxical. The scientific underpinnings of both elements of the story are actually absurd—few modern readers would have difficulty finding logical fault either with the theory of time supporting the protagonist's displacement in the frame narrative or with the method of atmospheric manufacture eventually specified in the main narrative—but the manner of their presentation confers a gloss of apparent logic that was eventually to become one of the key elements of the peculiar artistry of sophisticated genre science fiction. Messac's use of the strategy lends his novel a narrative solidity that is rare in satirical fiction, especially in utopian satire.

The careful deployment of limited and flagrantly biased first-person narratives, earlier used to striking effect in Quinzinzinzili before being adapted to both of the narratives in La Cité des Asphyxiés, helps to give the novel a distinctive kind of ambiguity that goes far beyond the handling of speculative science and the imagery of the invented world. Indeed, all the kinds of specific detail featured in the multilayered story are embedded in a surrounding matrix of vague and troubling uncertainty. That is a very tricky narrative method for an author to employ and has its downside—particularly in rendering both viewpoint characters unsympathetic and sometimes irritating—but Messac develops it with sufficient artistry and conviction to make it highly effective.

One side effect of the viewpoint characters' limitations in comprehending and coping with the things they observe and report is that the plots of both the main narrative and the frame narrative take on a certain element of mystery, because the reader is perennially invited—and, indeed, challenged—to make deductions that the protagonists cannot. Sometimes, the protagonists eventually reach the conclusions which the reader might have anticipated, but sometimes they do not, and the answers to problems posed are left tantalizingly unspecified. Not all readers appreciate that kind of challenge, but those who can will inevitably find Messac's work particularly intriguing.

One important aspect of that kind of challenge is the use made of the invented language featured in the main narrative. Quinzinzinzili also features an invented language but its development is relatively straightforward and the account of it rendered in the novella does not raise nearly as many puzzles as the language of the Subterraneans in La Cité des Asphyxiés. Many of those enigmas are left teasingly unanswered, both in cases where the reader is clearly expected to draw deductions and in cases where no such deductions appear to be possible. The continual juggling with elements of the language and the protagonist's attempts to get to grips with it eventually become the most vital and vibrant aspects of the novel's satirical method. That is another reason why the novel benefits from its slow and relatively earnest build-up, because the invented words of the Subterranean language have to be leaked into the text in a measured fashion, allowing the reader to get used to them before the concluding elaboration—but the deployment of so many invented terms adds considerably to the challenges confronting the reader.

By virtue of these various strategies and intricacies, La Cité des Asphyxiés was one of the most sophisticated futuristic fantasies yet produced at the time of its original publication as were its two immediate predecessors. They have, inevitably, been matched and perhaps overtaken since then, but Cité remains a highly significant landmark in the evolution of futuristic fiction, and it is sufficiently distinctive to remain intriguing and engaging today.

As Belle Sims remarks in her final, stubbornly inconsequential note, Le Cateau's story resembles a hoax—more specifically, "one of those hoaxes of which the perpetrator alone retains the secret, without ever deigning to disabuse his victims." If Régis Messac is such a hoaxer, though—and he certainly does not deign to explain himself within the text—he does distribute a number of clues as to what might really be going on behind the scenes of Le Cateau's strange adventure.

Those "clues" might, of course be deceptive: a series of red herrings. It is possible that at least some of the puzzles in the text—the apparent shift in meaning of the word cubil, descriptive of one of the classes of the individuals of Subterranean society; the disappearance from the story of the character Palem, who is Le Cateau's original host in Subterranean society; the abrupt appearance within the story of false beards previously unmentioned and unnoticed, etc., etc.—might simply be the result of the fact that the author made up his story as he went along, continually adding new elements on a whim and forgetting others, and never bothered to do a second draft to correct or excuse the incoherencies. But that would be an insulting as well as an implausible hypothesis, and many of the clues in question make no sense at all unless they really are clues, intended to hint at the imagined reality behind appearances that are, as we are repeatedly told, blatantly deceptive.

Most of the hints dropped by the direly unreliable Sylvain Le Cateau as to what that hidden reality might involve are deeply enigmatic, as might be expected from a character who clearly has no idea what is happening to him or why. Readers are, however, given a few helpful indications of the things that have been hidden from him in the fragments that Belle Sims picks up from the messages reduced—presumably deliberately—to incoherence, as well as in the curious corners of Sylvain's own narrative.

In the intermission that follows the conclusion of the first fragment of Sylvain's narrative, covering an interval when, Belle reports, Sylvain "began to mingle with the social life of the Subterraneans," he apparently encountered "certain types of individuals both baroque and terrible, of whom he spoke with a mixture of admiration and horror." Belle is "particularly struck ... by what he says about certain technicians whose power and influence are enormous, and who appear to correspond to a certain extent with our philosophers, but who, from what I understand, spend all their time solving crossword puzzles of some kind."

Very little is said in the coherent part of Sylvain's narrative about these powerful and influential individuals, who remain invisible behind the scenes of the image of Subterranean society that he eventually constructs and certainly do not seem to fit into the picture he paints of the Great Conery and its products, the parts of the education system that he is allowed to see. Sylvain does, however, make some possibly significant observations in passing, first in association with the "medical treatment" described in the second fragment of his narrative, where he observes that:

The race has been subjected to a series of vaccinations and selections that has caused all contagious disease to disappear, or become exceedingly rare. It has been possible to influence the elements, mysterious in your epoch, whose hereditary combination makes up what is known as the personality. It is even possible, it seems, to manipulate and organize it at will.

The "physicians" featured in this sequence are ostensibly enabling Sylvain to breathe Subterranea's artificial air more easily, and they presumably achieve that end but it seems certain that they also "manipulate and organize" his personality. Do they, for instance, cause him to forget that he has been sending messages on a regular basis from the cavern where he arrived—even though he refers to such attempts at the beginning of the second fragment, before mentioning his illness—to such an extent that when the enigmatic and perverse scientist Hourra eventually takes him there, he thinks, mistakenly, that he is returning to it for the first time?

Whether that is the case or not—and it seems the likeliest hypothesis to account for the chronological anomalies that arise in juxtaposing the sequence of time elapsed in the twentieth-century "T [for Time Machine] room" and that elapsed in the course of Sylvain's experience—it is probably best to assume that from the time of his "illness" on, at least, while Sylvain is gradually and carefully introduced to the elements of Subterranean society, what he thinks as well as what he sees, or what he thinks he sees, is being influenced to a greater or lesser extent by the actual and conscientiously invisible technocrats of that society.

But who are they, and what is their purpose?

One glimpse of insight is probably provided by a passage in which Sylvain gives some indication of the range of properties attributable to "luxury airs." There he notes that

the superoxygenation of the neopallium by rich airs sometimes leads to the creation of new senses. Certain children of the rich whose mothers have been raised themselves in a luxury atmosphere become capable, it appears, of perceiving the four-dimensional continuum intuitively.

He subsequently adds that "the mind of a bovril specialized in meditation and reflection is something divine and superhuman compared to the degenerate mentality of the majority of unfortunate zeroes," stating that while some zeroes "have reverted to two-dimensional vision, like the horses of the twentieth century," the bovrils—the Subterranean social elite—"are beginning to conceive and to perceive four dimensions."

What does this mean, and what does it imply? Well, anyone is free to guess, but what it might suggest is that the masters of Subterranean society, who are obviously far better informed about the twentieth century than Sylvain is allowed to perceive or think, have a much clearer notion than him or Belle Sims about what is happening at the far end of the temporal bridge, and about the nature and significance of the bridge itself. If they can perceive the four-dimensional spacetime continuum "intuitively," they are probably far better equipped to construct, operate, and manage a time machine than Belle's husband, Rodolphe Carnage. The fact that they have drugs distorting the perception of time—with which Sylvain is surely dosed, unknowingly, more than once—adds further support to this supposition.

Can we really believe that Sylvain "falls" into the future rather than being pushed—or, to put it better, pulled—into it? He is, after all, uncannily fascinated by the screen, eventually hypnotized into sneaking into the T room to get a better look at it, and even though he is ridiculously incapable of wondering whether the word he initially mishears as "six nez mains" [six nose hands] might actually be the word cinéma [cinema], he does see the futuristic hypnotic cinema at work. Is it rather odd, in fact, that neither he nor Belle Sims calls attention to the apparent similarity between the images that can be seen on the screen in the T room (which include representations that are certainly not views of the cavern to which it allegedly connects) and the strange images that Sylvain sees in the hypnotic cinema.

Clearly, Sylvain is the subtle vehicle of the messages sent to the twentieth century from the mysterious other time rather than the actual messenger. Not only are his messages censored to such an extent that he sometimes forgets what he has previously written and seems unaware of some of the things he has done and is doing, but they are probably shaped in more ways than one. Toward the end of the transmission, we are told in the introduction, he does not even appear in person, the "slates" transmitting his messages simply being placed on a platform—and obviously, if what he supposedly writes on the last slate of all can be taken seriously, he cannot be the person who places it on the platform in question.

What Sylvain communicates, or seems to communicate, to the twentieth century, therefore, is actually what his mysterious hosts—the real ones, not the apparent ones—want to communicate. As to the extent to which it is a tissue of mocking deceptions, we can only guess. Similarly, we can only guess about the motives of the message's senders, although if they really are located in the far future, there are probably only two reasons why such people might want to communicate information from the future to the past: in an attempt to change it or in an attempt to secure it. Of the two, the former seems more likely in this instance, especially if the messages really are coming from a world teetering on the brink of apocalypse.

That way, of course, lies paradox. Or does it? A mind with the flexibility of Niels Bohr's might be able to think otherwise, and the scientist introduced in the final section of the frame narrative in order to introduce the notion of hypothetical "configuration space" is explicitly linked with Bohr. Perhaps it is more significant than it seems when the mention is first made that the one thing Belle Sims thinks she has deduced about the superhuman technicians of the future, although she has surely not grasped the truth of the matter, is that they seem to "spend all their time solving crossword puzzles of some kind." So, in a metaphorical sense, do writers of sophisticated speculative fiction—and so, in a similar sense, must its readers, if they hope to understand the full import of what it is that such writers might be doing in their own schematic configuration space. Perhaps what Messac is doing in the novel is deliberately paradoxical, although he might well have been sufficiently familiar with the roman scientifique of Alfred Jarry to think of it as "pataphysical" instead.

No matter how bleak his mood had been when he wrote Quinzinzinzili—and it was certainly direly bleak—Régis Messac obviously hoped that the destructive Second World War featured therein would never actually happen. In the event, it did, and he was one of its civilian casualties; but the war was fortunately not as destructive for the entire world as its fictional anticipation in his story, although the Third World War still might be. In the same way, the author obviously hoped that the capitalist stranglehold on modern society that he exaggerated so luridly and ludicrously in La Cité des Asphyxiés would not progress to the self-destructive extreme detailed in that story. Thus far, it has not—but it is a compliment to the author's foresight, as well as the particular quality of his bitter cynicism, that the satirical aspects of the story remain as uncomfortably relevant now as they were in 1937.

Author's note: The English translations of the various Messac works indicated and cited in the above essay do exist, and their publication was scheduled by Black Coat Press for 2016. Even though the works are all in the public domain, the author having been dead for seventy years, that publication was blocked by the threat of legal action by his grandson, Olivier Messac, which BCP could not afford to defend no matter how certain the eventual victory might be. Evidently, Olivier Messac feels that the best way to conserve his grandfather's legacy is to extend the inaccessibility of his work in the English language for as long as humanly possible. We can, of course, only speculate as to what the fervently anti-capitalist utopian Régis Messac might have thought of copyright trolls, although we do know that the Nazis murdered him in order to prevent him communicating his ideas to his fellow human beings, not because he posed any kind of military threat to them.

Brian Stableford lives in a paradoxical satire of the modern world.

 Essay Alex Donald 2016-07-04T13:28:00-04:00 Mike Barrett: Under the Sign of the Unicorn's Head: The Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/mike-barrett-under-the-sign-of-the-unicorns-head-the-ballantine-adult-fantasy-series.html From 1953 onwards, Ballantine Books was responsible for many fine science fiction titles under their characteristic logo of a pair of mirrored "B"s. Often distinguished by evocative Richard Powers cover art, they specialized in paperback originals—sometimes published simultaneously with hardback...

From 1953 onwards, Ballantine Books was responsible for many fine science fiction titles under their characteristic logo of a pair of mirrored "B"s. Often distinguished by evocative Richard Powers cover art, they specialized in paperback originals—sometimes published simultaneously with hardback editions—and printed important titles by such authors as Arthur C. Clarke, Jack Vance, Theodore Sturgeon, and Frederik Pohl.

