E
C Tubb works within a formula, one that produces gems nearly every time. In Classical era music, Sonata Form was used
thousands of times by composers, and while essentially the form is the
same in each piece, it still amazes us today what some of those
composers could do with it. Understand the form and you will understand
the music. Take F J Haydn, for example. 104 symphonies, dozens of
string quartets, trios, etc. He wrote hundreds of sonata form movements
in his life, each one different from the rest, and each one
successfully tackling a new problem. He never seemed to tire of it, and
good listeners will always be impressed by what he did accomplish. Is E
C Tubb the Haydn of the pulp SF novel? You bet he is!
Planet of Dread
is from 1974 and is a skimpy 126 pages long (many Haydn Symphonies are quite short). Cap Kennedy and his crew
are the Doc Savage gang of outer space. In each novel they are given
one major problem to solve, which usually breaks down into several
smaller ones. The writing is so fast paced and the novel so short that
there is usually no time for a coda; this book ends about one second after the
climax. When paid by the word, Tubb made certain he did not write
beyond the limit. I doubt Haydn would have been so strict, but then he
is an artist, albeit one with a very strong work ethic. Had Tubb been
paid for another page of writing he likely would have ended the novel in
a less breathless fashion.
Cap
is on hand for the signing of a contract between a newly adopted planet
and the Earth syndicate. An assassination attempt goes wrong and one
of Cap's men is injured to near death. Known medicine cannot help him,
and Cap decides to transport him to the planet of the title. There,
almost anything can be cured, but there is a catch. Cap must undergo
something similar to the trials of Hercules in order to help his friend
receive the care he needs. This takes up a large part of the novel,
after which we finally get back to the problem at hand; namely, why was an
assassination attempt made and who made it. The final part of the book
deals with the original problem, and it is a slam bang finish to an
action-packed story. I'm not certain if this is Tubb at his best, but
it's head and shoulders above so many other pulp writers. I would love
to have discovered what he could have done with a longer novel.
Perhaps, like Haydn, he preferred to be terse, leaving the epics for the
Beethovens and Mahlers of the world.
I have seldom been disappointed by the Dray Prescott series written by Kenneth Bulmer. However, this novel managed to do it. From 1985, Werewolves of Kregen
is well named. It lasts for 127 pages, much shorter than most in this
series. I was so relieved when several volumes ago an all-powerful
evil wizard, who could do anything to anybody anytime he wanted, was
finally killed off. It was no use. Now his even more evil son and
mother are at work. I certainly don't mind seeing wizards (and witches)
in heroic fantasy, but to make them able to do just about anything to
the good guys, while their own wizards watch helplessly, gets very
tiresome very quickly. And so, in the first of what will likely be
several novels, it begins. The evil ones turn Dray Prescott's private
guards into werewolves. I won't bother to explain the elaborate process
which causes such a thing, as it is much too far-fetched. It's easier
to simply believe in werewolves than in the method chosen by the evil ones.
Werewolves run around killing girls (mostly) and eating them. This
happens again and again until the dimwitted good guys figure out a way
to stop them. For the first time in a while I am not looking forward to
the next book in this series.
On to the Delphi Classics collection. Next up was Enid Blyton's Five Run Away Together, from 1944. Being a child in southern England during the blitz could not have been much fun. Enid did her part by writing several stories to help take young minds off the realities of bombs falling where they lived. Many children were shipped north, either to relatives or families willing to take them in during the war. C. S. Lewis built his entire Narnia series around a group of children escaping London during the war, escaping into Narnia through an old wardrobe. Blyton's young heroes and heroines have no war to contend with. But their summer holiday is nearly ruined when George's mother gets very ill suddenly and is taken to hospital. They are left in the care of an evil housekeeper, her husband, their halfwit son and a smelly dog. Things don't go well. Blyton allows the oldest boy, Julian, to stand up to the cruelties heaped upon the children and their dog. George, whose house it is, decides to run away until her mother returns home. The others agree to go with her. They return to the little island where their first adventure took place (this is their third). George/Georgina is an interesting character, one familiar to anyone who grew up with a lot of friends. She is a girl who wants to be a boy. She dresses like one, acts like one, and hates anyone who calls her Georgina. I wonder if Blyton knew what she was doing here, and how she would have felt about allowing her character to trans to a male? It is exactly what the many Georgina/Georges of the world need to do. Knowing a bit about the author, she would have been horrified with the very thought. Instead, she more likely believed it was cute in a young girl and that she would outgrow such feelings and eventually welcome motherhood and all the rest. But her mistake was in making George such a strong character; there is no mother to be in George. Her teen and adult life will always be one of conflict, self-doubt, and likely great emotional upheaval. Poor George.
