Читать книгу This World and Nearer Ones - Brian Aldiss - Страница 8

The early and mid-fifties formed a period of great richness for SF (although we did not notice at the time). Magazines sprouted and proliferated as never before, in a last glory before the onslaught of paperbacks – in much the same way, I imagine, that all the crack stage-coach runs in this country were at their peak in the very years the railways were making them obsolete.

Smith’s bookstalls were flooded with covers celebrating marvels of astronomy and space-engineering, much as they now sport anatomy and the freaky electronics of pop. Then it was that one bought one’s first Galaxys, F&SFs, Thrilling Wonders, IFs, Spaces, Fantastics, and the lesser but delectable breeds, all of which seemed to be edited by Robert Lowndes: Future, Original, and Dynamic. These magazines were not imports but British reprints.

Among the clever new names, one searched particularly for those of Richard Matheson, William Tenn, Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick, Walter Miller, and – if one was smart enough – J. G. Ballard. They were all short-story writers; the SF magazines were the ideal medium; and none of them was as much fun as Robert Sheckley.

The typical Sheckley appearance was in Galaxy, edited by the celebrated madman H. L. Gold, where he appeared beside other celebrated madmen like Alfred Bester and Theodore Sturgeon. Madmen are essential to SF. We still have madmen today, but often the madness gets into the style rather than the story, as with Harlan Ellison and some of the layabouts in New Worlds Quarterly. Sheckley kept his madness honed to a fine point by writing clear English about utterly convincing impossibilities. After all the sobersides in Astounding, it was marvellous to read a man whose characters never scored victories (though they rarely suffered utter defeat), whose planets were lunatic and draughty, whose aliens pursued totally inane rituals (like the Dance of the Reciprocal Trade Agreement), whose technologies were generally dedicated to perfecting robots which lurched and squeaked, and whose spaceships were never airtight.

That whole epoch, and the entire Sheckley thing, comes back very clearly as one reads this omnibus^[1] – which is possibly an adverse criticism, for we have a somewhat one-dimensional view of Sheckley here. All the stories hail from the fifties, when Sheckley was young and clever. Now he’s old and clever, experience has had him by the lapels like one of his malfunctioning robots, and it would have been valuable to have been offered a few later fruits from his tree.

Those later fruits have a taste of acid to them, a fragrance of corruption, and a feel of loss, which makes the best of them more memorable than the earlier ingenuities which Conquest rightly celebrates.

For instance, in a 1972 short story, ‘The Mnemone’:

‘But these are futile gestures. The truth is, we have lost Xanadu irretrievably, lost Cicero, lost Zoroaster. And what else have we lost, what great battles were fought, cities built, jungles conquered? What songs were sung, what dreams were dreamed? We see it now, too late, that our intelligence is a plant which must be rooted in the rich fields of the past.’

There’s a note he never sounded in the fifties. Sheckley had roots only in the future. Nor could he write such a funny-poignant tale as his ‘Zirn Left Unguarded, the Jenghik Palace in Flames, Jon Westerly Dead’, (published in Nova 2, edited by Harry Harrison, 1972), in which Sheckley tenderly mocks the romantic-savage-analytical mode of science-fantasy of which he always had such easy mastery. And in Nova 3, there’s his ‘Welcome to the Standard Nightmare’, which is all that Sheckley ever was: the old ingenuity is still there, and a whole planet surrenders to one Earthman; but the mood is darker, the etching done with acid that bites deeper into the copper than once it did.

The story ends with the words: ‘For the Lorians were an advanced and intelligent people. And what is the purpose of being really intelligent if not to have the substance of what you want without mistaking it for the shadow?’ In the fifties, Sheckley’s characters were travelling too fast to worry about what was substance, what shadow.

My disagreement, then, is with editor Robert Conquest, not with Sheckley. He could have given us a more dimensional study of Sheckley. That has not been his intention. He admires Sheckley’s skill in telling an ingenious story, and he includes those stories which seem to him to exemplify this rare ability.

The result is a portly volume containing one Sheckley novel, Immortality Inc., and a dozen short stories, among them several well-known and beloved by the SF fraternity, such as ‘Pilgrimage to Earth’, ‘A Ticket to Tranai’, ‘The Prize of Peril’, and ‘The Store of the Worlds’. Not a bad story among them.