Ballantine was also the first authorized American publisher of the books of J.R.R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings trilogy had not been properly registered for copyright in the United States, and as the work was (arguably) in the public domain, Ace Books published the three volumes between May and July 1965 without any royalties payable to the author. Although they were (again, arguably) within their legal right to do this, their actions were morally questionable, and Tolkien was quick to denounce Ace, who eventually bowed to the considerable pressure that was brought to bear and agreed to withdraw the books and pay a royalty to the author, although it took almost a year.

Tolkien came to an arrangement with Ballantine to bring out an authorized and very slightly revised version of the trilogy and its predecessor, The Hobbit. These they proceeded to publish from August 1965 onwards, adding a further title, The Tolkien Reader, a collection of shorter pieces, in September 1966. The considerable success of these books prompted Ballantine to produce more fantasy titles, and further books began to appear in 1967, starting with E.R. Eddison's The Worm Ouroboros in April. In the next two years another eleven titles appeared, including Eddison's Zimiamvia series (Mistress of Mistresses, A Fish Dinner in Memison, and The Mezentian Gate) and Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy (Titus Groan, Gormenghast, and Titus Alone). These were all reprints and were primarily older titles, the exceptions being A Fine and Private Place and The Last Unicorn, both by Peter S. Beagle, which had first appeared in hardcover in 1960 and 1968 respectively.

Overall sales evidently warranted a continuation of the publication of fantasy books, but one suspects that there was a dilemma in deciding what to publish. Ballantine had neither the time nor the knowledge to decide upon suitable future fantasy titles; they were presumably not prepared to compromise the standards that they had been setting with the books that had appeared to date, and were keen to maintain both the quality and the frequency of publication.

Fortunately, help was at hand. In 1967, Lin Carter had signed a contract with Ballantine for the publication of a book about Tolkien's trilogy looking at its influences and its antecedents, a book that would eventually be published in March 1969 as Tolkien: A Look Behind "The Lord of the Rings." This excellent book included many knowledgeable references to earlier works of fantasy, and it prompted Ballantine to employ Carter as a consultant, his task being to recommend suitable books for what was to be their ongoing fantasy list. Carter's eventual appointment as editor of the series was formalized on 22 November 1968, with Carter nominating works and Betty Ballantine, cofounder and copublisher of Ballantine Books, having the final say in what actually saw print.

The first title under the "Ballantine Adult Fantasy" imprint, using the logo of a unicorn's head, appeared some six months later; this was The Blue Star by Fletcher Pratt, originally published in 1952. The rationale for the series was outlined by Carter in his introduction to the first book, emphasizing both the "adult" and the "fantasy" aspects:

Some of the most sophisticated novels of the last two centuries have been fantastic romances of adventure and ideas; books which few, if any, children would be capable of appreciating ... many of these books are long out of print, scarce and rare, known only to a handful of collectors and connoisseurs.

The Blue Star heralded the publication of more than sixty books over a period of five productive years, and those years saw many fine titles appear, the vast bulk of which were indeed "scarce and rare." As well as the first paperback editions of such writers as Lord Dunsany, William Hope Hodgson, and Clark Ashton Smith, Carter reprinted novels that had been unjustifiably languishing in oblivion for many years, including first-rate works by Hope Mirrlees, F. Marion Crawford, and William Morris. Original novels also began to appear as well as several outstanding Carter-edited anthologies that often brought back into print long forgotten short stories and writers.

The books were almost without exception well-made productions, and each of them was enhanced by an interesting and insightful Carter introduction. The series was characterized by evocative cover art, much of it produced by Gervasio Gallardo. His paintings were particularly suited to the dreamlike themes of classic fantasy, while Bob LoGrippo also contributed some memorably eerie art, principally for the titles by William Hope Hodgson and Arthur Machen.

The Blue Star appeared in May1969. It is an intricately plotted novel set in an alternate eighteenth-century Europe, a locale of magic and intrigue. It is not particularly easy to read, but it ultimately does reward perseverance. It was followed in June by The King of Elfland's Daughter by Lord Dunsany, the first of the author's books to appear in many years and a fitting introduction to the writer's inimitable style. This is probably the best of his novels, a classic fantasy that should always be in print. The Wood Beyond the World by William Morris appeared in July. A good book that again rewards the patient reader, it is written in an unusual style that is not easy to come to terms with—there are, for instance, no punctuation marks to distinguish dialogue, and there is much archaic language. This novel was perhaps not the best way of introducing Morris to readers, particularly when his excellent and accessible The Well at the World's End was waiting in the wings, eventually to see publication a year later.

The Silver Stallion by James Branch Cabell appeared in August, the first of what were to be a total of six Cabell volumes. Carter was clearly an admirer of the writer's fiction, which is not to everyone's taste, and there were ultimately perhaps a few too many of his books in the series. Lilith by George Macdonald came in September—first published in 1895, it is an interesting dream-world novel, but like much fantasy of its era it tends to be verbose and heavily descriptive. October brought two fine anthologies edited by Carter: Dragons, Elves, and Heroes covering older fantasy fiction, some of it much older (for instance, a translation from Beowulf which was written around 750 ad), and The Young Magicians, featuring more modern works covering most of the twentieth century and presenting an interesting contrast to its companion volume.

Figures of Earth by James Branch Cabell was the November offering and the second Cabell book of the series. It seems strange that Jurgen, generally acknowledged as the author's best book (and certainly his most famous), never appeared from Ballantine; we can speculate that this is due to rights issues, for if it had been available, then Carter would surely have wanted to publish it. This was followed by Hannes Bok's The Sorcerer's Ship in December, an enjoyable novel written very much under the influence of A. (Abraham) Merritt and its first printing since an initial magazine publication in 1942. The cover of this particular title had a redesigned series colophon—the unicorn's head was retained but in outline and enclosed in a double circle, this being retained for all subsequent titles.

1970 began with Land of Unreason by Fletcher Pratt and L. Sprague de Camp, a light-hearted fairy tale originally serialized in Unknown Magazine (as were their more famous Harold Shea "Incompleat Enchanter" stories). The High Place by James Branch Cabell, the third Cabell book, followed in February. March saw the publication of Lud-in-the-Mist by Hope Mirrlees, a book that had first appeared in England in 1926 and in America the following year and had never been reprinted; it very much encapsulated the raison d'être of the series, being a title that hardly anyone had ever heard of but which was a genuine lost classic that thoroughly deserved its renaissance. At the Edge of the World by Lord Dunsany came in March. A superb collection, perhaps the best Dunsany compilation ever, it included examples from most of the author's early fantasy works and was enhanced by Carter's informative bibliographic and biographic notes to the majority of the stories. The April title was Phantastes by George Macdonald, the second Macdonald novel to appear in the series, originally published in 1858, nearly forty years before Lilith.

The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath by H.P. Lovecraft in May was a collection of Lovecraft's "Dunsanian" fiction, including the short novel of the title, and it became the first book in the series to be reprinted (in July of the following year). Zothique by Clark Ashton Smith in June was the first paperback collection of Smith's stories, graced with a fine George Barr cover and collecting all of the tales set on Earth's last continent in the unimaginably distant future. A good proportion of Smith's best fiction appears in these pages, and it was a splendid introduction to anyone unfamiliar with the writer.

July 1970 brought The Shaving of Shagpat by George Meredith, an Arabian Nights fantasy first published in 1855. The Island of the Mighty by Evangeline Walton also appeared in July; it is a fantasy based on the Welsh Mabinogion. Originally published in 1936 as The Virgin and the Swine, Carter and Ballantine unsurprisingly chose to retitle it.

In August, Deryni Rising by Katherine Kurtz was the start of a lengthy series by the author and the first original publication in the Adult Fantasy series proper. Kurtz went on to write two more Adult Fantasy volumes and many more titles afterwards, all based in her alternate version of twelfth-century Wales. (The most recent and perhaps final volume appeared in 2014.) William Morris's The Well at the World's End was published in two volumes in August and September 1970. First published in 1896 and perhaps Morris's best fantasy, it had been out of print for something like fifty years until this edition appeared. It was reprinted at least twice over the next few years, ultimately in one thick volume in 1975.

Golden Cities, Far, edited by Lin Carter, came in October 1970 and was another interesting anthology, again devoted to very early fantasy. This time there is a story from The Book of Thoth, originally set down 3,300 years ago. Beyond the Golden Stair by Hannes Bok was the November offering. It was originally published as The Blue Flamingo in 1948 in a severely edited form (reduced from 70,000 words to 35,000), and the full version of the novel was found only after Bok's death. As with The Sorcerer's Ship, the book is stylistically very reminiscent of Abraham Merritt, of whom Bok was a devoted aficionado, but it is an extremely agreeable fantasy.

Although there had been no title in December 1970, the first time that a month had been missed, 1971 saw a solid continuation of monthly publication (in fact, there were sixteen books published in the year, the series' high water mark), and again there were a number of real gems to be found in the titles that appeared.

The year started with The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson, a superb novel first published in 1954 and revised by the author for this edition, demonstrating Anderson's complete grasp of how to write memorable fantasy. The Boats of the Glen Carrig by William Hope Hodgson followed in February, the first paperback publication of Hodgson's classic and the first time it had been in print since 1946. It is one of the genuinely great novels of terror, one that insidiously sustains its menacing atmosphere throughout its full length. February 1971 also brought The Doom That Came to Sarnath by H.P. Lovecraft, another collection of the author's early "Dunsanian" fantasies and effectively a companion volume to The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath. However, one has to question the inclusion of such a late story as "In the Walls of Eryx," a 1935 collaboration with Kenneth Sterling, a fine story but one which hardly fits the terms of either "early" or "Dunsanian."

Also in February 1971 but separate from the Adult Fantasy list, Ballantine reissued August Derleth's "posthumous collaborations" with Lovecraft, The Survivor and Others, together with the Lovecraft volume of verse Fungi From Yuggoth and Other Poems; both had Gervasio Gallardo covers and several end pages advertising Adult Fantasy titles, and they looked like a part of the series, albeit missing the Unicorn's Head logo. It may have been felt that the predominantly macabre content of these two books was not entirely in keeping with the Adult Fantasy theme, but that did not stop them issuing the anthology, The Spawn of Cthulhu, later in the year (nor had it influenced their decision to print The Boats of the Glen Carrig).

Something About Eve by James Branch Cabell appeared in March as did Red Moon and Black Mountain by Joy Chant, the second original novel to appear in the series, a good if derivative fantasy. This book was reprinted in November 1973 with completely different art, the first cover having been by Bob Pepper and the second by Ian Millar; this is the only instance of this happening, all other reprints retaining their original artwork. Hyperborea, the second Clark Ashton Smith collection, was issued in April, and as there were only ten stories and a prose poem set in Hyperborea, there were also four tales included which were set at the World's Rim.

Don Rodriguez: Chronicles of Shadow Valley (May) is a fine novel that vies with The King of Elfland's Daughter as Lord Dunsany's best long fantasy, again unavailable for many years and again a truly excellent book. Vathek by William Beckford, followed in June; first published in 1785, this edition was the first complete version, including three separately printed stories that were originally intended to be incorporated in the novel. The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton (July) was an unusual choice for the series, a satire first published in 1908, and it is apparently now one of the most difficult titles to obtain, suggesting a low print run. This book has a list of "Recent Ballantine Adult Fantasy Titles With Introductions by Lin Carter," including City of Sorcerers and The Elder Gods by Henry Kuttner and John Campbell, presumably two novellas in one volume. This never did appear, and it remains something of a mystery as to why it was described as a recent Adult Fantasy publication.

The Children of Llyr by Evangeline Walton (August) was the sequel to The Island of the Mighty, originally written many years earlier but never previously published, the author's suggested title having been The Doom of the Dark Woman. The fifth Cabell book, The Cream of the Jest, came in September, and the same month saw Carter continuing his excellent anthologies with New Worlds for Old. This time he gathered together stories and poetry from such writers as Poe, Dunsany, Howard, Lovecraft, Oscar Wilde, and Mervyn Peake as well as two pieces from his own pen (!). But readers would have welcomed seeing such hard-to-find verse as George Sterling's "A Wine of Wizardry" and Clark Ashton Smith's "The Hashish-Eater" appearing in paperback. The Spawn of Cthulhu edited by Lin Carter (October) was a collection of Mythos fiction by various authors, a good selection of stories but with little that was new to the devotee.

Double Phoenix by Edmund Cooper and Roger Lancelyn Green (November) comprises two novellas—"The Firebird" by Cooper, an original publication, and "From the World's End" by Green, first published in 1948. The Water of the Wondrous Isles by William Morris (November) first published in 1896, is a good but difficult fantasy; a random opening of the book produces these not atypical lines:

Wore the days now, till on a night of October, toward the end thereof, the witch went a-night-tide to the Sending Boat, and Birdalone followed her as erst.

Birdalone is, however, a very strong contender for the title of the most enchanting heroine in fantasy!

December's Khaled by F. Marion Crawford was another Arabian Nights–style fantasy and another forgotten book that Carter rescued from the unwarranted anonymity in which it had languished since its initial publication in 1891.

