awrence Watt-Evans, best known as a prolific fantasy novelist, appears here with his second story collection—the first was 1992's Crosstime Traffic—wearing the mantle of SF writer. Gathering 20 stories from a wide array of publications, including one making its first appearance in print, Watt-Evans also appends small, informative and entertaining introductions.
Two stories are slanted toward young adult readers: "How I Maybe Saved the World Last Tuesday Before Breakfast," which deals with a lost alien baby, and the title piece, which tells of the macabre find made by a young student in orbit while conducting his science project. "Keep the Faith" and "One Man's Meat" were part of the franchise known as Isaac's Universe and deal with religious missionaries and first-contact confusion in an interstellar polity.
Fantasy erupts in four items: "Visions" gives us a modern deracinated man who catches sight of the Holy Grail; a zombie starlet takes Hollywood by storm in "Larger than Life"; a spirit-possessed telecommunications device is the focus of "Pickman's Modem"; and the return of magic brings a plague of mythical beasts in "Unicornucopia." Two time-travel exercises are "The Murderer" and "Tomorrow Never Knows," both of which involve radical changes to history.
The iconography and unplumbed depths of the comic-book medium come under Watt-Evans' microscope in "One of the Boys" and "Sidekick." Finally, a range of archetypical SF topics are examined in the singletons. "The Garrison" concerns an alien outpost on Earth and the interaction of the strange soldiers with humanity. A robot learns about personal extinction in "Teaching Machines." An advance in brain chemistry leads to a revolution in romance in "Hearts and Flowers." SF author H. Robert Carter, of "Revised Edition," finds his doppelganger from a parallel universe to be quite intransigent. The steampunkish examination of early-20th-century Coney Island in "A Million Lightbulbs" leads to an unforeseen cosmic accident. Lastly, "Choice," depicts a near future where developed countries have imposed a deadly fate on their "culturally pure" relatives.
Looking ahead to yesterday's Golden Age
My first reaction upon finishing this assortment of tales from Lawrence Watt-Evans was to exclaim, "By golly, they just don't write 'em like that any more." But of course, with all of these stories appearing just since 1992, it's plain that one person, at least, does continue to produce stories in the classic manner codified and perfected in the genre magazines circa 1950-1965. Watt-Evans exemplifies all the virtues—and limitations—of the sturdy oaken heart of the genre. This collection might have been issued by Christopher Anvil in 1964, or by Gordon Dickson in 1960. None of the stories except the fantasies would have been out of place in an issue of Analog circa 1958. They are all compact, straightforward, stylistically unchallenging, one-note extrapolations. They do not sprawl, or go all hyper-weird and recomplicated. No frontiers are probed, no envelopes pushed. At the same time, they are impeccably constructed, fun reading that blends narrative and heartfelt message seamlessly.
To examine the standouts in this volume is to throw a light on how the rest of the items are comparatively commonplace. "The Garrison" features a protagonist out solely for number one in the face of worldwide chaos, and is correspondingly sharp-edged. "Hearts and Flowers" is informed by a creepy Poe-like thanatology. The two superhero stories dig at the dark side of crimefighter neuroses in the manner of Alan Moore's Watchmen. And the best story in the volume, "Choice" is so full of keen-sighted realpolitik that it gives Bruce Sterling a run for his money.
Seeking to replicate the SF of his own personal Golden Age, Watt-Evans regrettably sometimes loses sight of what it means to write SF in a new millennium. He's light on his feet, often in the manner of L. Sprague de Camp, and possesses great skills. But in a way he's like the middle-aged survivor living in the post-apocalyptic ruins of the lead story, "Fragments": fixated on the corpse of a '57 Chevy instead of the future.
