The Science-Fiction Situation

NEW MAPS OF HELL (161 pp.)--Kingsley Amis--Harcourf, Brace ($3.95).

The existence of a hard-cover monograph by a respectable author in praise of science fiction poses a question: Are science-fiction addicts still to be classed with such pariahs as matchbook collectors, astrologers, dog breeders, philatelists, health foodists and canasta bugs? Or have they gained the social level of horse players ($50 and $100 windows), opera lovers, physicists, bridge careerists and sports-car nuts? British Novelist Kingsley (Lucky Jim) Amis, a science-fiction addict since he was twelve, speaks with dignity in behalf of his fellow incurables.

Now largely past its BEM (bug-eyed monster) and little-green-menace stage, science fiction can look fondly at its own beginnings, and Amis writes knowledgeably of Lucian of Samosata. The Greek writer's True History is an early account of a space voyage (the ship is whirled to the moon by a waterspout), but though fictional it is hardly scientific, even considering the state of science in the 2nd century A.D. Claims of other ancestors are unsurprising: Swift, H. G. Wells, and Jules Verne. Until about 1940, BEMs kept a many-tentacled grip on the medium, but then came the big turning point. Readers became too sophisticated to accept the simple substitution of the blaster for the six-gun, and stories that were merely prophetic palled as scientists caught up with the pulp writers.

Utopian Marriage. "Idea as hero,'' Amis says donnishly, is the basis of much present-day science fiction. Utopias, both Orwellian and benign, abound; one interesting Utopian idea, put forth by Science Fictioneer Robert Sheckley, is a society in which wives are placed in suspended animation and warmed up only when needed, so that they age only one year for every dozen on the calendar.

Addicts of oldfashioned, interstellar escape are appalled to find considerable philosophizing in the newer works about man's fate, first causes and the like, taking the place of chromium-plated maidens riding fintail time machines. A remarkable development charted by Amis is that xenophobia seems to be dwindling; extraterrestrial races were once generally loathsome, but now most of them are a good deal more mannerly than human beings. A wry corollary is the now typical story of Earthlings, as far advanced scientifically as they are retarded morally, who burst BEM-like upon the ancient, saintly and helpless squid-creatures of Alpha Centauri.

More Than a Pulitzer. Mad scientists, Critic Amis notes, are no longer well regarded. In fact, scientists are often credited with possessing most of mankind's available sanity. (Many S.F. authors and readers have had technical training, and the literature contains more than a hint of mutual admiration.) Except when plots involve genetics, sex is treated with spinsterly distaste; the earthier urges, concludes Amis, are best ignored.

S.F. satire can be harsh and effective; Author William (Of All Possible Worlds) Tenn hypothesized a U.S. where veneration of the average has reached a stage in which all brilliance is suppressed, so that a race of intelligent Newfoundland retrievers is able to take over the government and cross-breed humans for their stick-throwing abilities.

Amis has no notion that science fiction will one day comprise the main stream of literature, as some of its proselytizers seem to think. But he defends it vigorously as a popular art form, and, by way of illustrating its appeal, he cites the case of a science-fiction writer who wandered into a New Orleans bordello and found his work so highly favored by the staff that he was asked to be the guest of the establishment. Better writers may have won the Pulitzer Prize, but few have won this sort of recognition.

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