1972 was another good year for the series, starting in January with The World's Desire by H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang. First published in 1890, this sequel to The Odyssey shows the Wanderer (Odysseus) seeking Helen of Troy in Egypt. Xiccarph by Clark Ashton Smith (February) was the third Smith collection to appear, and while it covers various story cycles, it is still a nicely rounded collection. The Lost Continent by C.J. Cutcliffe Hyne (also February), an entertaining Atlantis adventure dating from 1899, has a cover and title pages that consistently misspell the author's name as Cutliffe Hyne. Also appearing in February but not under the Unicorn's Head logo was Carter's Lovecraft: A Look Behind the "Cthulhu Mythos"; with its distinctive Gallardio cover and its content, it looked as if it should be a part of the Adult Fantasy series. Discoveries in Fantasy, edited by Lin Carter, appeared in March, an anthology of stories by four authors (Ernest Bramah, Richard Garnett, Donald Corley, and Eden Phillpotts) whose names would have meant little to contemporary readers but who in their time were much renowned. The contents capably demonstrate that such renown was not undeserved. A second March title was Domnei by James Branch Cabell, the sixth and last Cabell book to appear.

Kai Lung's Golden Hours by Ernest Bramah (April) is perhaps the best of the Kai Lung books and an excellent introduction to the stylish elegance of Bramah's imaginary China. Deryni Checkmate, by Katherine Kurtz (May), was the second in Kurtz's series of original novels. Another May title was Beyond the Fields We Know by Lord Dunsany. This is notable for the inclusion of the whole of Dunsany's first book, The Gods of Pegana (its first printing since 1911) and for featuring a play and a number of poems as well as various other short stories. The Three Impostors by Arthur Machen (June) was a reprint of the whole of the original 1895 version of the book, which had been abridged in many subsequent editions. An extra story was also added, "The Red Hand," which features Dyson, the main character in The Three Impostors.

In July, The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson was published simultaneously in two separate volumes and was a welcome reprint of a real classic of weird fiction, an astounding, genuinely unique novel, one that has drawn much criticism but which succeeds magnificently on its own terms. This first paperback publication was in an abridged version, Lin Carter actually referring to the excised scenes as the "nadir of taste ... excruciating emotional excesses." Various other authorities have also commented on what they perceive as a weakening of the overall effect by the romantic interludes, but they form an integral part of the whole and add to the book's power rather than detracting from it. Fortunately the unedited version is nowadays readily available.

The Song of Rhiannon by Evangeline Walton (August) was the first new novel that the author had written in many years and the third in her sequence of retellings of Welsh myth.

Great Short Novels of Adult Fantasy #1 edited by Lin Carter (September) featured four long stories with original publication dates ranging from 1856 to 1953. The contents are "The Wall of Serpents" by Fletcher Pratt and L. Sprague de Camp (a Harold Shea story); "The Kingdom of the Dwarfs" by Anatole France; "The Maker of Moons" by Robert W. Chambers; and "The Hollow Land" by William Morris.

Evenor by George Macdonald (November) comprised two short stories and a novelette from 1867–75 by the author of Lilith and Phantastes. This book's introduction indicates that a companion series was to be launched, Magic Kingdoms, which was intended to cover classic fantasy novels for children, but that project never came to fruition.

The regular monthly schedule had started to stutter by the end of 1972 with only one title printed between October and December, but the series was still thriving in a literary sense and the following year saw no letup in the standard that the readers had come to expect.

1973 opened with what was the start of an intended sequence of prose translations of Ariosto's epic poem Orlando Furioso, which was first published in 1513(!). No subsequent volumes appeared, although presumably they would have, had the Adult Fantasy series continued. Volume 1, The Ring of Angelica, translated by Richard Hodgens, is entertaining and easy to read. Another fine Lord Dunsany novel was February's The Charwoman's Shadow. It was reprinted in September, a mere seven months later, suggesting that the initial print run must have been low, perhaps indicative of unimpressive sales figures of the series in general and a cutting back on the publisher's part.

Great Short Novels of Adult Fantasy #2, edited by Lin Carter (March), was another high quality anthology, this time containing the four novellas "The Woman in the Mirror" by George Macdonald; "The Repairer of Reputations" by Robert W. Chambers; "The Transmutation of Ling" by Ernest Bramah; and "The Lavender Dragon" by Eden Phillpotts. One does, however, have to question Carter's definition of "short novel," as the Macdonald story is only 24 pages long!

In May 1973, The Sundering Flood by William Morris was the fourth title by that author to appear, this being his last novel, the draft of which was finished only twenty-five days before his death in 1896 then edited by his daughter May Morris, and published posthumously the following year.

Imaginary Worlds by Lin Carter (June) is a very interesting history of fantasy. Carter really knew the genre—all of it—and was particularly capable at getting his knowledge and enthusiasm across in a readable and entertaining way. Poseidonis by Clark Ashton Smith (July) was the fourth Smith collection that Carter published, featuring all of his Atlantis fiction plus other unrelated stories.

Appearing in August, Excalibur by Sanders Anne Laubenthal was another new novel, a fascinating and compelling modern-day Arthurian adventure set in the unlikely location of Kentucky. High Deryni by Katherine Kurtz (September) was the third in the series, and Hrolf Kraki's Saga by Poul Anderson in October was a further original novel, the third in a row for the imprint. While not up to the admittedly very high standard of The Broken Sword, it is still an excellent example of forceful storytelling. The People of the Mist by H Rider Haggard (December) was a lost race novel which had first appeared in 1894.

Again the books were appearing a little fitfully rather than at the regular monthly intervals that had been the case between the introduction of the series and late 1972. Some months were missed, although September 1973 did see the reprinting of eight books, several of them third printings, plus a further three that bore the Unicorn's Head symbol (David Lindsay's A Voyage to Arcturus, E.R. Eddison's The Worm Ouroboros, and Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn) although their original Ballantine publication had preceded the commencement of the Adult Fantasy series. Similarly, later reprints of Beagle's A Fine and Private Place and Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy also had the logo.

1974 saw the end of the series with the last three books appearing. February's Kai Lung Unrolls His Mat by Ernest Bramah was chronologically the third of the Kai Lung books and the second published by Ballantine. While not quite as good as Kai Lung's Golden Hours, it is still a volume to savor as is Over the Hills and Far Away (April), their final Lord Dunsany collection, which included the remaining stories from the World's Edge and various other stories as well as two first-rate plays. Merlin's Ring by H. Warner Munn was published in June after Carter's departure, and it lacked the Unicorn's Head colophon, but his introduction specifically refers to it as a part of the Adult Fantasy series, and it should therefore be included in the list. It is a solidly entertaining Arthurian fantasy and has been reprinted several times since its first publication.

The fourth and final volume of Evangeline Walton's Mabinogian, Prince of Annwn, appeared in November 1974, also after the series had formally ended. Though the last written, it is chronologically the earliest of the four. (The cover is by David McCall Johnson, who had provided the cover for two earlier Walton novels as well as Carter's New Worlds for Old and the first volume of the translated Orlando Furiso.)

No further new volumes appeared under the Ballantine Adult Fantasy banner. Presumably sales did not justify its continuation, and although several of the books did see multiple printings, this was perhaps counteracted by the fact that others sold poorly. Ballantine Books had been bought by Random House in 1973, and it would seem that it was commercial dictates that led to the demise of what had been an exceptional succession of titles, many of which really had enriched the field.

Titles Carter intended to publish as per his introductions to various books in the series included a continuation of the Great Short Novels of Adult Fantasy anthologies; The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris; Averoigne by Clark Ashton Smith; further volumes of the translations of Orlando Furioso; The Twilight of the Gods by Richard Garnett; The Revolt of the Angels by Anatole France; a collection of stories by Voltaire, provisionally titled Zadig, and Other Marvels; a collection of short stories by Donald Corley; a "few" novels by Eden Phillpotts; a volume of short fiction by William Morris; and "several" books by Roger Lancelyn Green. Had the Adult Fantasy series continued, one assumes that these would all have appeared together with many other welcome reprints and original novels, but that was not to be.

Lin Carter continued to be active in the fantasy arena, editing The Year's Best Fantasy Stories series for DAW Books from 1975 onwards, and in 1976 two interesting compilations appeared from Doubleday under Carter's editorship: Kingdoms of Sorcery and Realms of Wizardry. The covers described each as "An Anthology of Adult Fantasy," and each had a Carter introduction and commentaries on the individual stories. They were precisely the sort of collection that had been appearing under the Unicorn's Head logo from Ballantine, which in the meantime began to concentrate on new fiction, reprinting only the more popular of their Adult Fantasies. In 1977 they relaunched both their science fiction and fantasy lines under the imprint of Del Rey books; their first new title was the fantasy, The Sword of Shannara, Terry Brooks's successful and influential epic.

It is certainly a matter of regret that the Adult Fantasy series ceased, but Ballantine and Lin Carter are to be thanked for providing readers with what they did. Not everything that was published was classic, but a far greater proportion than might be expected did come close, and several titles were undoubtedly of that stature.

Mike Barrett lives in Wilmington, Kent.

 Essay Alex Donald 2016-07-04T13:23:00-04:00 NYRSF Issue 332 Editorial: The Caucus Race http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/nyrsf-issue-332-editorial-the-caucus-race.html This is the April issue; as I write this, it is June 5. We've managed to lap ourselves: I'm putting the finishing touches on this issue after beginning work on the next one. Sigh. We actually have a plan worked...

This is the April issue; as I write this, it is June 5. We've managed to lap ourselves: I'm putting the finishing touches on this issue after beginning work on the next one. Sigh.

We actually have a plan worked out whereby we will be back to our regular schedule (with the issue coming out late in the month on the cover) by the end of July. It will be somewhat demanding, especially this month—I hope to have the May and June issues both out by the Independence Day holiday weekend—but it's achievable.

One thing the last few months have impressed on me is how thinly stretched the NYRSF staff is. All of the people listed in the masthead are smart, skilled, and dedicated to the magazine, but they are also incapable of being in two places at once. As a result, this month's Work Weekend was attended by only one staffer (beside those who were already living in Valentine's Castle). This has left us behind on many vital tasks in addition to issue production: sending out review copies, reorganizing the back issues that were hurriedly moved out of David Hartwell's office at Tor, working on the electronic archives, and many others.

As such, we're once again making an explicit call for more volunteers. We can use more volunteers in person at our monthly Work Weekends here in Yonkers—science fiction! banter! sushi!; we can also use more volunteers who are able to do electronic editing. If this seems like something interesting then please, please drop me a line at <email@example.com>.

On another matter: I'm sure that any of you who are interested in the Hugo Awards already know that the coterie of vandals who spoiled last year's finalist lists have returned with (nearly) as effective a bombing run on this year's ballot. Because the vandals are not very bright, they apparently believed that sf fans would be scandalized when Chuck Tingle, pseudonymous author of bizarre metafictive gay porn ebooks, ended up on the ballot. But Tingle has risen to the occasion, hitting back at the vandals with an immediate response book (Slammed in the Butt by My Hugo Award Nomination) and a stream of mockery making it clear they had called up what they could not make go down. For more details, I recommend this "explainer" from Vox Magazine: <www.vox.com/2016/5/26/11759842/chuck-tingle-hugo-award-rabid-puppies-explained>.

That's one of the few bright spots. The vandal leader's tactics this year were slightly more sophisticated than those of last year, resulting in some genuinely first-rate work getting onto the final ballot, in hopes of blunting the "vote all of the vandal nominees behind No Award" response that carried the day last year. (And in some categories, there were enough votes to push genuinely excellent work onto the ballot despite the vandals.) If you're voting in the Hugos, vote your conscience, but please bring particular skepticism, even suspicion, to anything closely affiliated with the vandal leader's publishing house. Those works in particular are only on the ballot because of a concerted effort to make the Hugos meaningless; don't reward them.

Unfortunately, it's not easy to figure out where to go from here. Several reforms to the Hugo voting process were started last year, but the initial number crunching on the most ambitious of them makes it clear that the silver bullet has not been found. That's unsurprising; as more and more of the world is making clear, it's far easier to launch attacks against specific targets than it is to defend against all possible attacks. Jim Henley's recent essay "Hugo McHugoface Has Sailed" <highclearing.com/index.php/archives/2016/05/22/19209> draws direct lines among the famous "Boaty McBoatface" poll, the Hugos, and online harassment brigades. There are people who just want to watch the world burn, and it doesn't take a lot of them to set at least a few things on fire.

It's unlikely that a silver bullet will be found. But very few complex problems are solved (or even lessened) by a single countermeasure; compared to online griefers, syphilis was simple. But the World Science Fiction Society isn't limited to a single change, and I have a fair faith that they'll end up creating a new system that is still recognizably the Hugo Awards.

