Space War Blues

Book 500: Gateway Essentials

by Richard A. Lupoff

Genres: Science Fiction; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

New Alabama. A planet that's a fair reproduction of long-lost Dixie, filled with down-home, racist rednecks. The N'Alabamians have carried their tribal prejudices to the farthest reached of the galaxy, like the other minorities expelled from the Earth by the dominant Pan-Semitic Alliance. There's New Transvaal. New Cathay. And New Haiti, a black world where Papa Doc's descendants carry on the old ways. When New Alabama and New Haiti go to war with each other, it's a bloody black-versus-white stalemate. Until the N'Haitians develop a horrific new secret weapon based on a very ancient tradition. Imagine you're a clean-cut N'Alabamian good ol' boy, giving your all up there in the space fleet, and you suddenly realise the enemy crews aren't human at all. They're what people back on Earth used to call Zombies...

Release date: August 27, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 320

Sample

SAILING THE DARK WITH THE BENTFIN BOOMER BAPPA ZAPPA KID

It’s crazy to think so, I know it’s not true, but so help me God, I imagine sometimes that I’ve spent the entirety of my life involved with this book. Waking in the moment of shattered silver dreaming, sometime past moonlight, cold with fear and cobwebbed with free-floating guilt, I hear demon voices echoing in my head, “Where is the introduction to Lupoff’s book?” And in the background, other demon voices demanding, “Where is Again, Dangerous Visions?” and “You screwed me out of millions at Dell!”

I rush to the bathroom, douse my face with icy water and hang tremblingly over the wash basin, trying to catch my breath, trying to flense the sounds from my brain. And not till morning, when reality rings my telephone and knocks on my door, am I free to live my life unumbilicized with this book and its editor and, most of all, its author. Oh, God, to be free of it all!

There are at least four people in the world who will attest to my decency as a human being (affidavits on file with this publisher available on request). I contribute to good causes, support my indigent friends, scratch the flea-spots behind dogs’ ears, have even read a Taylor Caldwell novel without losing my lunch. Why then, oh why, must I lurch on through life bearing the Sisyphean weight of this novel?

Clearly, somewhere along the way I have polluted the hell out of my karma.

In nowhichway did I suspect, back in 1969, when Richard Lupoff first contacted me about this story in its primal form, that I would be inheriting a dark destiny of anguish and angst. Had I known, I would have fled to Ultima Thule, or perhaps someplace even more desolate, like Billings, Montana.

But I was only the first person to resonate to the song this excellent novel sings. In that primacy of perception lies all the justification for the subsequent agita. Because Space War Blues (which I will always think of as “With the Bentfin Boomer Boys on Little Old New Alabama” no matter how many commercially-oriented titles are slapped on it) is an extraordinary piece of writing. It was apparent when I saw the first pages Dick Lupoff sent me for Again, Dangerous Visions; and it is even more apparent now, in the totality you’ve just bought.

But in 1969, this novel had had a very different history than the one that followed its appearance in A,DV.

The publishing world is filled with classic stories of fine novels that had a hard time finding homes. One can only wonder what mass lunacy prevails when James Jones’s From Here to Eternity is rejected not once or twice, but over thirty times by different (one would assume knowledgeable) publishers. Or what is one to make of the initial rejections of Alex Haley’s Roots, Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull, or Mika Waltari’s brilliant historical novel, The Egyptian, which (in its American translation) was rejected somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty-six times?

To say that Dick Lupoff’s Space War Blues had a history of rejection is in no way to denigrate it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s finest story of Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet, was bounced four times before someone had the sense to buy it. Mr. James Payn of The Cornhill kept it a month, thought it “capital,” but rejected it, as did a gentleman named Arrowsmith, who saw it next. And two more, before Doyle found a publisher whose wife read the novel and demonstrated better taste than the male editors of her time by urging her husband to buy it. Which he did: all rights, for £24. Margaret Mitchell submitted Gone With the Wind under its original title, Mules in Horse’s Harness, to twenty-one prospective buyers, if legend is correct, before it was accepted by Macmillan. Thomas Wolfe, Herman Wouk and William Faulkner were all summarily turned down when they submitted their initial writings. Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms was rejected repeatedly. During his lifetime, Edgar Allan Poe was unable to find a single publisher who would take the risk of issuing his tales in regular volume form; and so Poe published them himself in pamphlet form, at one bit each—12½¢—and if one could lay one’s hands on such a pamphlet these days, it would cost between four and five hundred dollars.

