Seekers of Tomorrow (18 page)

generous supply of middle names, this may well be one of the few official collaborations of an author with himself.

The next fictional problem Harris occupied himself with was that of how to go about informing the public of a means of doubling or even tripling the life span, without creating a world catastrophe. The book was published by Michael Joseph as
Trouble With Lichen
in 1960. In the novel, the public would be offered a second full start. Harris found he had to cope with the problem himself. A the age of 60, he helped Grace Isabel Wilson "celebrate her retirement from teaching English to the young," by marrying for the first time, in July, 1963.

The Wyndham method was not lost on the new gener-ation. The brightest pupil of a number was John Christopher (pen name of Christopher Samuel Yond), possibly urged along by Michael Joseph, publisher of the Wyndham books. The most successful Christopher stories in the Wyndham vein were
No Blade of
Grass
(serialized in the Saturday eve-ning post and sold to the films) and
The Long Winter.
Perhaps the most unexpected turn of John Wyndham's success, was that the moving picture approach to his novels, coupled with the reportorial believability of his writing approach, created a special type of terror—one based solely on a scientific buildup—that proved far more effective and memorable than any previous horror stories he had at-tempted utilizing stock fright devices.

There are some tales so good that one hates to see them die. Amo ng them is the fiction that Eric Frank Russell's submission of the novel
Sinister Barrier
to John W. Campbell inspired the publication of a new magazine, unknown. It is easy to find circumstantial evidence to "support" the story. Immediately prior to the appearance of the first issue on February 10, 1939 (dated March), featuring
Sinister Barrier,
giant posters reproducing its covers were carried on the sides of the delivery trucks of the American News Company, a promotion if not unprecedented for a new pulp magazine at least distinctly uncommon.
Sinister
Barrier
was billed in ad-vance by its publishers as "The greatest imaginative novel in two decades!"

"Swift death awaits the first cow that leads a revolt against milking," were the opening lines of
Sinister
Barrier.
Quoting Charles Fort, "I think we are property," Russell built his story on the realization by humans that the planet Earth is "owned" by alien globes of light called Vitons, who "breed" us like cattle and influence our history for their own pur-poses.

The origin of the magazine and the publication of the novel seemed too happy a wedding to be fortuitous. Never-theless, it was.

The novel had been submitted to Campbell in 1938 as
Forbidden Acres.
He was enthralled by the first half but felt that the narrative lost all momentum as it moved to a close. He returned it to Russell for rewriting.

Russell, who had been selling science fiction intermittently for only a little over a year, accepted the challenge. He decided to rewrite the novel from end to end, utilizing as his technical model the Dan Fowler stories which ran in g-men, a popular pulp magazine of the period. Campbell, on accepting the revision, openly admitted that he was astonished that Russell, with his limited writing experience, had been able to do the difficult theme justice.

The novel was first scheduled for astounding science-fiction, then shifted to unknown when the plans for that magazine had completely jelled.

In retrospect, the major impact of the novel depended almost entirely on its daring concept. Unnecessary action extends the length of the story. The reader frequently finds himself losing track of the identity of the characters, so inadequately are they sketched. The logic becomes gossamer-thin at points. What was seemingly its great strength, its apparent origi-nality of theme, was exposed when Thomas S. Gardner, Ph.D., writing in the March 5, 1939, issue of fantasy news, pointed out: "The same plot was developed with an unusual twist that Russell's
Sinister Barrier
does not contain in a short story by Edmond Hamilton in weird tales. The story was
The Earth Owners
and was published in the August issue in 1931. Even the same quotation from one of Fort's books is used in both stories. In order to appreciate
Sinister
Barrier
one should also read Hamilton's story and notice the dif-ference in the endings." Hamilton's plot has one group of radiant globes (similar to the Vitons) as protectors of the earth against raiding black clouds who feed on humans. The implication is that Earth is being shielded from harm until man achieves a state of development in which he can fend for himself. Hamilton's short story, extraordinarily off-beat for the period, made no reader impression, having had the misfortune to appear in the same issue with
The Whisperer in Darkness,
the wildly acclaimed H. P. Lovecraft science-fiction novelette.