(Note to all sf writers: If your future doesn't somehow address the problem of distributed harassment networks, you're not taking the present seriously enough.)

—Kevin J. Maroney
and the editors

 Editorial TOC Alex Donald 2016-07-03T13:17:26-04:00 NYRSF Issue 332 (April 2016): Table of Contents http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/nyrsfn-issue-332-april-2016-table-of-contents.html Lisa Padol: Wombats in the World: Delving into Morality Gina K. Abercrombie-Winstanley and Dr. Anne-Marie Callus: Disability in Intergalactic Environments: The Representation of Disability in Star Trek Brian Stableford: Locating the Future Within the Past:Louis Geoffroy's Invention of a New...

Lisa Padol: Wombats in the World: Delving into Morality

Gina K. Abercrombie-Winstanley and Dr. Anne-Marie Callus: Disability in Intergalactic Environments: The Representation of Disability in Star Trek

Brian Stableford: Locating the Future Within the Past:Louis Geoffroy's Invention of a New Romantic Genre

The Dark Forest by Cixin Liu, translated by Joel Martinsen, reviewed by David Mead

Mike Barrett: Out of the Angry Darkness: The Weird Fiction of L.C.T. Rolt

Joe Sanders: Maps without Legends: The Peculiar Explorations of Felix Gilman

Editorial: The Caucus Race

 Editorial TOC Alex Donald 2016-07-03T13:13:52-04:00 K. Abercrombie-Winstanley and Dr. Anne-Marie Callus: Disability in Intergalactic Environments: The Representation of Disability in Star Trek http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/k-abercrombie-winstanley-and-dr-anne-marie-callus-disability-in-intergalactic-environments-the-repre.html The science fiction series Star Trek is peopled with various humanoid species living and working together, reflecting the philosophy of its creator, Gene Rodenberry, that diversity is a strength to be celebrated, a belief reflected in the Vulcan ideal of...

The science fiction series Star Trek is peopled with various humanoid species living and working together, reflecting the philosophy of its creator, Gene Rodenberry, that diversity is a strength to be celebrated, a belief reflected in the Vulcan ideal of "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations." Among the issues of diversity that feature in many episodes, there are those related to disabled people. On the whole, the representation of disability in Star Trek encourages the viewer to challenge stereotypes about people with disability and to see them not simply in terms of their impairments but as people who go about their work in ways which are sometimes different from the norm; simply beings with "differing abilities." This is especially the case for people with sensory or mobility impairments. They may see in a different way, communicate in a different way or move around in a different way, but they still give a valid contribution, and in some episodes it is their very difference that saves the day. When it comes to intellectual disability, however, the representation takes on a more negative turn.

'To boldly go where no man has gone before" is the best known line from Star Trek's opening sequence. It has created its fair share of debate—from the grammatical accuracy of split infinitives to arguments about whether the use of "man" was sexist. (It was replaced by "one" in later versions of the opening.) The line has also been adopted and adapted by the disability rights movement and turned into "to boldly go where everybody else has been before" (Direct Action Network). The point made by this take on the Star Trek line is that what disabled people, who make up 15% of the world's population and are the largest minority (per United Nations Enable), want to do are the ordinary activities of daily life that nondisabled people take for granted.

Disability in the twenty-first century is recognized widely to be not simply a challenge for the individual but increasingly also a concern and responsibility of society. The appropriate public responses to disability issues are nowadays seen to be not only limited to providing medical care and rehabilitation services and to ensuring the welfare of people with disability. There is also increasing recognition of the need to ensure that society caters to the impairment-related requirements of people with disability and that they enjoy their rights as citizens on an equal basis with others. As Diane Driedger points out, this recognition was the main aim of the disability rights movement which developed and grew in the post–World War II era alongside other minority rights movements (Driedger 1989). The culmination of the demands of the disability rights movement at the national level can be said to be the enactment of disability antidiscrimination laws in many countries, starting with the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of this landmark legislation, President Obama declared that, with the inclusion of people with disability in the mainstream of society, "America is stronger and more vibrant; it is a better country because of the ADA."

On an international level, the adoption of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in 2006 represents a universal recognition of disability as a societal issue. This Convention, which to date has been signed by 160 countries and ratified by 159, recognizes that

disability is an evolving concept and ... results from the interaction between persons with impairments and attitudinal and environmental barriers that hinder their full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others. (United Nations 2)

For Gene Roddenberry and the scriptwriters of Star Trek, disability is also an aspect of human experience that travels into the distant future and into the depths of intergalactic space. There are many episodes which feature characters who have a disability and where disability issues are brought to the fore. In this paper, we explore the representation of disability in three episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation (TNG) and one episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (DS9) from the late 1980s and early 1990s, a time when the demands being made by people with disability were no longer simply the struggle of a small group but had started to be recognized and adopted by governments worldwide. The chosen episodes are "The Masterpiece Society" (TNG Season 5 Episode 13, 1992), "Melora" (DS9 Season 2 Episode 6, 1993), "Loud as a Whisper" (TNG, Season 2 Episode 5, 1989), and "Samaritan Snare" (TNG, Season 2 Episode 17, 1989).

The Masterpiece Society

"The Masterpiece Society" deals with the place of disabled people in society through an encounter the crew of the USS Enterprise have with a planet, Moab 4, that has been colonized by humans who have gone through eight generations of selective breeding in order to create the perfect society. The Enterprise crew detect an impending tectonic disaster for the planet and contact its inhabitants to warn them that they need to evacuate. Catastrophe is prevented through the joint work of the colony's main scientist, Hannah Bates, and Geordi La Forge, the Enterprise's chief engineer, who was born blind and uses a piece of assistive equipment, appropriately called the VISOR, that allows him to see. The colony is saved thanks to the technology in La Forge's visor. This, he wryly observes is "perfect.... If the answer to all of this is in a VISOR created for a blind man who never would have existed in your society."

The society that the Enterprise crew encounter on Moab 4 is not a homogenous one—there are men and women, people of different ages, and people from different ethnicities. There is no mention of religion—although given Roddenberry's humanist beliefs it is doubtful that religious diversity would be scripted into the plot (cf. Grech 2013). Nor is there any reference to non-heterosexual relationships—the couples featured in the episode all are composed of a man and a woman. However, the absence of disabled people on the planet is problematized in the episode. After all, it is they who have been deliberately genetically engineered out of existence.

"The Masterpiece Society" brings to the fore issues that are of very real concern for disabled people on Earth in the twenty-first century. Advancements in medical technology and in genetic engineering have brought about better outcomes for disabled people with different types of congenital impairments as well as those people who have acquired an impairment following an accident or an illness. These positive outcomes include longer life expectancy and the reduction of the deleterious effects of impairments, especially when they have been sustained through injury or disease. Conversely, these advancements have also brought questions about the very right to life for disabled people. Among these, one finds the issue of allowing abortions of disabled fetuses beyond the normal legal limits for abortions in general, legislation for assisted dying, and preimplantation genetic screening during in-vitro fertilization. These possible practices are predicated on a very negative view of life with a disability as a life of suffering and of a perspective of disabled people as being a burden on their family and their society. This view is explicitly articulated in "The Masterpiece Society" by Bates when she tells La Forge, "It was the wish of our founders that no one had to suffer a life with disabilities." Many disability rights groups oppose these eugenic practices, including Not Dead Yet, an American grassroots organization which campaigns against assisted suicide and euthanasia of old, ill, and disabled people.

Bernard Prusak discusses the objections put forward by the German philosopher Jurgen Habermas to genetic engineering, objections that are based on the argument that it represents an unwarranted intrusion into a person's life right at the very start of that life, thus curbing that person's free will. Prusak writes:

The severely disabled person does not have to vie with alien intentions incarnated in her own body, as Habermas asks us to imagine that the person "at odds with genetically fixed intentions" might. The severely disabled person might well be restricted in her choice of life plan, but the wound to her autonomy would not be the same as the wound potentially suffered by the eugenically programmed person. (40)

As Charles Savona-Ventura and Victor Grech state, science fiction programs like Star Trek allow us to imagine what human society would be like in certain scenarios. This episode is a particularly good example of this, as Belanoff and Piller present to us exactly the scenario that Habermas would write about two decades later. Picard, captain of the Enterprise, sums it up when he argues that the inhabitants of Moab 4 "have given away their humanity": "the uncertainty, self-discovery, the unknown—these are many of the qualities that make life worth living. Well, at least to me." But of course it is not only for Picard that this is so. Some of the inhabitants of this planet, including chief scientist Bates, realize this and opt to leave their colony and live among humans whom they had previously considered to be their inferiors and with whom they had refused to associate. Bates goes so far as to turn the logic of selective breeding on its head when she equates it to living in the Dark Ages.

La Forge also has something to say about the deliberate removal of people with disability when he asks Bates what right anyone has to decide whether he, and therefore also other people with disability, should exist. Therefore, away from the dramatic intervention to save Moab 4 and its inhabitants, this episode has two important messages about disability—that disability is part of the human condition and that people with disability have a contribution to make to society.

Melora

The DS9 episode "Melora" delves deeper into the concerns of the disability rights movement by highlighting issues around how disability is created, the importance of taking the perspectives of persons with disability into account, and the nature of independence. In this episode, Melora is a new recruit to the Deep Space Nine base who, since she comes from a low gravity planet, has to use a wheelchair (which she calls a trolley car) to get around on board. Melora's imminent arrival is the subject of an animated discussion among her prospective colleagues. They wonder "what it must be like" to go around in a wheelchair, "think what she's been through" during her journey and wonder how "she flies across the room," that is, the private quarters that have been adjusted for her low-gravity needs. Dr. Bashir refers to her as "extraordinary." Already, before Melora has even arrived, she is singled out as being different and special.

The conversation that takes place with Melora shortly after her arrival at Deep Space Nine, presents most of the disability-related issues that are then addressed in this episode:

MELORA: I'm sorry if I seem overly sensitive, but I'm used to being shut out of the Melora problem. The truth is, there is no Melora problem until people create one. This may sound ungrateful because Doctor Bashir has been wonderfully helpful in the preparations for my arrival, but frankly I wonder why a medical opinion is necessary in this discussion.

DAX: Julian [Bashir] knows more of your capabilities than any of us.

MELORA: I don't need a medical opinion to tell me my own capabilities.

SISKO: Ensign.

MELORA: I simply object to being treated like someone who is ill.

SISKO: I don't see anybody doing that.

MELORA: Try sitting in the chair, Commander. No one can understand until they sit in the chair.

Melora has come to the base aware of the reactions that she is likely to provoke with her wheelchair. At first, she is very much on the defensive, eager to show that she is an ensign who has come to the base to do her duties just like any other ensign. She does not want the focus to be on her wheelchair, arguing that "there is no Melora problem until people create one." Melora's statement is based on a clear distinction between the impairment (in her case, the inability to move freely in a high-gravity environment) and the disability (her not being able to move around Deep Space Nine unless she has the right equipment and an obstacle-free environment). Melora remarks later in the episode, "What kind of an architect would design a raised rim at every door?" It is not the low-gravity way of walking that bothers Melora but the unnecessary obstacles that are unthinkingly created by a society that takes "no or little account of people who have physical impairments" (UPIAS and Disability Alliance 20).

Melora's argument is directly in line with the tenet of the social model of disability which Frances Hasler calls the disability movement's "big idea." The proposition of the social model is based on a clear distinction being made between biological impairment (which can be physical, sensory, neurological, or mental) and the socially created disabling barriers that people with these impairments encounter that prevent them from participating in a community-based life on an equal basis with others (cf. Hasler 1993). The concept of the social model was formulated by the British disabled activist and academic Mike Oliver, who contrasts it to the medical model that sees disability as being equivalent only to the individual's impairment and as being only a medical concern (cf. Oliver 1998). Melora also brings up this issue of the conflation of the everyday concerns of people with disability with medical issues. Shortly after her arrival at the base, she resists having a medical check-up to assess her capabilities, arguing that "I don't need a medical opinion to tell me my own capabilities.... I simply object to being treated like someone who is ill."

Another important disability related issue raised by Melora in the dialogue quoted above is her aversion "to being shut out of the 'Melora' problem." She resents having her needs discussed without being consulted and without her perspective being taken into account. There is a direct parallel here with the battle cry of the disability rights movement "nothing about us without us." When people with disability began to mobilize and fight for their rights, it was not only accessibility and community inclusion that they struggled for. They also demanded that their voice be heard, arguing that it is people with disability who are truly experts on what it means to live with a disability (Driedger). Again, Melora states this when she says, "No one can understand until they sit in the chair."