Which is not to equate any claim on posterity shared by the foregoing with Space War Blues, but only to lay a groundwork for the sad and sorry tale of discouragement and rejection that attended this fine book’s birth.

In 1966, the late James Blish prodded Lupoff into writing his first novel, One Million Centuries. Lupoff’s grounding in fiction, up till that time, had been in early twentieth-century fiction, the sort of novels Edgar Rice Burroughs himself would have read. But in 1967 there was an upheaval in the genre of the fantastic, and Lupoff recalls that much of the ennui and insularism generated from the reading of science fiction of the period was blown away with the shock waves produced by anthologies of experimental writing. He notes Judith Merril’s England Swings SF and my own Dangerous Visions as eye-openers. I bow gratefully.

Intrigued by the intersilient portals to Wonderland this “new wave” revealed, Lupoff decided to try his hand at the game by way of getting into a second novel. And so, in 1967, he wrote the first three chapters of what was to become “With the Bentfin Boomer Boys on Little Old New Alabama.”

Experimental in style, far-flung in concept, it was a vast departure for the Lupoff of that time: thirty-two years old, twelve years in the computer business, still three years away from a commitment to full-time freelance writing, married and the father of three children, Lupoff hardly seemed—to himself or to his auctorial contemporaries—a likely candidate for the position of Wildly Innovative Novelist. But he wrote the first three chapters, and he sent them off.

To his friend Terry Carr, who was, at the time, editor of the Specials series at Ace Books. A logical target for first submission: Carr and Lupoff had known each other for years and had been science fiction fans during the same period, and it was Ace that was about to publish the paperback edition of Lupoff’s 1965 hagiography, Edgar Rice Burroughs: Master of Adventure.

Carr hated it.

Now unsure of the worth of the story, having had it bounced by an editor who, by all counts, should have been well disposed to its innovative nature, Lupoff dropped his sights considerably and sent the section off to Lancer Books, which had just released One Million Centuries. Lancer was a paperback outfit with a splendid editor but run by a publisher whose business ethics had been (not to put too fine an edge to the remark) pluperfectly Watergatian. Larry Shaw, Lancer’s editor, was—and is—a professional with excellent taste and a keen eye for new talent. I say this not only because Larry Shaw was the first editor to buy a story from me, but because this has been the judgment of his editing throughout the field for thirty years.

Nonetheless, Shaw hated it.

That made two rejections, neither of which had come from paperback publishers of Olympian reputation. Lupoff’s reluctant conclusion: the story must stink.

Seeking vindication of the work, Lupoff sent the three chapters to his agent, Henry Morrison. Sounds of teeth chattering in the background. But surely one’s own agent, heir to ten percent of one’s creative life, helpmeet and friend while one toiled in the fields of literature—surely such a person would succor and assist in maintaining.

Morrison hated it. Returned the manuscript and labeled it “unmarketable.” It was now 1968, and Lupoff was into other projects. He tossed the portion into a drawer and thought of it, if he thought of it at all, as a “perpetual orphan.” Lupoff’s phrase.

Pause for a moment.

I have no hard data to confirm this supposition, but my gut and my skin tell me that there has never been a human being since circa 3500 B.C., when the oldest known written text—pictographs of Sumerian speech, the Gilgamesh epic—was placed in the Temple of Inanna, who has not believed in his or her secret heart that he or she is a writer. The occupation looks both easy and remunerative … from the outside. The greener grass. Same color as fame and money.