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Ernest Bramah's The Secret of the League is from 1907 and is a very lengthy read. It is a political thriller likely of no interest to anyone anymore and might be better off forgotten. Or perhaps not. In a make believe England sometime after the millenium (1900), the socialist party in power have given away nearly everything to the lower working classes, who only continue to support them as long as they keep receiving. This is quickly impoverishing the nation, and the capitalist party wishes to end things and get the country back on its won two feet. Much of the novel is about how they went about preparing, planning and executing their large scale derring do take over. While this is fun to read and fascinating itself, what the book really accomplishes for a more modern reader (say about the year 2025) is to instruct him in socialism's beginnings in England, how it spread like a disease, and why it needs to be tempered with some form of reality. While most of us know that today's capitalism not only exploits many workers, it is also destroying the very planet itself. Any form of lifestyle that depends for its very existence on continuous growth is bound to eventually hit a wall; a big impenetrable one. By the end of Brahma's book a thoughtful reader will be doing a lot of thinking. Communism is a dead end, as is capitalism (though at least with the latter we can all die with champagne in our glasses). Trying to find the workable balance somewhere between the extremes is the only way to survive our own greed, stupidity and arrogance. One little SF note: in Bramah's England flight is just getting off the ground. Not with airplanes, mind you, but with wings! A nice little twist indeed.
Thuvia, Maid of Mars is Edgar Rice Burroughs' fourth Martian novel. It is from 1920. Thuvia, a maid of Mars (and, of course, a princess), gets kidnapped by a bad guy who lusts after her. John Carter's son (a prince, by chance) goes after him, as he is in love with Thuvia. It's the oldest story ever told, and Burroughs gives it the works. If you ever have a bad day, try comparing yours to that of Carthoris, John Carter's son (always put the horis ahead of the Cart). First his princess is kidnapped. Then suspicion falls on him. He rushes off to save her, but someone has sabotaged his airboat, He has to walk really far, fight some monsters, outwit two magicians, fight some more monsters, find the princess, lose her again, fight some six-armed huge green warriors. All this before breakfast. Edgar Rice Burroughs opened the door to so many different authors of SF and fantasy that his influence on future writers can be no less than that of Tolkien. The Dray Prescott series by Kenneth Bulmer (see above) is one example. Michael Moorcock's Martian trilogy is another. I will always love reading Burroughs, even if all his heroines act exactly the same way (they are haughty and somewhat cruel to the good guy who loves her), and even if all his heroes are pretty similar, too. Bring on #5, The Chessmen of Mars!
We now take a hard right turn. Sir Richard Burton's Personal Pilgrimage to Al Madinah and Meccah was first published in three volumes in 1855. I am reading the fourth edition, with updated forewords, in the Delphi Classics collection. Burton undertook the Haj in 1853. The first book mostly deals with the time he spent in Cairo, Suez and Al Medinah. At nearly 500 pages, I will wait for another time to continue the journey. Try to imagine a non-believer British white man trying to pass himself off as an Arabic-speaking believer making the great pilgrimage to Mecca. For one thing he would have to be awfully good with the language. For another, his skin could have to be rather tanned. If the truth had ever come out on the journey, he likely would have been stoned and beaten to death. But he pulled it off. Arriving first in Alexandria, he takes the persona of a Persian doctor. By the time he has arrived in Cairo (on the little steamer "The Little Asthmatic") his friends have convinced him to try something else, as Persians were treated badly by Arabs and Egyptians. So he changes into an Afghani doctor (more language skills necessary). We get wonderful descriptions all along the journey of people and places, and the many small situations that arise. Finally departing for Suez we cross the Sinai and spend time at the dismal settlement (pre-canal days). From there we move on to Al Medinah, where a considerable part of the first book (about half) takes place. It is fun comparing his stops with modern day Google Earth and Maps, to see how much things have changed (highways for one thing, instead of camel routes). Places he visited on excursions from Al-Medinah, for example, are now well within the city. I found the book quite fascinating, and look forward to reading its continuation in the future.
Finally, one of the most enjoyable books I have read in a long time came along, rather unexpectedly. Heart's Desire is from 1905 and is one of Emmerson Hough's least known and appreciated works. The title refers to the name of a tiny settlement in New Mexico, years after the Civil War. The real town was White Oaks, now a mining ghost town. The settlement is portrayed as Eden, a paradise with no need of doctors, lawmen, the railroad (which is coming soon), or even women. It's a community of men who escaped from the East, usually because of female troubles. The book is filled with cowboy wisdom and cowboy folly, and many of the speech mannerisms are quite priceless. For instance, from one of the characters: "Somethin' better git did, and it better git did blame soon." Each chapter is often its own story within the main story arc. Much of the time not much happens. It's like everyone is asleep, and it will take the intrusion of the railroad to awaken them. Hough lived in White Oaks for a time, and is a fascinating character himself, easily worth a major biography. He was a conservationist, among other things, and instrumental in getting the National Park system started, as well as making poaching in the park illegal. This is American West storytelling at its finest. Moments of this novel will stay with me a very long time.
Mapman Mike