Later on, the episode treats the question of independence. Melora is fiercely independent, if not always physically then mentally. She is also very keen to press this point with her new colleagues to the point of seeming aggressive, until she is challenged about this by Bashir. "Melora, no one on this station is completely independent. In space, we all depend on one another to some degree." The debate about independence takes center stage when Melora faces a dilemma with the possible resolution of her gravity-related restrictions. The cure, developed by Bashir, would enable her to walk. But it would mean that she would never be able to go back home to live and would only be able to visit her own planet briefly because her body would not be attuned to a low-gravity environment anymore. In the end, she rejects the cure, arguing that "maybe independence isn't all it's cracked up to be."

For persons with disability, in fact, independence does not simply mean doing everything on your own. Jenny Morris, another British disabled activist and academic, has written much about the subject of independent living (Morris 1999). Independent living is conceptualized in terms of people with disability living in the general community with the necessary support. What is important for people with disability is that the support provided, whether it is in the form of personal assistants or assistive equipment, enables them to live their lives on their own terms. Although the focus of this episode is on severe mobility impairment—especially on the wheelchair, the quintessential symbol of disability—it draws on the fundamental arguments made by activists in the disability rights movement. The issues raised go right to the heart of this movement and have resonance for people with different types and levels of impairment.

Loud as a Whisper

The arrival on board the Enterprise of Riva, the Deaf protagonist of the TNG episode "Loud As A Whisper," is as much discussed by the crew as Melora's arrival is on board Deep Space Nine. However, unlike the Deep Space Nine crew, Captain Picard and his crew are not aware of Riva's disability. Their discussion is about his reputation as a very skilled mediator, mentioning how it was thanks to him that the word "peace" entered the Klingon vocabulary. It is precisely for this skill that his services have been requested to intervene in the hostilities on the planet Solais V. When Riva arrives with his Chorus of three interpreters who can read his thoughts and interpret them into speech, Picard and the rest of the welcoming party have to do a double-take. Their focus suddenly shifts from Riva the mediator to Riva the Deaf Person, making his impairment and his means of communication the most important aspect about him. This is very typical of what happens to disabled people in their encounters with nondisabled people; it is their disability that becomes the most salient part of their identity.

The Enterprise crew has to make some adjustments to what is for them the unique way in which Riva communicates. Picard erroneously addresses one of his interpreters rather than Riva himself—a breach of etiquette when communicating with someone through an interpreter. To his credit, he quickly redresses this mistake when he introduces Riva to the rest of the crew and tells them to address Riva, not his interpreters. Before this happens, there is a brief discussion of what Picard calls "this rare form of communication." For Riva, of course, it is anything but rare—it is simply the way he communicates. Through the Chorus, he explains that deafness is hereditary in his family, saying that "our way of communicating has developed over the centuries, and it's one that I find quite harmonious."

This can, of course, be said about any human language. In fact, people who were born with a profound hearing impairment and use sign language as their primary means of communication identify themselves as part of a culture and write the word "Deaf" with a capital D to denote their identification as part of a linguistic and cultural minority. When negotiations are about to begin on Solais V and the representative of one of the tribes opens fire and kills all three of Riva's interpreters, his means of communication becomes sign language. The android, Data, quickly learns Riva's language in order to ensure that communication is maintained. Sign language thus takes center stage in the episode as it is used as the means of getting the warring tribes on Solais V to communicate with each other. Data and Troi explain the reasoning behind this strategy:

DATA: Yes, it is turning a disadvantage into an advantage. Learning sign will be a part of their process of learning how to live together in peace.

TROI: While they are learning how to communicate with Riva, they'll be learning how to communicate with each other.

DATA: And that is the first and most important aspect of any relationship. Counsellor, it took me only moments to learn sign language. It will take them months.

TROI: Time well spent.

Riva turns out to be the ideal person to bring peace to Solais V not only because of his expertise in mediation, but also because his means of communication becomes the means for mediation.

Another interesting aspect of this episode is that Howie Seago, the actor who plays Riva, was also born deaf. The portrayal of disabled characters by actors who have the same disability in real life is a much debated issue in disability rights circles. As Elura Psaila says, while the use of blackface by white actors to depict black characters is no longer acceptable, it is still considered acceptable practice for nondisabled actors to play disabled characters (cf. Psaila 2015). The arguments in favor of casting disabled actors include the fact that such actors do not have as many opportunities as their nondisabled counterparts for a part in most productions. Additionally, if a plot does include a disabled character, having a person with the same disability playing the part usually makes for a more authentic and realistic portrayal.

"Loud as a Whisper" is thus another example of the way that Star Trek presents disability issues in an affirmative and positive manner. Together, the three episodes reviewed so far enable the viewer to challenge preconceived, often negative, ideas about disability. They also portray disabled people as giving a worthy contribution to the society they live in, especially when that society understands their needs and provides the means of assistance necessitated by their impairments.

Samaritan Snare

While people with mobility or sensory impairments are given positive portrayals in Star Trek, unfortunately the same cannot be said for those who have an intellectual disability, especially in the TNG episode "Samaritan Snare." In this episode, the crew of the Enterprise receive a mayday call from a spaceship which turns out to be helmed by the Pakleds. The Pakleds' physical appearance, their rather ungainly movements, and their slow and limited language clearly mark them as having an intellectual disability. When communication is established with the Pakleds, Captain Grebnedlog explains in a faltering way that they need help. Throughout the episode, Pakled speech is restricted to short simple sentences, which are often repeated: "We are far from home," "We need help," and "We look for things." Some of the Pakled responses to the questions posed by Geordie La Forge and his colleagues are non-sequiturs and information sometimes needs to be patiently extracted from them:

GEORDI: What seems to be the problem?

GREBNEDLOG: Our ship is the Mondor.

There are therefore several markers of the Pakleds' status as people with intellectual disability.

The Enterprise responds to the Pakled plea for help to repair their broken ship. The chief engineer, Geordie La Forge, goes on board the Mondor to fix the problem. But it turns out that the mayday call was a trap. The Pakleds acquire technology by relying on "good Samaritans" to board their ship to help, then kidnapping them and asking for technology as ransom. The Pakleds therefore use scheming, low cunning, and violence to get what they want.

First Officer Riker, who is standing in for Captain Picard in his absence, goes so far as describing the Pakleds as "curious throwbacks," a phrase that draws from the worst theories about the nature of intellectual disability. Counsellor Troi continues in the same vein when she argues that they are "unwilling to wait for the timely evolution of their species' intellectual capacity." Even if unwittingly, Riker and Troi's argument is taken straight from the seriously misguided ideas engendered by Social Darwinism in the nineteenth century about the different rates of evolution of different types of human beings as discussed by Patrick McDonagh among others (cf. McDonagh 2008). It is rather ironic that the characters of a story set in a fictional twenty-fourth century should make use of a real-world theory from five centuries earlier and a discredited one at that. When John Langdon Down set out the typology of what is today called Down syndrome and called it "Mongolism," he was not simply making a comparison with the almond-shaped eyes of people with this condition to the eyes of people in Mongolia. He was also drawing on the idea that "non-Anglo-Saxons, as well as Anglo-Saxons of lower social classes, occupied a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder" (McDonagh 268). People with Down syndrome, together with other "cretins" and "imbeciles," as people with intellectual disability were then classified, were placed in the same category of less evolved humans thanks to what was called "recapitulation theory." Riker's description of the Pakleds as throwbacks and Troi's argument about their needing to wait for evolution to run its course are dangerously close to this theory. Furthermore, at no point is the Pakleds' ability to travel in space acknowledged as a positive achievement.

As a result, not only does "Samaritan Snare" not portray disabled people in a positive manner, but it also serves to reinforce the worst stereotypes about people with intellectual disability, a group of people who time and again are assigned inferior positions even within the disability sector itself. This perceived inferiority is evident in different ways. Historically, the disability rights movement did not embrace people with intellectual disability within it. As Jane Campbell and Mike Oliver state, this movement initially represented the concerns of people with mobility or sensory impairments, and it was only eventually that the concerns of persons with intellectual disability were taken on board (cf. Campbell and Oliver 1996). Mark Deal explains how disability is conceptualized by many in terms of a hierarchy, with disabled people who have a physical or a sensory impairment being seen (and sometimes also seeing themselves) as superior to people who have an intellectual disability. Furthermore, as Dan Goodley argues, the social model of disability, referred to above, is not always seen as being applicable to people with intellectual disability since the difficulties they face are often considered to originate entirely from their cognitive impairment rather than from any socially created barriers (cf. Deal 2003, Goodley 2001)

While, at least within the disability rights movement, ideas have thankfully changed, stereotypes still remain. One prevalent stereotype about people with intellectual disability identified by Wolf Wolfensberger is that they remain in a childlike state despite having reached adulthood (cf. Wolfensberger 1972). This stereotype also figures in "Samaritan Snare." Troi's argument about their needing to wait for the evolution of their species' intellectual capacity prompts the following exchange:

PULASKI: You make them sound like petulant children.

TROI: Yes. Infantile humans are known for responses of a similar nature.

The crew of the Enterprise, including the captive Geordie, proceed to treat the Pakleds as children, using conspiratorial glances and condescending remarks, and even making sarcastic comments about their limited abilities in front of them—all of which are slights that many people with intellectual disability are all too familiar with.

Eventually, the Pakleds are tricked into thinking that they have been given the weapons that they wanted. Reginod exclaims "We are a force now. We will have respect. Power." Respect and power are precisely what people with intellectual disability need. Not firepower, of course, but equal power relationships with those around them, especially family members and staff who work with them. Through such relationships, they can have a say in their lives, control over where and how they live, and choice about the activities they engage in. This is the message put across by a group of people in the United Kingdom with intellectual disability in their book We Are Not Stupid (Taylor et al.). The book is written in simple English and includes pictures that help make the text easier to understand. These two features may make it sound like a children's book, but it is not. People with intellectual disability do need texts to be written in easy-to-read language, and often they do need support in learning to a far greater extent than other people. But that does not mean that they do not deserve respect as adults.

Conclusion

The inclusion of characters with disability in various Star Trek episodes serves to highlight issues that are of concern for disabled people in their struggle for equal rights and full inclusion in society. These issues are often very complex, and the ways they are presented in Star Trek often challenge preconceived notions of what it is like to live with a permanent disability. This is especially the case when the issues concerned such as the nature of independence or the need for a cure are seen from the point of view of persons with disability or differing ability themselves. On the other hand, sometimes stereotypes and misconceptions are reinforced rather than challenged, especially in the portrayal of people with an intellectual disability. This shows how important it is to analyze the representation of disability in series and films such as Star Trek within the context of what disabled persons themselves have to say about their lives and about the obstacles they face to truly gain their rightful place in society here on planet Earth.

Gina K. Abercrombie-Winstanley is the former United States ambassador to Malta. Dr. Anne-Marie Callus lectures at the University of Malta, Msida.

Works Cited

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Chappell, A.L. "Still Out in the Cold: People with Learning Difficulties and the Social Model of Disability." In The Disability Reader: Social Sciences Perspectives, T. Shakespeare, editor. London: Cassell, 1998.

Deal, Mark. "Disabled People's Attitudes Toward Other Impairment Groups: A Hierarchy of Impairments." Disability and Society 18.7 (2003).

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Driedger, Dianne. The Last Civil Rights Movement. London: Hurst and Company, 1989.

Goodley, Dan. "'Learning Difficulties,' the Social Model of Disability and Impairment: Challenging Epistemologies." Disability and Society 16.3 (2001).

Grech, Victor. "Philosophical Concepts in Star Trek: Using Star Trek as a Curriculum Guide Introducing Fans to the Subject of Philosophy." James Gunn's Ad Astra, Issue 2. (2013) <www.adastrasf.com/philosophical-concepts-in-star-trek>, 18 December 2015. Accessed 23 April 2016.

Hasler, Frances. "Developments in the Disabled People's Movement." In Disabling Barriers, Enabling Environments. J. Swain, V. Finkelstein, S. French, and M. Oliver, editors. London: Sage, 1993.

"Loud as a Whisper." Star Trek: The Next Generation, Season 2 Episode 5. J. Zambrano, writer. L. Shaw, director. 1989.

"Masterpiece Society." Star Trek: The Next Generation, Season 5 Episode 13. A. Belanoff and M. Piller, writers. W. Kolbe, director. 1992.

McDonagh, Patrick. Idiocy: A Cultural History. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2008.

"Melora." Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Season 2 Episode 6. G. Rodenberry, R. Berman, and M. Piller, writers. W. Kolbe, E. Somers, S. Baum, M. Piller, and J. Crocker, directors. 1993.

Morris, Jenny. "The Meaning of Independent Living in the 3rd Millenium." University of Glasgow Centre for Disability Research, May 1999. <disability-studies.leeds.ac.uk/library/author/morris.jenny>, 18 December 2015. Accessed 31 May 2016.

Not Dead Yet. Not Dead Yet: The Resistance. <www.notdeadyet.org>, 18 December 2015. Accessed 31 May 2016.