Russell disclaimed any prior reading or knowledge of Hamilton's effort, attributing the plot similarity to both au-thors having read Charles Fort independently; both were mem-bers of the Fortean Society. It is the oft-repeated case of the first man to use the idea not always being the one to popular-ize it. As far as the science-fiction world is concerned, Russell and the "I think we are property" theme are synonymous. There is no question that the widespread use of Fortean material in science fiction begins with the publication of
Sinister Barrier.

Eric Frank Russell, descended from Irish stock, was born January 6, 1905, in Sandhurst, Surrey, England, where his father was an instructor at the Military College. The family moved frequently, residing at various times in Chatham, Croydon, Bradford, Aldershot, Longmoor, Portsmouth, Wey-mouth, Pembroke Dock, Brighton, and Southport, and part of Russell's childhood was spent in Egypt, where he was close enough to the natives to learn Arabic (which he gradually forgot.). In Egypt and the Sudan he lived in Alexandria, Cairo, Khartoum, and Port Tewfik. His education was apparently a good one, predominantly obtained at schools for sons of British officers. The list of courses is impressive, including chemistry, physics, building and steel construction, quantity surveying, mechanical draughtsmanship, metallurgy, and crys-tallography.

So reticent is Russell about his parents that one is tempted to speculate, perhaps unfairly, on a personal application of the passage in his short story
I Am Nothing
(astounding science fiction, July, 1952) where he offers an almost ex-traneous background illumination of dictator David Kor-man's filial relationship: "When a child he had feared his father long and ardently; also his mother." Moves from place to place and intensive study did not stunt his growth. He grew to be six foot two, 180

pounds, with great hands and a cocksure smile. While in the process of finding himself he worked as a soldier, telephone operator, quantity surveyor, and government draughtsman. He met and married a nurse who bore him a baby girl which they named Erica, because she was born on his (Eric's) birthday, January 6, 1934.

Interest in science fiction was a lifelong process for Rus-sell, beginning with fairy tales, mythology, and English leg-ends and continuing to the discovery of the science-fiction magazines. The earliest science-fiction stories that appear to have made an impression upon him are
The Gostak and the Doshes
by Miles J. Breuer, M.D. (amazing stories, March, 1930), a truly remarkable precursor of Alfred Korzybski's
General Semantics,
and Paul Ernst's
The Incredible Formula
(amazing stories, June, 1931), a tale of the social implications of the living dead. Later the brief but influential talent of Stanley G. Weinbaum, the even briefer spark of youthful suicide David R. Daniels, as well as individual stories of Alexander M. Phillips and Norman L. Knight, left their mark on his mind. His preferences appear to run to specific stories rather than favorite authors.

When he took up a post as technical representative and trouble shooter for a steel and engineering firm in Liverpool, Russell set into motion the series of circumstances that would bring him into contact with the inner-circle group of the science-fiction movement and, through his association with them, make his bid as a professional writer.

Two men had been primarily responsible for the formation of the British Interplanetary Society in October, 1933. The first of these was P. E. Cleator, the multidegreed acting president, whose writing ability would prove a major factor in recruiting members to the society. The other was Leslie J. Johnson, a youthful Liverpool scientifictionist. A press story planted by Cleator attracted the attention of Russell. The May, 1953, issue of the journal of the British inter-planetary society not only lists Russell as a new member, but it acknowledges that the cover photo, an astronomical shot of the planet Jupiter, was used by his courtesy.