But there isn’t one of those garage mechanics, computer programmers, secretaries, plumbers, taxi drivers, law enforcement officers, airline pilots or politicians who could stand a week of the insecurity. Nine to five, steady paycheck, regular meals on the table, decent clothes for the kids … that’s what separates free-lance writers from the rest of normal humanity. Because writers are like Willy Loman, out there on “a smile and a shoeshine.” Living on ideas. Going from word to word. Nothing is ever certain, nothing is ever really firm. And every time out it’s a new roll of the dice. Even the best of us, the most famous, the ones whose names alone can sell a manuscript, even they crap out from time to time.

And so writers cannibalize themselves. Not merely feeding off the experiences of their lives to inform the stories they write, but psychologically, as well: reassuring themselves that the work is solid, sustaining themselves from that inner pool of strength, reaffirming their faith in the only God they know—the validity of their talent. It is the only thing they can permit themselves to worship. Without it, the fear and the insecurity generated by being at the whim of editorial selection would kill them as dead as a manuscript in Middle English.

The days between mailing out a story and the editor’s response are certainly the emotional equivalent of the terrain Dante mapped as the Eighth Circle of Hell. A constant, all-pervading sense of imbalance. A low-level trepidation. The nerve ends and the muscles fibrillate as with nicotine hunger. Rotten to those around you. Start at unexpected sounds. Pick fights. Surly, sleepless, anxious. No, the writers-who-never-write couldn’t stand the gaff. They’d pack it in and rush back to their sinecures.

Because a writer is always alone with the dreams. And when the dreams are rejected, there is a time when the God is up for question. Those who see the greener grass in a writer’s territory never understand that terror.

Thus: see Lupoff, 1968, trying to break in as a full-time writer, his first novel published to vast disinterest and a minimum of recompense by a borderline paperback house, his second start turned down not only by editors, but by the man who was supposed to be his good right hand. In the drawer, the beginning of a dream, now called a “perpetual orphan.” The Eighth Circle of Hell.

Early in July of 1968, Richard Lupoff happened across a mention in one of the many fan-produced amateur journals of my preparations for a sequel to Dangerous Visions. On July 8th he wrote me, in part, “I hear you’re working on another volume like Dangerous Visions; if that’s true, I’d appreciate your reading the enclosed material. It is the first chapter of a long story I started some time ago, and if you think it suitable for your book, I’ll resume work on the thing.

“Problem is, everybody likes it except the right people. Chip Delany is enthusiastic about it; Jack Gaughan thinks it’s great; Bob Silverberg likes it. But of course none of them are in a position to buy it. And it really is a dangerous vision, as you’ll see.

“Terry Carr says he likes it ‘but …’ Larry Shaw hates it. And my agent, Henry Morrison, says, ‘Why don’t you write a nice comprehensible story like One Million Centuries.’ ”

I answered Richard’s letter three months later. The reason for my tardiness is lost in a decade of memories, and consider his state of mind during those three months … waiting. But I did answer on October 9th, and told him “the story-thus-far fascinates and compels me…. I would be favorably disposed to buying the story.”

He responded with pleasure, advised me there was some more material intended for insertion later in the story, sent me the sections, and we entered into a protracted correspondence about possible directions and expansions of the basic idea. My part in the game was one of suggester to Lupoff’s suggestee. Nothing any nobler or more creative than that done by any conscientious editor who understands that it is the work that demands love and composure and attention to detail, even when the human beings involved in its creation are suffering.

But from that point on, the story and its author had a shield from the fear and trembling.

On February 9, 1969, I received the manuscript of “Bentfin Boomer Boys.” There was nervousness and reserve in Richard’s letter of submission. It came in at 35,000 words.

Then there was more delay on my part. I kept him waiting for a decision—unintentionally, but nonetheless unforgivably—through February, March and half of April.

The Eighth Circle revisited.

On April 15th, I received a letter, reproduced in toto here:

April 15, 1969

Dear Harlan,

It’s reached the point where I don’t know what to say any more; I feel as if I’ve said it all, not only that I’ve said it all but that I’ve said it all, over and over again. So what’s left to do?