Obama, Barack. "Remarks by the President on The Americans with Disabilities Act." 20 July 2015. <www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/2015/07/20/remarks-president-americans-disabilities-act>, 18 December 2015. Accessed 31 May 2016.

Oliver, Mike. The Politics of Disablement. London: Macmillan. 1990.

Prusak, Bernard, G. "Rethinking 'Liberal Eugenics': Reflections and Questions on Habermas on Bioethics." Hastings Center Report 35.6 (2005).

Psaila, Elvira. "Culture, Disability, and Television." Considering Disability 1 (2015). <consideringdisability.com/cdj/disability-and-the-problems-of-representation>, 18 December 2015. Accessed 31 May 2016.

"Samaritan Snare." Star Trek: The Next Generation, Season 2 Episode 17. R. McCullough, writer. W. Kolbe, director. 1989.

Savona-Ventura, Charles and Victor Grech. "Future Ethical Issues Involving Reproduction—with Examples from Star Trek." World Future Review 2014, 6.1 (2014).

Taylor, Jennifer, Vanessa Williams, Raymond Johnson, Ian Hiscutt, and Maggie Brennan. We Are Not Stupid. London: People First Lambeth, 2007.

United Nations. Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities and Optional Protocol. 2006. <www.un.org/disabilities/documents/convention/convoptprot-e.pdf> 15 December 2015. Accessed 23 April 2016.

United Nations Enable. Fact Sheet on Persons with Disabilities. <www.un.org/disabilities/default.asp?id=18>, 15 December 2015. Accessed 23 April 2016.

UPIAS and Disability Alliance. Fundamental Principles of Disability. 1975. <disability-studies.leeds.ac.uk/library/author/upias/>, 15 December 2015. Accessed 23 April 2016.

Wolfensberger, Wolf. The Origin and Nature of Our Institutional Models. Syracuse, New York: Human Policy Press, 1972.

Terry Farrell as Jadzia Dax & Daphne Ashbrook as Ensign Melora Pazlar, "Melora"

 Essay Alex Donald 2016-07-03T13:07:36-04:00 Lisa Padol: Wombats in the World: Delving into Morality http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/07/lisa-padol-wombats-in-the-world-delving-into-morality.html I am going to take a very cursory look at three types of fantasy: modern fantasies that embrace ethical and moral questions; myth; and roleplaying games. These come together into a kind of fantasy that can fit as a cushion...

I am going to take a very cursory look at three types of fantasy: modern fantasies that embrace ethical and moral questions; myth; and roleplaying games. These come together into a kind of fantasy that can fit as a cushion and as a set of guidelines between ourselves and often painful questions of morality.

In Ursula Vernon's serial comic, Digger, the eponymous wombat heroine finds herself far from home and wants to return. She becomes entangled with events and people in her new location, and she finds herself trying to live by and clarify a moral code.

Talking baldly about evil and good and about issues such as spousal abuse and community abuse of individuals is uncomfortable (even if the abuse is seen as and perhaps may be necessary for the continued functioning of the community). It may be easier instead to look indirectly, to see a community of hyenas through the eyes of a wombat who only wants to get home.

We often feel, subconsciously at least, that our community's rules describe how the world works, and people who think they know how the rules work sometimes try to game them. To quote Murai from Digger, rules, like myths, exist "to make sense of things." Myths explain what the rules of the world are and how they came to be that way.

Roleplaying games have rules that describe how the game world works in all respects, including ethics and morality. Here, I will use D. Vincent Baker's roleplaying game Dogs in the Vineyard—specifically at the mechanics for resolving conflicts—to help understand the conflicts in Digger.

Dogs in the Vineyard defines four "arenas of conflict":

1. Talking

2. Physical, but not fighting. This could include moving to block a doorway or embracing someone.

3. Fighting.

4. Fighting with major weapons. In the case of Dogs in the Vineyard, that's a gun. In Digger, it would probably be any lethal weapon.

There are a few additional points important to understanding the structure of conflict in Dogs. First, conflicts are about something. For a conflict to matter, what is at stake must matter to the story. Second, one can use relationships, personality traits, and objects in a conflict provided doing so fits the narrative. And third, each arena is equally important, and one can move between them. This is called "escalation" and usually happens at the point where one would otherwise have to yield.

When a Dogs conflict begins, the contesting sides (usually the player character and some gamemaster-controlled character or object) both determine what skills, traits, and relationships are involved, creating a pool of dice corresponding to those elements. The dice are then rolled and compared in a back-and-forth process, each contestant adding more dice from the initial pool to increase their total until either one side concedes or escalates—e.g., by moving from talking (use dice related to the nature of the argument like, "That's my family you're messing with") to blocking a door to keep them from leaving (add dice for strength) to punching (add dice for boxing experience) to shooting (add dice for gun skill). Escalation gives the contestant more dice to roll and use in a conflict.

Clearly, one can move from talking to blocking a doorway to punching someone to pulling a gun. But one can also move from punching one's foe to hugging him or from a standoff with guns to talking. "Escalating to talking" is an odd phrase. Yet the seed of this paper came from a scene in the television series Heroes where that is exactly what happened.

The final episode of the first season of Heroes, "How to Stop an Exploding Man," begins with three men pointing guns at each other. It's a classic trope of action films. But this standoff is resolved with dialogue when one of the men, the telepathic policeman Matt Parkman, tells the others that he does not intend to let anyone kill a ten-year-old girl.

What is at stake is the life of that girl, Molly. Matt has escalated from Guns to Talking. And it is an escalation. Words are powerful, and Matt is putting his relationships at risk with his words. His words stop Noah Bennet from killing one girl to remove a potential danger to another.

Many of the most powerful scenes in Digger are conversations about ethics, morality, and the correct course of action. The three threads of Digger that I will discuss are:

The conflict between two priests of the militant order of the Veiled, Captain Jhalm, and the teenage girl, Murai.

The relationship between the hyena Ed and the hyena tribe that exiled him.

The demon Shadowchild's attempt to learn what evil is and how to be good.

I. Murai in the Doorway

Digger takes an almost instant dislike to Captain Jhalm of the Veiled, categorizing him as a bully. Murai, however, has a different view of Jhalm, who is her commanding officer. She explains that after a mind-breaking encounter with a goddess:

Captain Jhalm was ... so nice about all of it! I'd failed at just about everything.... And he should have kicked me out, I wasn't any good anymore—but he didn't.... he said it was his fault, as my commanding officer.

While Digger would prefer to believe that Jhalm had an "ulterior motive" for his kind treatment of Murai, she admits that

his motives for helping Murai were probably fairly pure. He really had screwed up, sending a kid up against a goddess, and he knew it. The Veiled had an awfully military flavor, after all, and you just don't ditch your wounded veterans, even if they are just kids.

Furthermore, Jhalm defends Murai when the hyenas who serve the demon Sweetgrass-Voice try to capture her, holding them off alone until reinforcements arrive. He is wounded severely enough that his eye is bandaged for the rest of the story. The relationship Murai has with Jhalm and vice versa has grown stronger because of this (which, in Dogs terms, probably means increasing to a larger die size).

Jhalm plans to bring an army to the temple of Ganesh and go into the passages below the temple to break the shackles constraining the god He-Is, not realizing that the god wishes to die or that freeing him will release an evil demon. Digger prepares to go ahead of him to kill the god, but she needs more than the hour she expects to have before Jhalm arrives.

What is at stake seems to be whether someone can buy Digger enough time. Murai offers to do that although she needs someone to place her sword in her hand. Digger protests: "You can't fight Jhalm! He's got an army! You—You've got a broken arm!"

Murai, from Digger; art by Ursula Vernon

Murai responds,

Indeed. I have been telling you, have I not, that I believe Jhalm is an honorable man?

An honorable man might send an army against a single defender, but I do not believe that he can send an army against an injured girl with a sword. I believe he will try to convince me to surrender, and that will buy you time.

So I will stand in the doorway with my sword and my broken arm, and we will see which one of us is correct.

In Dogs in the Vineyard terms, Murai has not only her stats—her innate qualities—but also her relationship with Jhalm and two possessions: her sword and her broken arm.

That a broken arm is useful to the person who has it may seem strange, but earlier in the story, we have seen examples of using anything and everything in a conflict—even one's own weakness. When Digger asks the hyena Grim Eyes why she is accompanying Digger and Murai on their quest to learn more about the god beneath Ganesh's temple, the hyena explains that Boneclaw Mother, the oldest of her tribe, told her to do so, threatening to rip Grim Eyes "up one side and down the other ... even if I am blind and five times your age."

When Digger asks if Boneclaw Mother can actually do that, Grim Eyes says,

Doesn't matter. That's one of those fights where if you lose, you're humiliated, and if you win you've beaten up a blind elder who can hardly walk, which is arguably worse. She's good at using her weakness as a bludgeon.

Similarly, the talking statue of Ganesh uses Murai's weakness to guilt Digger into giving up her best chance of returning home. Digger cannot, in good conscience, allow the unworldly and often mad Murai to make the journey on her own.

Similarly, Murai's battle with Jhalm is fought with more than swords—and more than words, for Captain Jhalm has trained Murai and taken care of her, and he will have before him this girl, not some nameless foe. For her part, Murai has to face the man who trained her and whose eye is bandaged because he protected her and who now asks her to trust him rather than her own damaged mind and stand down.

Murai will not have an easy task. Just before she takes up her position, the statue of Ganesh tells her:

If you are slain, Jhalm will be grieved, but it will not sway him from what he believes to be his duty. Hold for as long as you can, but the gods do not doubt your courage and they do not require your death.

Not only is it not required that Murai die to achieve her goal; dying will explicitly not achieve that goal. If anything, it would make Jhalm more determined not to have killed her in vain. The rules of engagement here are complex.

Once Jhalm understands the situation—for, to his credit, his first assumption is that Murai has returned injured and needs treatment—the conflict begins in earnest. They are talking. Jhalm has an army. Murai has a broken arm. Each has a relationship with the other.

Jhalm invokes Murai's history of madness, saying:

I know you are doing what you believe is right. But are you certain you are not becoming... confused again? You know that sometimes you are not entirely reliable.

Are you certain that you are not having one of your episodes?

Murai is prepared for this, and she replies:

It is possible that I am mad, sir. It may even be likely.... Perhaps I am not standing here at all, and this is only in my head.

Jhalm continues his attack, saying:

Murai, let me help you. Give me the sword, and I will take you to a healer. You will not have to face the shadows alone.

It is clearly very difficult for Murai to say "no," and yet she does.

Jhalm changes tactics, using his position as her commanding officer, saying,"I do not wish to make this a direct order, Murai."

Murai responds, "I do not wish to disobey a direct order, Sir. Nevertheless, I will not step aside."

This is a bit of verbal footwork on both parts. Jhalm gives no actual order perhaps because it will make him look bad if Murai disobeys him in front of the army, perhaps because he does not want to punish her for what he believes is an honest mistake, probably some of both.

But if his words will not work, Jhalm is prepared to escalate. He says:

Murai, I have several dozen warriors with me. You cannot hold them off, and even if I give the order to try and disable you—swords are imprecise weapons. You will certainly be injured, and you may even be killed.

She tells him, "That is a chance you will have to take, Sir."

At this point, odds are, in Dogs in the Vineyard terms, the players have run through their original pool of dice and need to change things to bring in more. On the narrative level, one doesn't want to go back and forth on the same point. Murai is not going to move for words alone. Jhalm does not want to escalate, but he will not concede. If there is not to be a physical battle, something must change.

This is when the hyena warriors arrive with their leader, Boneclaw Mother. She takes over Murai's side of the conflict. She is talking, but she has her Excellent Hyena Hunters to match Jhalm's Big, Excellent Army.

After introductions are made, Jhalm says:

I regret, madam, that this is not the best time for us to speak. If you will return to your territory, I will be honored to receive a delegation from your people at the earliest possible time.

He wants the new factors gone. He may also, at first, genuinely believe that the hyenas are there because of the new policy he created of keeping them on their own land.

Boneclaw Mother asks for his arm, saying:

Took a wild boar to the hip a few years back, and when the weather changes, it feels like the bastard is still in there.

They are playing the game of being courteous, a game Jhalm started in an attempt to convince Boneclaw Mother to take her tribe and leave the area of the temple. Because he started this game, he cannot easily refuse to let the hyena take his arm, nor does he.

This would best be described as "Taking the Blow" in Dogs in the Vineyard's term. Also, this signals that Boneclaw Mother has escalated to Physical. This is important even though no physical attack will be launched. Just how important it is will be revealed only some time after the conflict is settled.

Jhalm tries to get back on script, but Boneclaw Mother cuts him off:

Let's not waste both our time, son. You're going to keep saying "I'm busy, come back later" in as many ways as you can, in hopes of finally making this senile old savage understand what you're saying. Eventually, you'll figure out that I understand perfectly well what you're saying—savage I am, but senile I'm not—and then you'll move on to diplomatically phrased threats, in hopes that we'll go away.