Many of these stories use as their material the basic Shecklian preoccupations: the awfulness of institutions and corporations, the craziness of trying to establish a relationship with anyone, the arbitrariness of society’s mores, the difficulties one can get into with women, the sheer down-at-heel ghastliness of the galaxy. These, you might say, are almost anyone’s preoccupations; no disagreements or surprises there. The nice, the odd, thing about Sheckley’s preoccupations is that they are all counterbalanced by their very opposites. The television company that exploits you to the point of death is scrupulous to a pernickety degree; the girl genuinely loved you, but it was just a financial deal; it’s as efficient to hold citizens up in the street and rob them as to collect income tax, terrestrial fashion; your wife is perfectly nice, but when you find her in her lover’s arms, it’s because you refused to keep her in stasis; uncomfortable though we may find most worlds, there are races who are worse off, and leap from sun to sun complaining of the cold. In effect, Sheckley’s madness is presented with a disarming reasonableness. At least his future’s no worse than the present; and if you think the galaxy’s hell, try staying at home. He’s telling you a story, not presenting a case.

Of course Sheckley does have a case. His importance as a writer lies in his entertaining embodiment of the underdog’s viewpoint; his AAA Ace Agency stories in Galaxy represent a way in which human beings are forced to exploit each other under a capitalist system; indeed, they go beyond that – for this is science fiction, and Sheckley shows how human beings, even given great powers, will always exploit each other under any system. It is this understanding, paradoxically exhilarating and so much more to be prized than any cheap ideological identity tag, which powers his fiction and at the same time prevents more generous general acknowledgement of his strengths.

The madness is Blakeian, and so always unwelcome to the fearful. But for Sheckley it is a necessity that human relationships should continually break down, that Zirn should perpetually be left unguarded.

Somewhere in the Sheckley hierarchy is another pre-occupation. It would be too much to call it a hope. But ever and anon comes the thought that there might be a system of non-material things when circumstances fall out less laughably than in our world. Conquest introduces us to several stories of this nature. Immortality Inc. is Sheckley’s version of the Afterlife – several Afterlives, in fact. But the Afterlife is no more satisfactory than this life – Sheckley is no Bradbury or Finney, dreaming forever of a bright childhood world; he’s too much of a realist for that.

When a somewhat Asimovian machine is invented by a superrace which can provide answers to all the most baffling philosophical questions of the universe, there is nobody around to phrase the questions properly; the God is useless. Even the Almighty makes an almighty hash of things in one of these stories, calling all the robots up to Heaven on the day of the final Judgement, and leaving mankind below on the battlefield. Sheckley’s is a universe of makeshift lives – Kingsley Amis coined the perfect term for it: a comic inferno.

The story here I find most touching (I once anthologised it myself) is ‘The Store of the Worlds’. The protagonist finds happiness. He gets a whole year of it, and it costs him everything he has. Admittedly, the year includes a maid who drinks, trouble at the office, a panic on the stockmarket, and a fire in the guestroom; but it is a year of ordinary family life, containing, in Sheckley’s phrase, desire and fulfillment. Nobody’s on the run, nothing shoots at anything, everyone is comprehensible.

Like Orwell, Sheckley is a utopianist. Unlike all other utopianists, Sheckley’s and Orwell’s ambitions are almost dauntingly humble – just to be left alone, to have a girl, a drink, a stroll in the park, a room to yourselves. Only one fancies that more fun would go on in Sheckley’s shack than Orwell’s. (An eccentric parenthesis: I’ve always suspected that Orwell wrote 1984 after reading Van Vogt; maybe he wrote Animal Farm after reading Sheckley.)

Robert Conquest hopes to introduce the civilised pleasures of Sheckley to a readership beyond the SF audience; in his introduction he likens himself to Belloc introducing Ernest Bramah, or E. C. Bentley introducing Damon Runyon. Bramah is a good touch, for there is something of a Kai Lung about Sheckley. He reminds me too of another excellent story-teller, ‘Saki’, H. H. Munro.

Unless I am mistaken, Conquest also addresses himself to the SF readers. First he warms their hearts by telling them what they long suspected (but are reassured to hear from anyone with credentials as imposing as Conquest’s), that H. G. Wells is every bit as much the artist as Henry James; then he slips it to us that James is ‘a model of unpretentious clarity compared with many more recent phenomena’. Here, one experiences three or four bodings, in anticipation of yet another Conquest–Amis tract on the worthlessness of anything in SF written since Mike Moorcock attained the age of puberty. Fortunately, the crisis is avoided; Conquest is too adroit to attempt praise of Sheckley by dispraise of lesser breeds.

However, this volume is a great success, a product of Conquest’s dedication to the art as well as a celebration of Sheckley’s skills. Many a writer would wish as distinguished an anthologist – most of us have to patch our own stories together.

1. The Robert Sheckley Omnibus, edited & introduced by Robert Conquest, Gollancz, 1973.