Shall I plead, demand, threaten, complain, bluster, curse?

Should I review the history of this thing? You know it as well as I do.

Should I remind you of all the promises and assurances you’ve given me, that you have then left in shreds? You know about those things too.

Should I appeal to your professional pride by pointing out how very unprofessional it is to become known for making commitments and then ignoring them? Or should I get very personal and contrast the way I went through contortions to save your place in “All in Color,” with the shabby treatment I have received in return?

I’m really at my wits’ end. What the hell are you trying to do to me, Harlan? If I were a little more paranoid I would think that this was some kind of subtle and elaborate plot.



PS (8:45 PM)

I wasn’t kidding -- the above is only the most, recent in a long series of letters variously pleading, demanding, threatening, etc. What can I say now -- I’m delighted that you like the story. [Like, like? He said he loves it! That’s something so precious that I’m scared to repeat it for fear that it will turn unreal.]

I’ll hold off any polishing-type changes of my own until I get your letter; then I’ll do the whole thing including the glossary.

Meanwhile -- goshwow!

Yippee!!

W-h-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!!!!!!!!!!

W-H-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!!!!!!!!!!

What had happened, of course, was that I’d gotten boxed in with my own writing, personal problems, business that couldn’t be shunted aside, and had let “less pressing” matters slide. But I’d called him on the very day when he’d written the letter, and had conveyed my wild enthusiasm for the story.

In an instant, just like that, how fragile writers can be, it had all gotten better. Wounds and stigmata miraculously healed; soul taken flight to soar; Daedalus, never Icarus; the God back on its throne; the talent vindicated. In a moment.

There was more interchange of correspondence, suggestions for a new chapter, acceptance of the suggestions by the author, a check sent, contracts signed, and in a June 8th letter from him, an effulgent glow of sunlight and bright hopes. He was in the clear and running. His work was being bought.

By January of 1970, Richard and his family were making ready to leave Poughkeepsie and IBM to move to the West Coast, where Richard was intending to set up shop as a full-time writer.

All through January and February Richard and I worked on polishing and expanding the story. Understand something: when I say I worked on “Bentfin Boomer Boys,” I want you to clearly understand that it was analogous to a child in a candy store wanting a tiddle of this and a tad of that. The story was so good, so rich, so innovative, that I really didn’t want it to end. And so I would keep suggesting scenes to Lupoff. It was obvious he loved the story, too. He kept writing the scenes. It grew in length. Our pleasure and mutual joy in it also grew.

But a worm was gnawing its way into our apple.

As a matter of course (and not coincidentally, I suspect, to imply “I told you so”) Richard had sent a carbon of the story to Henry Morrison, the agent who had called “Bentfin Boomer Boys” unmarketable. You’ll pardon the bemused expression on my face as I write this, but as if he had had an epiphany, Morrison now saw the story as eminently marketable. I will make no snide comments about his editorial perceptivity, nor will I comment on such interesting human character traits as venality, opportunism and cupidity. I will merely observe that Morrison immediately fired off the carbon to Gail Wendroff at Dell Books. Gail was the editor, having recently moved over from Belmont Books, a publisher of whom it can be said that trying to carry on ethical business dealings with them is like trying to run an alligator farm on the honor system.

Yet even Gail, who was generally a superlative editor, had difficulty recognizing the value of “Bentfin Boomer Boys.” After reading the manuscript as submitted by Morrison, she rejected it, saying, “I don’t understand why you sent this to me. Are you angry about something … or is this a bad joke?”

Morrison urged her to read it again, and resubmitted it.

Days passed. Then she called Morrison and said she’d been wrong, had read it too hurriedly, had been so deluged with junk manuscripts of a familiar style and content that she had not opened herself to Lupoff’s unusual technique. But now, she said, “it is the best manuscript I’ve ever read.” And she wanted to buy it, expand it by a mere five thousand words and publish it as a “slim novel.”

There was only one problem. She didn’t want it to appear in Again, Dangerous Visions. Reasoning (illogically) that a prior appearance of so much of the book’s material in an anthology would cripple the sale of the paperback, she made her purchase contingent on my releasing the story. She offered very good money.

