Pirates Of The Nuclear Front

A Small Armageddon
by Mordecai Roshwald
p. 1962

Cold War-era satire, A Small Armageddon, was the second of only two fictional novels ever written by Mordecai Roshwald, whose first novel, Level 7, got me into the post-apocalyptic genre to begin with. A Small Armageddon explores similar themes of mutually assured destruction and the threat of the arms race, but unlike the former, it follows a much more irreverent path to get its point across.

A Small Armageddon does not follow heroes; its primary characters are actually the villains: rogue nuclear submarine captain Gerald Brown and religious fanatic, Peter Schumacher. Brown dominates the majority of the novel as we follow his descent into modern day piracy. Brown—an ambitious but deeply resentful man in command of the nuclear-armed submarine Polar Lion—is interesting because he is a character who may never have become the person he did were it not for various influences. If he didn’t carry with him the baggage of his adolescence, always second best to the ‘popular kids’ he resents, he may never have snapped and murdered his commanding officer. If he weren’t so determined to be liked, he may not have gotten the support he needed to support his mutiny. If he hadn’t listened to one dumb kid’s dreamy notions of adventuring, he may never have gotten the idea to resort to piracy. And most importantly, if he hadn’t felt one-upped by Schumacher, the whole affair might have turned out very differently.

Schumacher is also incited to act based on his personal impulses, his being religious in nature. Schumacher, an extremist and fundamentalist, sees Brown’s crusade and is inspired to start one of his own—but instead of requesting strippers and gold, he demands strict enforcement of his moral code, which ends up being more difficult to provide than the strippers and the gold. Both men are in considerable positions of power and no one suspects they are capable of extreme action until they are literally pointing a missile at the world. It’s not enough that Brown and Schumacher are inspired by personal impulses; they are then further inspired to target each other out of revenge. This whole bit of satire just goes to show how dangerous it is to put the nuclear threat in the hands of men. We are quick to incite to anger and far too easily guided by emotion or personal gain. To allow corruptible men access to such savage power as nuclear weaponry can, according to Roshwald, very likely lead to our own downfall.

I did not find A Small Armageddon to live up to its predecessor. Level 7 is the more impressive of the two, as its vague tones and dire conclusion give it a gut punch feel unrivaled here, where the only ones who suffer are the villains (and a couple unfortunate people caught in the crossfire). Still, A Small Armageddon is not without its merits and it still manages to get its point across: it does not matter if you have the best intentions or the worst intentions if the end result is the same.

High and Dry

Dune
by Frank Herbert
p. 1965

Dune is an iconic piece of science fiction, one of the best-selling in the genre, and the first in an epic series by Frank Herbert, but it’s a series I hadn’t gotten around to until just now. It’s also not a story that can be fully related in few words, but I will try in a few sentences.

Set in the far distant future, it is a coming-of-age story about young Paul Atreides, the son of a Duke, Leto Atreides, and Leto’s powerful mistress, Lady Jessica, who is part of a religion that is somewhat akin to witchcraft. In any case, Jessica’s people—the Bene Gesserit—are sometimes feared, sometimes reviled, sometimes respected, and Paul himself has been trained in their ways, even though the Bene Gesserit are solely women.

Paul’s family has recently arrived on Arrakis, a desert planet from which their people mine a spice called melange, which is very valuable. They face plenty of danger from giant carnivorous sandworms, the fierce climate and the wary native population, but the biggest threat comes from the House Harkonnen, their political rivals who are making a play to snatch control of Arrakis from the Atreides. We meet up with Paul at the beginning of this coup and follow him through to its conclusion, enduring a large time jump in the middle as Paul grows into a man and finds his destiny on the strange desert planet.