Johnson, upon meeting Russell, was fascinated by the self-assured demeanor, the direct and earthy personality of the older man. Russell was already contributing articles to trade magazines and house organs. In addition, he was placing poetry in the local newspapers, mostly anonymous shafts directed at topical subjects and politicians, and he had done a series of articles on "Interplanetary Communications." (based on the writings of the Russian Konstantin Tsiolkovsky) for a private periodical of limited circulation. Impressed by Russell's writing skill, Johnson urged him to try science fiction, suggesting a plot for a story to be called
Eternal Re-diffusion.
Russell completed it and sent it to F. Orlin Tremaine, editor of astounding stories. When it was rejected as being too difficult for the reader to grasp, Russell started to tear it up, but Johnson, horrified, claimed the story and retained it as a souvenir. It has never been published. A second attempt,
The Saga of Pelican West,
a novelette done by Russell on his own, appeared in the February, 1937, issue of astounding stories. The influence of Stanley G. Weinbaum permeates the story, most obviously in the person of Alfred, a talking "Callistrian domestic
ulahuala,
or reticu-lated python," but also in the light air of humor and the boy-meets-girl banter which pervades the superficial plot. During a period when science fiction could best be de-scribed as "dull,"
The Saga of Pelican West
was refreshingly sharp. Though the literary influence was obvious and the plot insubstantial, readers on both sides of the Atlantic instantly recognized the flicker of an unusual talent. The only adverse comments from readers referred to the weakness of some of the science. To these Russell replied, in the June, 1937, scientifiction, the British Fantasy Review, that plausibility rated higher than pure scientific accuracy in writing science fiction.

Russell immediately followed with
The Great Radio Peril,
a short story published in the April, 1937, astounding sto-ries, actually a social satire aimed at the mushrooming radio networks. The quantity and strength of radio waves stunt crops, threatening the world with starvation. An international code limiting the number of stations and the power of trans-mitters is forced upon the world. These restrictions are effected almost like a disarmament arrangement. However, television has since hopelessly outdated any physical or social "danger" from radio.

The only British science-fiction magazine published up to that time had been scoops, a juvenile weekly that ran for twenty issues from February 10th to June 23rd, 1934. When Walter H. Gillings announced early in 1937 that he would edit a quarterly periodical, printed on book paper, to be entitled tales of wonder, it was treated as a literary event and he was flooded with manuscripts from British authors. The appearance of the first issue on British newsstalls, June 29, 1937, found a Russell story,
The Prr-r-eet,
in the con-tents. Reader reaction made it the most popular story in the issue. Again, Russell had borrowed from Weinbaum, from whose famed Martian ostrich Tweel, so named because of the sound he uttered, "Trrweerrill," he created another acoustically named alien being, "Prr-r-eet." The story evoked a feeling of empathy for the

"humanity" of the creature, despite its bizarre form. Before it leaves Earth, it gives its Homo sapiens contacts a device for simultaneously blending color and sound into a new type of music. This idea was supplied by Arthur C. Clarke, who had met Russell at a Lon-don meeting of the Science Fiction Association, and he received 10 percent of the proceeds for his contribution, something under three dollars, but was the first money Clarke ever earned from science fiction.

Russell's greatest success of 1937 was a 17,000-worder written around an idea supplied by Johnson and titled
Seeker of Tomorrow.
As Johnson originally wrote it, it was called
Amen.
Later he succeeded in getting a professional writer of his acquaintance to revamp it as
Through Time's Infinity.
It still didn't go, so he showed it to Russell, who, impressed, rewrote it and sent it to Newnes, then contemplating a British science-fiction magazine. The idea of the magazine fell through, so Julius Schwartz, Russell's agent in the United States, took it to F. Orlin Tremaine, who bought it. The title appeared on the cover of the July, 1937, astounding sto-ries with the names of both authors beneath it. Somehow the magazine carried Johnson's middle initial as "T" instead of "J," which later brought up the question of whether there were two Johnsons. The story was a simple but absorbing retelling of H. G. Wells'
The Time Machine,
with two temporal technicians exploring the future in a series of fascinat-ing hops.

Russell made a working agreement with a Spanish author friend, Antonio Moncho y Gilabert, of Valencia, who wrote under the pen name of Miguel Gautisolo, to rewrite each other's stories in their respective languages and attempt to sell them. However, Gilabert disappeared forever in the mael-strom of the Spanish Civil War.

A sequel to
The Saga of Pelican West
was undertaken and submitted under the title of
They Who
Sweep.
The story dealt with the adventures of Pelican, the lead character of
Saga,
on Pallas "where the air is so high explorers must wear nose plugs." The title was taken from a Russell poem of space travel. Rewritten three times, the story finally was literally consigned to the flames, and an incredulous Johnson castigated Russell as a "madman" when he found out.