Again, dramatically, one doesn't want to bore or annoy the reader by having the story run around in circles, even if one might argue that Boneclaw Mother should keep Jhalm talking as long as possible since the idea is to buy time. Then again, Boneclaw Mother has her own opinion of what's at stake.

Jhalm shifts his ground to his military superiority, for his army is twice as large as the hyena's. While Boneclaw Mother notes that the hyenas are "bigger. And meaner," she concedes that they don't have swords. She even concedes that while, theoretically, a cavalry of trolls will arrive, she doesn't expect that to work.

But she notes:

Were I a crude old woman, I might point out that I've got my teeth about eight inches from your throat, son—and while I might not manage to take you out, killing me would make Grim Eyes mad enough to take your other eye, and then piss in the socket for good measure.

The physical arena is important. Boneclaw Mother is close enough to attack Jhalm. The hyena army is necessary even if it never lifts a weapon, for without it, Jhalm would ignore Boneclaw Mother. He must talk because of the physical threat the army represents.

He is not, however, moved by Boneclaw Mother's threats. Now, she is the one who shifts tactics:

I was going to point out that after your people are done with mine, there won't be very much left of yours to go haring off after dead or dying gods ... but I think you'd go alone if you had to.

So instead, let me point out that there's actually one more person in this equation ... and that's the girl standing in the doorway over there, with the broken arm.

For that is what it all comes back to: Murai, standing in the doorway, with her sword and her broken arm, denying entry to Captain Jhalm. At stake is whether Captain Jhalm will order his army to attack the wounded, mad girl for whom he feels responsible so that he can do what he believes needs to be done.

Jhalm does not want the hyenas involved in this and says, "She is none of your concern."

Boneclaw Mother says:

No? I see a warrior with an army at his back preparing to kill one brave, half-mad girl with a broken arm. I would think that would be the concern of any decent creature.

Angrier and perhaps more uncomfortable, Jhalm says again, "Madam, this is not your affair!"

Given that both sides acknowledge his military superiority, why is he reacting so strongly? It is because, as Boneclaw Mother says, "Perhaps we are not here as warriors, captain. We are here as witnesses."

For Jhalm, the physical presence of witnesses is more of a deterrent than the physical threat of an army.

He tries to convince Boneclaw Mother that she does not know "what is at stake," but here, she has the advantage. She says:

I know exactly what is at stake, Captain. You are trying to convince yourself that whatever cause you follow is worth that girl's death.

...

I know all about gods, Captain. I know that a god that demands a child's life is not a god worth serving.

Choose.

Boneclaw Mother could tell him what she knows about this god in particular. But this conflict is not about the bare facts of the situation. It is about what kind of man Captain Jhalm is and what he is and is not prepared to do for his convictions.

And Jhalm stands down, conceding the conflict. As Boneclaw Mother later tells Digger:

Nine times out of ten, you just have to rub their noses in what they're actually doing. People get carried away with their own righteousness and tend to gloss over the consequences. Show them they're about to run off a cliff and ... well.

... and just in case, I had Owl Caller mix up a couple of his best poisons and paint them on the claws of my left hand. [Ellipses in original.]

It is good to know that Boneclaw Mother had a contingency plan. While we want the perfect game, where no one has to die, we know that not everyone plays by the same rules. We get to have it both ways: Captain Jhalm stands down, shamed into seeing that what he was about to do was wrong. But, we are also assured that being right does not mean being a fool, and victory is not solely a matter of having the author on one's side.

Murai's conflict with Jhalm is a single incident that draws on an entire history of and between the two characters. Yet it is relatively simple: Jhalm is wrong in his facts and wrong in his actions.

II. Ed: Myth, Hyenas, Culture, Remembering

The situation of Ed, the outcast hyena skin painter, is more complicated, involving the myths, laws, and politics of his tribe. As Murai tells Digger, myths exist "to make sense of things." She also tells the wombat, "A good myth is always true, even if it isn't real."

The myth of the Cerulean Hills Boneclaw tribe is true. In the beginning, the first mated pair of hyenas, She-Is and He-Is, were equals. But the demon Sweetgrass-Voice tempted He-Is into trying to claim supremacy over She-Is. This led to the death of the child of He-Is and She-Is and to the defeat of He-Is.

This had consequences in myth and in hyena society. She-Is became known as She-Is-Fiercer. He-Is tried to destroy the demon possessing him by dying, but the demon gathered worshippers to keep He-Is alive by removing the hyena god's heart, hanging it from a chain and pulling constantly to keep it beating while Sweetgrass-Voice looks for someone who can free it.

In hyena society, the first-born child of most hyenas is stillborn. The females rule the tribe and are stronger than the males. This is the context that Ed comes from.

When readers first meet Ed, they know none of this. Ed is not even Ed yet. It is only after he and his guest have spent some time talking that the reader first learns that the heroine is called Digger-of-Unnecessarily-Convoluted-Tunnels or Digger, for short, and that the hyena's name has been ritually "eaten," which is why the hyena refers to himself as an "it." Digger offers him the name "Ed." This one word changes everything for him.

Ed, the hyena; art by Ursula Vernon

Digger's relationship with Ed's former tribe is complicated. Hunted first as prey then as a matter of honor when she breaks the spear of the hyena Grim Eyes, Digger nevertheless saves the hyena's life.

Grim Eyes is not entirely sure what protocol demands—what the rules of the game are—so she decides to leave that to the elders of the hyena tribe, promising to tell Digger first if she gets permission to continue the hunt. Grim Eyes will play fair.

In the course of keeping Digger alive until then, another hyena, Skull Ridges, is killed by hooded figures that Digger learns are also hyenas. Digger tells Grim Eyes about this but also tells her that the hyenas who killed Skull Ridges are dead.

This leads to a conundrum. If a person—a person by hyena standards, that is—kills a hyena, there must be a reckoning. Killing the hyenas who have killed one's tribemate counts. Unfortunately, Digger does not count as a person by hyena standards. Therefore, Skull Ridges was not properly avenged and currently has a value of trash, rather than as an honored warrior of the tribe. Digger offers to let Grim Eyes take credit for avenging Skull Ridges, but the hyena refuses, horrified at the thought of cheating. After all, if the rules are broken, anyone could lie about her status, no one could trust anyone, and hyena society would crumble.

Again, Grim Eyes refers this to the tribal elders, and Boneclaw Mother finds what she decrees to be an acceptable loophole: Digger must be made a member of the hyena tribe.

This is gaming the system that makes up the traditions of the tribe, and the hyena elders are concerned, especially the single male elder, Boneclaw Mother's "occasional paramour," Owl Caller. He seems to have nothing against Digger or against Boneclaw Mother exploiting a loophole to keep Skull Ridges's status intact. This is a loophole built into the tribe's culture. His conflict with Boneclaw Mother begins when she overhears him explaining to Digger that the adoption ceremony involves "an elaborate three-day ritual."

Boneclaw Mother says, "Yes, but Skull Ridges isn't getting any fresher. Let's cut to the chase."

Owl Caller says, "Your hearing is, as always, impeccable, madam—even if your sense of decorum is not."

In calling her sense of decorum into question, it seems that what is at stake is whether the ritual will follow the proper forms—whether it will take three days or far less time.

Boneclaw Mother's response is to cite the foundation of the tribe's traditions. "Owl Caller, the main point of the ritual is to make sure no one is entering into it lightly. Do you really think I'm doing this lightly?"

Owl Caller says, "One would hate to think so, Madam."

Without explicitly saying so, Owl Caller makes it clear that he does think it is possible she would do so—or at least that she has not convinced him that she would not do so.

Boneclaw Mother says:

Oh, come on. All of those endless questions and responses and the burnt offerings and the blood mingling and that stupid thing with the cactus spines—and for what? To make life harder for this creature who's doing something we ought to be begging her to be doing anyway.

In Dogs in the Vineyard terms, she's pulling in a die for Digger as an object. Again, she points to the reason behind the ritual, to ensure that Skull Ridges is not merely trash.

Owl Caller says, "I have no more love of pointless ritual than you do, madam, but I fear for the loss of our traditions. After all, without tradition, what protection do any of my brothers and I have except the good will of women?"

Boneclaw Mother may have thought the reason for Owl Caller's objection was for the form of the ritual, for tradition for its own sake. But what is at stake is not whether Digger will spend three days in a ritual. It is about so much more—including the place of the weaker adults of the hyena tribe, the men. Where Boneclaw Mother was saying that the reason for the ritual properly takes precedence over the ritual itself just as the territory takes precedence over the map, the signified over the signifier, Owl Caller is saying that the larger purpose of ritual, of a body of traditions, of rules cannot be so easily untangled from morals and ethics.

Myth and tradition teach that female hyenas rule over male hyenas. They teach that female hyenas must not abuse that power. They may be more guidelines than rules, but setting aside small things for expediency, as Boneclaw Mother is doing, threatens to lead to deciding that larger things are also relatively small, just as male hyenas are relatively small to some female hyenas. If female hyenas fall out of the tradition of protecting rather than abusing male hyenas, then no male hyena is safe in his own tribe.

If Boneclaw Mother can set aside the rules of the game, the rules of life among the hyenas, whenever she chooses, then any female hyena can, and the male hyenas have lost the game before it has begun. No matter what the men do, they can never be safe; the rules they are taught to follow might change at any time.

And while Ed is not referred to directly, he is very much present in both Owl Caller's and Boneclaw Mother's minds, and Owl Caller is using his relationship with Ed here as well.

Boneclaw Mother says, "That is fair enough. Our good will has failed a few too many times in recent history. But this must be done, Owl Caller." Placing a hand on his shoulder, she adds, "Let us speak after the feast, old friend. There are things we might discuss."

For all her words of concession, Boneclaw Mother is pulling rank and is sticking to her plan, her game of changing the rules. She has also escalated from Talking to Physical, placing a hand on Owl Caller's shoulder, using her relationship with him.

Owl Caller concedes the conflict. Boneclaw Mother can and will change the rules in this case. There may be a follow-up conflict later, when they are in private, but that is beyond the scope of the comic, for we never see them alone together.

After the shortened ceremony is over, Boneclaw Mother brings Digger to visit Owl Caller in his home. Owl Caller begins to broach the topic of Ed, delicately, but clearly trusting Boneclaw Mother not to have a problem with that. And indeed, she says, "It's strange, but the older I get, the deafer I go. Can't hardly hear anything some days."

The hyena with impeccable hearing is playing the game, pretending she cannot hear at all what she cannot hear as tribal matriarch.

Owl Caller asks after Ed, saying, "He is—was—my sister's son. We were close, once." He says that there was no justice in Ed's exile. Boneclaw Mother agrees, "That bitch Bloodmare outmaneuvered us. I'm to blame. I should have seen it coming." Later, she says:

In the end, someone like me can only bend tradition. I cannot break it completely, or I break the source of my own power. Bloodmare knew this. She was a formidable hunter, and her death—may She-Is-Fiercer forgive me—was a great relief to me. Bloodtail is only a shadow of her mother, and Grim Eyes seems to have shaken the family madness.

Owl Caller says of Grim Eyes, "There was good blood on her father's side," and Boneclaw Mother replies, "Yes, I suppose there was." This exchange is more fraught than it appears, for, as readers later discover, Grim Eyes's father was Ed.

Digger says that what Ed needs most is company, something Owl Caller and Boneclaw Mother cannot provide. Digger can and does. Ed does the same for her after she has learned that she must choose between meeting the Trader, Manuel, and his two-headed talking bandersnatch in one month's time or accompanying Murai on a quest that will take at least six weeks.

If she can meet them, Manuel will bring her to lands she knows from where she can find a way home. But he travels strange roads and cannot show her the route on a map or describe it for her. (I can see the gamemaster setting this up ever so carefully.) Digger knows what she needs to do, but she wants to vent her frustration first.

Ed listens, and then asks if there is "much badness underground" and if Digger has a chance to stop this "badness." When Digger says yes to both questions, he says:

Then Digger-mousie should be going to stop badness now, at once.... Is must go. Is not be saying "Is not my fight."

To explain his point, Ed tells his own story. He is introducing new stakes: whether Digger will do the right thing, not grudgingly, but with an understanding of why it must be done.

Most first-born hyena children are stillborn because of what happened in the tale of She-Is-Fiercer and He-Is. Ed was a rare first-born who did survive and was considered lucky. He married Blood-Eyes, and they loved each other. After their first child died, she began to beat him, having expected his luck to protect their first-born.

Other hyenas told him to leave his wife, but he could not bring himself to do it. When they had a child who lived, Ed hoped that things might get better.

They did not; Blood-Eyes abused her child as well as her spouse, and it took Ed a long time to realize what was going on.

Long ago, Ed could have found allies, but over the years, his value to the tribe dropped. The only way he saw to protect his daughter was for him to tear out his wife's throat in her sleep.