Straight off the bat, I have to give Frank Herbert credit for his skill at worldbuilding. Even by today’s standards, Dune presents a remarkably realized fictional world; that it is also one of the earliest examples in science fiction/fantasy just makes the detail Herbert put into his world all the more impressive. I personally have a low skill and little patience for the art of worldbuilding, which is why most of the things I tend to write either take place in the real world or in an urban setting very similar to our own, but even if I have no interest in creating a world myself, I have mountains of respect for those that do. It takes a lot of patience and skill to create a realistic universe in which to set your tale.

Unfortunately, I think that this sometimes comes at the expense of characterization. There were very few in Dune that I found intriguing or relatable. I know this is supposed to be a coming-of-age tale with Paul at the center, but Paul is very hard to relate to because he is mind-numbingly perfect. Paul Atreides is all things; he goes by so many titles or personas in Dune that it is almost dizzying to keep track of them all. He’s Paul Atreides, he’s Maud’Dib, he’s Usul, he’s the Lisan al-Gaib, he’s the Mahdi, he’s the Kwisatz Haderach—the names never end and Paul embodies all of them. From the start of the uprising that thrusts Paul into his destiny, he goes through a sort of metamorphosis that strips him of his childhood innocence. This is a necessary transformation for Paul to become the leader he was meant to be... but it also makes him dull as a doorknob. Possessing approximate knowledge of all things past and present strips Paul of doubt and weakness and makes him an all-powerful Gary-Sue. Even Paul’s mother finds the change unsettling, as she spends the entire book alternating between being proud and terrified of her son. Lady Jessica frets to such an extent that it gets old quickly. The later addition of a second creepy child does not help matters.

Any other characters I saw potential in were quickly disposed of the moment I started to find them interesting. Shadout Mapes? Dead. Duke Leto? Dead. Liet Kynes? Dead. Duncan Idaho? Dead—and this one hurt most of all. I’m happy to hear he was revived for subsequent novels, thanks to his instant appeal and popularity, but I’m not sure it’s enough to get me to continue. Some may interpret this ruthless disposal of characters as a storytelling device—a ploy to make you think you know what’s coming before it all gets flipped on its head—but I just found it disappointing after a while. What’s the use in allowing yourself to enjoy characters if you know they’re all going to be killed off before they reach their potential?

I also don’t think Herbert did a very good job at portraying minorities. Unique for the decade it was released, Dune actually has a homosexual character... only he is a fat, evil pedophile and the story’s lead antagonist. Of course. I haven’t got much else to say about this topic; it speaks for itself. I suppose it is telling that a story that goes out of its way to present a homosexual would make him so inherently vile.

It is Dune’s treatment of women that is more complicated. The story starts with some promise, portraying the Bene Gesserit as an extremely powerful and respected subset of women in society. All the women in Dune have their heads about them but unfortunately, no matter how clever they are, they still live in a cripplingly patriarchal society, and even the most powerful female characters are still propping up their men throughout the novel. Hell, the Bene Gesserit’s lifelong ambition is to find a male to induct into their religion and become a messiah for them all. I’ll give Dune credit for its time, but on the whole, the song remains the same.

I don’t see myself picking up any future Dune novels, as the fate of Arrakis is simply not compelling enough to plod through thousands of pages of Herbert’s thick and tedious fantasy-language. There’s only so much of Kwisatz Haderrachs and gom jabbars and landsraads and sardaukars that I can take. If I have to flip back and forth between a glossary and the text every other page just to understand what I’m reading, then the endeavor, on the whole, really starts to lose its appeal.

Misadventures With Time Travel

I have no idea why there is an avalanche of naked people on this cover.

The Great Time Machine Hoax
by Keith Laumer
p. 1964

Chester W. Chester IV is an average guy who finds himself the sole heir of his great grandfather’s vast estate, and with it, a massive computer purported to be a time machine. Chester and his friend Case Mulvihill (ringleader and performer in a failing circus owned by Chester’s family) are skeptical but try it out anyway in an attempt to save the circus (and pay for the overwhelming costs of Chester’s inheritance) by creating a new sideshow that gives the impression of time travel to paying customers.