Gail’s position was wrongheaded, as time has proved. At least half a dozen stories published as originals in Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions have garnered so much praise and attention that they have been successfully expanded to full book-length, and their sale, grounded in the popularity of the DV books, has been uniformly good. Quite the opposite of Gail Wendroff’s fear has been shown to be the reality. Rather than dulling the potential market value of a story, the DV books have served as widely-noted showcases, and the spectacular stories have demonstrated a viability apart from the anthologies.

(In this regard I cite, with considerable pride, Robert Silverberg’s “Flies” that went through a transmogrification and became the novel Thorns; Ursula Le Guin’s “The Word for World Is Forest” that has been published, unexpanded, as a “slim novel”; David Gerrold’s “With a Finger in My I,” which acquired sufficient fame to be used as the title story of his collection; and such stories as “Riders of the Purple Wage” by Philip José Farmer, “Faith of Our Fathers” by Philip K. Dick and Samuel R. Delany’s “… Aye, and Gomorrah,” which have been reprinted again and again.)

Much of this was already history when Gail Wendroff made her judgment; she should have known better. But she didn’t; and so Morrison, whose voice, unlike that of the turtle’s, had not been heard in the land during the year-plus that Lupoff and I breathed life into “Bentfin Boomer Boys,” dangled the belated bait in front of Lupoff. Richard and his family were about to undergo a major change in their lives, were about to set forth into the no-man’s-land of insecurity wherein all writers abide, and the offer from Dell looked good. Too good to resist. And so, on February 3rd, 1970, I received the telegram on page 22.

Oh my God, the moral quandary.

Locked on the horns of a situation that had no equitable solution. I had no desire to stand in the way of Richard’s making his first big novel sale to a major publisher. No one knew better than I how much he had suffered with that book, how long he had waited for the big break, how tempting such an offer could look to a man about to schlep himself and his family and his life into the Great Unknown. If I held to the letter of our contract, it was guaranteed that Dell would pass.

But then there was Again, Dangerous Visions and its forty-one other authors, many of whom were unknowns breaking into print for the first time. Understand (as I tried to make Richard understand): the DV books are community projects. By using the lure of big names, a wider audience is drawn to the work of those who might otherwise never be noticed. It is a gestalt, every element contributing to the commonweal. Writers of the stature of Sturgeon and Blish and Bradbury and Ballard serve not only as significant contributors in their own right, but serendipitously as loss leaders to get readers to read James Hemesath and Edward Bryant and Joan Bernott and Ken McCullough.

Sturgeon had already turned down Playboy’s two-thousand-dollar offer to publish his DV story in their pages before the anthology was released. Ted understood and chose to pass up desperately needed money to hold faith with the young writers whose careers were linked with Dangerous Visions. There were others who had had similar experiences: Barry Malzberg, Tom Disch, Kurt Vonnegut. They had all responded to the lofty intent of DV and A,DV.



I spoke to Richard at length. I told him I was hamstrung, but that I could not, in good conscience, allow him to pull the story. It was, additionally, a large chunk out of the book: over forty thousand words. He was bitter about my decision. I cannot fault him for his feelings. But I promised him, I swore solemnly that I would undertake to get “Bentfin Boomer Boys” published as a book, by Dell if I could somehow finagle it.

He did not think much of my oath.

Dell withdrew its offer.

Then began a period of terrible rancor between Richard and me. Word leaked out that I had screwed him out of a fat deal at Dell, and the fan press thrust its collective snout into the already bubbling soup of discontent. Public utterances were made. Vicious letters were exchanged. A,DV was delayed because of its size and the complexity of the project, and Richard grew even more furious. He had been shafted, and now the story was being held back from public view a year, two years. At one point, in a letter dated just about the time Doubleday was putting A,DV on the presses, Richard quite correctly pointed out that my contractual hold on the story was about to expire. I wrote back in a white rage and told him that yes, the option would run out just. . .