At the trial for the murder of his wife, Ed realizes that not only did the entire tribe, including the elders, know his wife beat him; most of them also knew that she was hurting their child. He was the only one "who is being blind."

The usual penalty would be death, but Boneclaw Mother and Owl Caller did not want this and said there had been enough killing. This is when Bloodeyes's mother and sister (Bloodmare and Bloodtail, respectively) called for Ed to be exiled and his name eaten.

Digger is appalled at how the tribe treated her friend, protesting that Ed was right, his tribe was wrong, and his punishment was not fair.

Ed says:

Fair? Tribe is not concerned with fair. Tribe must work. Is was ... bad thing. All, all bad. Is not one thing right, one thing wrong—is all wrong. Is cannot be made fair. Tribe is not punish, all tribe is fall apart, is not fair either. One death, one punishment, one ending.

...

Ed is not telling story to make mousie be weeping. Ed is telling story to make mousie understand.

And why else do we tell our stories? Why do we have our myths? To understand the rules, why the world is as it is, why we must or must not do something. And Digger must do something. Ed says:

If is being badness, if mousie can stop badness now—mousie must be going and doing. Going now. Is great shame of Skin-Painter's life that it did nothing for so long. Is great sorrow.

To Digger's insistence that Ed was not to blame, he says:

How is not to blame? Is long road, mousie, is many turnings.

It could have been leaving road many many times, could have been leaving, could have gone to hearth of mother's brother, could have run, could have done many, many things.

It is having seventeen years, long and long, to think of the things it could have done!...

But it did nothing. It was being coward, mousie. If it had acted at once, then no blame, but it did not.

And if Skin-Painter is not to blame, then Blood-Eyes also not to blame, no one to blame. Blood-Eyes hurt as badly from loss of little one. Blood-Eyes crazy. Skin-Painter sane, but coward. Elders see all, know, do nothing.

It is to blame. Blood-Eyes to blame, elders to blame. Enough for all. All failed, all wrong, all suffered.

All, all blame.

If Digger-mousie is knowing badness, is not acting to stop badness, then mousie is also to blame. Digger-mousie understands?

Digger-mousie must act now.

And Digger concedes the point and sets out with Murai.

However philosophical Ed may be, his fate remains a rebuke to his tribe or at least to those like Owl Caller and Boneclaw Mother who would see justice done. But both Boneclaw Mother and Ed understand that the tribe must "work." This comes before fairness and justice.

Still, Digger cannot stop trying to find some measure of justice for Ed. After he dies destroying the heart of He-Is and the demon Sweetgrass-Voice, she takes Boneclaw Mother's arm and says:

You have to do something for Ed!

I know he's nameless, but—you can't let it end like that. It wasn't his fault!

What is at stake is whether Ed can he be posthumously reintegrated into his tribe in any meanigful way. Can he receive some measure of justice?

Boneclaw Mother says, "You cannot force gratitude on the unwilling," but Digger says, "You could do it." She knows that Boneclaw Mother is a master of gaming the system.

The hyena concedes, saying:

Well, I had been thinking ... There isn't much I can do for Skin-Painter any more.

But it seems to me that I might have had a relative at a distant tribe named Ed, who fell heroically in battle with a demon not long ago, and it's only appropriate for me to honor him. It's a good story, and my people love a good story—and they also dearly love getting drunk and crying for people they've never met.

And if Grim Eyes and Owl Caller suspect that I am not being entirely truthful in some of the details, I think they'll have the good sense to keep quiet.

The larger problems of the hyena society will not be solved in a day or a year. But some small measure of justice can be finagled at least if one is willing to stretch a point as far as it will go. The tribe must "work," but that also means that there must be some kind of closure on Ed's story even if it is not the ideal ending.

III. Shadowchild: What is Evil?

Murai's and Jhalm's conflict and Ed's situation both exist within the context of their communities. But what happens when one finds someone who has no community, no traditions, and little understanding of the world, and who is an innocent, almost a tabula rasa?

Digger finds herself having to answer this question on a practical level when she takes on the difficult task of educating Shadowchild, a demon with deadly power and a childlike innocence and ignorance. The easy thing to do would be to let the Veiled priests kill Shadowchild, but Digger considers this wrong.

That said, she is not so naive as to believe that Shadowchild isn't dangerous. Teaching morality and ethics is protection both for and from the demon.

The Shadowchild; art by Ursula Vernon

Trying to give the "nutshell" explanation of morality, Digger lists several principles, including "Don't eat anything that talks."

She tries to keep things simple and logical where possible. She also makes a point of giving positive feedback, praising Shadowchild for stopping the hyenas from eating Digger without hurting any of them—and then immediately tries to make sure that Shadowchild won't try to hurt the hyenas before they've done anything wrong merely because they might someday try to do something wrong.

Shadowchild tries to follow Digger's rules. However, this creates a problem for the hyenas: Every time they are about to kill a deer so that they can eat, Shadowchild loudly asks the deer if it can talk. This spooks the deer, and it runs away, leaving the hyenas hungry.

Shadowchild is scrupulously following the rule "If it talks, don't eat it." Earlier, the demon asked Digger how to be sure whether something talks, and Digger told it to ask, to make a good faith effort (and not worry about whether the subject in question talks only "under certain specific circumstances, like if you dance with it under the third full moon of a new century in the rain," as Shadowchild speculated might be possible). So, Shadowchild has been asking and has made a genuine, good-faith effort to find out if every creature hunted by the hyenas talked, erring on the side of "yes," as, after all, when one is hooked on a line, perhaps all one can do is attempt an interpretive dance to answer the question. It's all quite logical and goes beyond the letter of the principle to its spirit.

Digger recognizes this and praises Shadowchild, saying, "You're trying to do the right thing, and that's good. I'm proud of you." She then asks if any of the creatures Shadowchild asked could talk. Shadowchild admits that, at best, one deer "sort of gronked" at it.

Digger tries to use inductive reasoning, building a case that, given that Shadowchild has approached several deer,and that none of them could talk, it is permissible to presume that deer as a group cannot talk and to hunt them for food. The hyenas "need to eat."

"But," says Shadowchild, "what if only one deer talks, and they eat it by accident?"

Digger gives this honest consideration, saying:

Shadow, this is tough. You have to use your best judgment. If the hyenas can't eat, they'll starve for sure, and that's worse than maybe possibly killing a talking deer that might not actually exist.

Somewhat discouraged, Shadowchild says, "Being good is hard."

Yet Shadowchild proves up to the task. It accompanies Digger, Murai, and Grim Eyes on their quest to learn more about the god below the temple of Ganesh. While the women sleep, Shadowchild finds it has company.

Sweetgrass-Voice, the demon bound to the body of He-Is, has sent a shadow of itself to speak with Shadowchild. This shadow promises the young demon knowledge of how to do the things older demons can do and answers to all questions—in return for just one thing: "These three little worms that sleep around us. Eat their shadows."

To Sweetgrass-Voice, they are worms—or threats—but not people. To Shadowchild, they are its companions and its community. And, its community has rules. As it says to Sweetgrass-Voice, "They can talk! ... You're not supposed to eat anything that can talk!"

Sweetgrass-Voice says:

Demon child, mortal rules were not meant for you! We are a different order of being. We were born in the black hearts of stars. The ways of mortals are nothing to us.

Devour them, and I will show you!

Shadowchild says, "But—I don't want to!"

This is a direct outgrowth of Shadowchild's meeting with Digger, of getting fond enough of her that even when she herself breaks the rule she taught Shadowchild, it will not eat her shadow because it would then have no one to talk to. Being with others forges relationships, bonds of friendship.

The innocent, ignorant Shadowchild from the beginnings of the story would have known only that here was one of its kind with all the answers, asking only that it eat its natural food, casually killing three people.

But this Shadowchild knows better. In the face of temptation, the young demon finds it unexpectedly easy to resist Sweetgrass-Voice, saying:

You know.... She said evil didn't look like anything, or that it looked like a lot of things.... But I think it looks like you.

In the unseen physical battle it fights, it eats "the shadowskin of memories inside" the shadow of Sweetgrass-Voice. It now knows how to destroy He-Is and Sweetgrass-Voice. But Shadowchild has paid a price for its knowledge and is not yet sure how high that price is. Sighing, the young demon says, "Growing up hurts."

Shadowchild has learned other things, too. It tells Digger:

My kind reproduce in ways that you would probably not understand, or wish to know. When we find children of our kind, they may be taught, or devoured, on the whim of their discoverer. Some of us grow up feral and hungry and are destroyed by human hunters and demon-killing swords. Some of us are raised as demons, and learn the ways of our kind.

It is always one of those two.

Sweetgrass-voice had no memories of a demon found by

...

Someone kind.

And, Shadowchild now has a new purpose:

I am going to find the others of my kind. The feral ones, first, who have not had a chance. Then, perhaps the others....

They will devour me, or I will devour them... Or perhaps we will find a new way.

Digger tries to change its mind, but Shadowchild says:

I wish to be among my own kind, even if they tear me to pieces. I, too, want to go home.

Digger has a community even if she is far from it. Shadowchild has learned that it has one as well, one that must be changed if it is to be a viable community that is not evil. There is no road map for this, no myth—yet— of how a demon can be good or why a demon should be. There is only Shadowchild who knows the rules it has been taught by outsiders. As Shadowchild says, "Someone must teach them to be good."

Shadowchild and Digger do not expect to meet again for quite some time if at all. But Shadowchild does not forget its friend.

After Digger has done what she can to ensure that Ed will be honored by his tribe, she sets off from the temple of Ganesh, certain that Trader Manuel has already left. To her surprise, he has not. He tells her:

I was supposed to be gone weeks ago. However, I have hit upon a snag.

Every bridge out of this place is guarded by trolls. Trolls who have taken an unaccountable dislike to me and are demanding tolls in excess of a hundred billy goats for passage. There are not a dozen billy goats in this town, let alone a hundred.

And when I attempted to go overland, my faithful bandersnatch has taken a notion into its head to disobey.

The bandersnatch agrees, its two heads explaining:

Head One: The shadow asked us not to.

Head Two: It was very polite....

Head One: It asked nicely.

Head Two: Hardly anyone asks us nicely.

I can almost see the players of Digger and Shadowchild. Digger's, hearing Manuel's conditions, basically sighs and accedes to the will of the gamemaster. Shadowchild's player, however, starts asking questions. How does the Trader Manuel intend to leave? What are the possible routes? Hey, the bridges are all guarded by trolls, right?

One final move in the game. One final gift from a friend, as Digger tells the trader, "I know a couple of trolls. I might be able to get you past those bridges."

Lisa Padol lives in Woodside, Queens. A version of this essay was delivered at MythCon in 2014. Digger by Ursula Vernon is available online at <diggercomic.com> and in print from Sofawolf Press <www.sofawolf.com/shop/digger>. Dogs in the Vineyard by D. Vincent Baker is published by Lumpley Games <payhip.com/lumpleygames>.

 Essay Alex Donald 2016-07-03T12:57:12-04:00 NYRSF Issue 331 (March 2016): Table of Contents http://www.nyrsf.com/2016/06/nyrsf-issue-331-march-2016-table-of-contents.html Saul-Paul Sirag: Was Kirk Allen Kiko Harrison? Annotations for "The Jet Propelled Couch" Sidebar: Known Pictures of Kiko Harrison Sidebar: When Could Kiko Harrison Have Been Lindner's Patient? Saul-Paul Sirag: Francis Burton "Kiko" Harrison and Dora Maxwell Harrison: A Timeline...

Saul-Paul Sirag: Was Kirk Allen Kiko Harrison? Annotations for "The Jet Propelled Couch"

Sidebar: Known Pictures of Kiko Harrison

Sidebar: When Could Kiko Harrison Have Been Lindner's Patient?

Saul-Paul Sirag: Francis Burton "Kiko" Harrison and Dora Maxwell Harrison: A Timeline

My Father, the Pornographer: A Memoir by Chris Offutt, reviewed by Arthur D. Hlavaty

Michael Andre-Driussi: Spike & Sofia: Their War (in Three Movies)

J.R.R. Tolkien: Architect of Middle Earth by Daniel Grotta, reviewed by Darrell Schweitzer

Our Lady of the Ice by Cassandra Rose Clarke, reviewed by Michael Levy

David V. Griffin: It's Only Forever: David Bowie, Science Fiction Superstar

Christopher Cokinos: A Darker Force: Cédric Delsaux's Dark Lens

Mike Barrett: Sumachs and Serpents: The Fiction of Ulric Daubeny

David Langford: Random Reading 16

Every Heart a Doorway by Seanan McGuire, reviewed by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes

Donald Mack Hassler: A Small Struggle with Madness Mountains after Lovecraft

Screed

Photos

Editorial: Returned

 Editorial TOC Alex Donald 2016-06-15T16:54:27-04:00