To their surprise, Chester and Case discover that the machine truly is everything it is rumored to be and accidentally send themselves launching through time in an avalanche of misadventures, along with an android-like representation of the machine, who takes the form of a pretty girl named Genie. The trio keep getting entangled in increasingly absurd situations and are eventually separated. Much of the book focuses on Chester after he lands in a strange reality and is taken captive and used in a sort of social experiment. It’s here where the novel starts to get sidetracked as it becomes less of the farcical, snappy, comedy of errors it was before and delves into philosophy and science of time travel. Chester, previously an unremarkable wuss, was unwittingly (and a little disappointingly) transformed into a science fiction hero. I wasn’t expecting this, and I won’t say it wasn’t interesting, but it certainly wasn’t as entertaining as the first quarter of the novel.

Despite the fact that Laumer seemed to not be able to decide what kind of novel this should be, I very much enjoyed the author’s sense of humor and the witty repartee between Case and Chester. Upon finishing this book—my first encounter with Laumer’s writing—I discovered I had more of his novels, and if I enjoy those, I’m sure I’ll be seeking out more of his rather expansive body of work in the future. His view on sixties sci-fi is refreshingly lighthearted and a lot more fun than the post-apocalyptic stuff I’ve been reading.

Hard-Drinking Irish Jesus

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
by Ken Kesey
p. 1962


[Aye, there be spoilers in this review. I have blacked them out accordingly and if you wish to read them, simply highlight the text.]

Ken Kesey’s 1962 novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is an American literary staple, but it flew under my radar until just recently. I had never read the book, seen the Broadway musical or even the notorious 1975 film version starring Jack Nicholson (though, by the description I’ve read, it sounds like a fairly accurate adaptation). It’s really been my loss all these years, because this novel is an experience that you can sink your teeth into, and it’s easy to see not only why it’s so popular but also why it is so widely banned for its controversy.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is the story of a psychiatric ward under the strict supervision of the emasculating ‘Big Nurse’ Mildred Ratched, who comes into conflict with brash, fast-talking, hard-drinking newcomer, R.P. McMurphy, a man faking insanity to escape from the work farm he’d been sentenced  to for gambling and fighting. It is clear from the start that McMurphy is not expecting the challenge brought before him by the harsh, disapproving Nurse Ratched, but it does not deter him from his goal.

McMurphy and Ratched really possess this novel, yet it is told entirely through the eyes of Chief Bromden, a Native American man who has spent over a decade on the ward pretending to be a deaf-mute and witnessing the inner workings of ward politics firsthand. Bromden, who ruminates often on the subjugation of his father and his people as their land is slowly taken over by what he refers to as the Combine, is the only one who is allowed to see through the secret window into the person McMurphy really is. The Irish rogue is at first a curiosity to the ward’s inhabitants, then a hero as he teaches them to stand up for themselves against the Big Nurse and learn to laugh again, bringing life to the ward where before any semblance of joy or disorder was immediately silenced. What ensues is a battle of wits and willpower as McMurphy and Ratched fight for control of the ward.

It took me a while to get into this book. I found Part 1 (over 100 pages and roughly half of the novel) to be a bit dull. Apart from eliciting a few laughs here and there at McMurphy and Ratched’s posturing, not much happens aside from your typical stage-setting. It isn’t until Part 2 when McMurphy realizes the reality of his predicament—that he could be kept long past his original sentence if he continues to get on Ratched’s bad side—and scales back his antics, that the story perks up. And it isn’t until the end of Part 2, when McMurphy makes the conscious decision to say ‘to Hell with it’ and continue his crusade against the nurse’s conformity, that the character truly comes alive. That McMurphy stayed on knowing his freedom was at stake because he knew the other patients needed to see his rebellion turned the jokester into a true hero, while still making him endearingly human.

I must admit, even though I saw McMurphy’s eventual fate coming from a mile away, it was still so devastating to see him martyred like that. The entire final act of this book is just demoralizing in general. I felt terrible for all the patients and furious at Big Nurse who defied the most basic rule of healthcare provider in order to maintain her aura of power. It’s all a very potent allegory for society and the book is rich with metaphor to be picked apart. It’s a shame that the idea of a hard-drinking, womanizing rogue as a Christlike figure is so offensive that the book has been widely banned over the years, because it would make an excellent teaching subject.

I strongly encourage fans of the movie and people who’ve never experienced either book or movie to read this novel. It is surprisingly satisfying and an American classic. It’ll make you laugh and cry and all the other emotions that the ‘Big Nurse’ would rather you just keep to yourself. But that’s exactly why we need characters like McMurphy in our lives—to remind us to never take life too seriously.

Eight Against Who the Hell Cares

Eight Against Utopia
by Douglas R. Mason 
p. 1966

Douglas Mason’s Eight Against Utopia sounded like a really great concept for its time. Eight people, living in a domed city 7000 years in the future, realize their so-called Utopia is not all it seems and embark on an escape mission to the supposedly hostile outside world, not knowing what dangers await.

Will they all make it out? How will they pass the barriers? Will the traitor in their midst endanger their secret mission? And what dangers will they encounter outside the dome?

To answer those questions: Yes. Easily. No. And nothing.

Okay, so maybe it’s not that straightforward, but still, I was expecting a lot more from Mason’s book, based on the premise. What I got instead was a dry, monotonous, misogynist novella that is 90% action writing yet somehow, nothing really happens.

Having read more than a fair share of sixties and seventies science fiction, I know these stories tend to be more about the concept than about the characters. They were written in a time when possibilities seemed endless, and there wasn’t the pervasive sense that everything had been done before. The intelligent, masculine, alpha male hero was very much ‘in’ at the time, and women tended towards the passive, supportive, smart but weak types. These are things I’ve accepted about this niche genre, but they are not things I look for in a good story. Knowing what to expect and accepting it regardless are two entirely different things. Some times I am able to look past it because the concept is so well done, but this is not the case in Eight Against Utopia.

For starters, in a story where the basic plot is rebelling against Utopia, the Utopia you’re fleeing should be a character in and of itself. It was about halfway through this itty bitty book that I realized I’d completely forgotten what the domed city was even called. I had to flip back to the beginning where my eyes had glazed over at the routine descriptions and futuristic names thrown at us to remind myself that it was called Carthage. The only real hint we get that Carthage isn’t quite as ideal as it appears to be is that it directly monitors the thoughts of its citizens.

Okay. I mean, yeah, that totally sucks, but I’m gonna need more than that to go on. I mean, we didn’t even get to know what exactly Carthage does with its detractors, only vague implications that they are reprogrammed. If I’m going to invest myself in a story about fleeing a false Utopia, I want to know exactly why, dammit.

Thanks to the aforementioned thought monitoring, every single character is dull as a mayo sandwich on white bread. I thought this might go away when they finally escaped the city and their thoughts were free, but it didn’t. They were still all boring and indistinguishable, and none more so than the central hero, Gaul Kalmar, who spent half the novella being trailed by two women who—of course—ended up inexplicably competing for him.

What the story lacked in characterization, it should have made up for in concept execution and philosophy, but it utterly failed to deliver on these fronts as well. As I’d said before, 90% of the book is describing people’s actions escaping from the city, and no one really seems to talk about why they are doing it, or how they feel, or whether they regret it, or what they expected to find on the outside to aid in their survival. In 158 pages of novel, Mason spends more time talking about how comparatively attractive the women are than he does about why Gaul conceived of this mission of self-exile and how he convinced the others to come along.

Oh, and there are totally nine people who escape, not eight, so this was a stupid title as well. I hope it was the publisher’s idea to change the title from its original (From Carthage Then I Came) and not Mason’s, but I really don’t know. I wouldn’t really be surprised if Mason just rattled off the title as carelessly as he did the rest of this novel so he could move on to something better.