Retro Review: "The Green Huntsman" by Dorothea Gibbons

If this cover seems familiar, that's because the artwork by Harold De Lay originally appeared on the cover of the January 1944 issue of Weird Tales.

"The Green Huntsman" is a gothic short story by Dorothea Gibbons, which was first published in the July 1954 issue of Weird Tales. The story may be found online here. This review will also be crossposted to Retro Science Fiction Reviews.

I came across this story, while I was reviewing "More Than Shadow" by Dorothy Quick and was intrigued that there were two other new stories as well as one new poem and a reprint by women writers in the same issue of Weird Tales, proving once again that Weird Tales was the most woman-friendly SFF magazine of the pulp era.

The name Dorothea Gibbons will not mean anything to most people. However, Dorothea Gibbons is a very well known author, probably one of the most famous mainstream authors ever to publish in Weird Tales next to Tennessee Williams as a sixteen-year-old debut author (and I should really review his debut story some day). For Dorothea Gibbons was none other than British novelist, poet and journalist Stella Gibbons, author of Cold Comfort Farm (which is absolutely genre, even if most people don't realise it). As Dorothea Gibbons (her full name was Stella Dorothea Gibbons), she published three stories in Weird Tales in 1953 and 1954. None have ever been reprinted.

Warning: There will be spoilers in the following.

"The Green Huntsman" opens in the manor house of Scarth on a misty autumn morning dripping with gothic atmosphere. Here Richard Ayreton, lord of the manor, and his agent Nick Borrodale await the arrival of Ayreton's niece Francesca Newtownly, a penniless war widow with a seven-year-old son.

So we have the classic gothic set-up of a young woman coming to a creepy manor, from which she will eventually run clad only in her nightgown, at least if the covers of gothic romances from the 1960s are to be believed. But first, Nick has to pick up Francesca from the train station. He's instantly smitten with her, but also uneasy, because of something that haunts the nearby woods in autumn.

Nick warns Francesca and her son Paul not to go into the woods, so he won't say why, because the truth would either terrify Francesca or worse, she wouldn't believe it. So Nick males up a story about cutting down trees in the woods and that it's too dangerous to go there. Francesca, however, isn't having any of it. "If the men are felling trees, they're very quiet," she says.

Not long after, Nick gets a panicked message from Francesca that Paul and his dog Sebastian have gone missing and that Francesca fears they went into the woods. She also reveals that she knows that there was never any tree cutting work going on and begs Nick to tell her just what the matter is with those woods. Francesca also reveals that she's been in the woods and saw something green watching her from between the trees.

Paul and Sebastian eventually reappear at the manor safe and sound. Paul confesses that he went into the woods, even though Sebastian with his canine instincts for the supernatural tried to stop him. Paul also sees something green among the dead trees. When he investigates, he realises that it's a horseman clad all in green on a green horse. The horseman trains his hypnotic gaze on Paul and beckons him to come, but Sebastian, the heroic dog, intervenes and pulls Paul to the ground, saving the boy. When Paul looks up again, the green rider is gone.

Now Nick and Richard Ayreton finally share the story of the green huntsman with Francesca. It turns out that the huntsman was an evil man who hunted in those woods on a devilish horse hundreds of years ago and has been haunting the woods ever since, always appearing in autumn. According to legend, the only way to get rid of that evil spirit is when another four-legged creature will confront him to save a human life. And Sebastian, the faithful spaniel, saved Paul from the huntsman and thus exorcised the evil spirit for good.

This is a spooky gothic story that is dripping with atmosphere. The decaying manor and the misty, windswept woods are vividly described. The interior art by Virgil Finlay is also great.

I like that Francesca is not your average insipid gothic heroine who runs away from the spooky manor clad only in her nightgown. She never for a minute buys Nick's weak excuse about men felling trees in the woods and also confronts him about it.

My main criticism about "The Green Huntsman" is that it's way too short. After all the build-up, the confrontation with the evil huntsman is over in a few paragraphs. Furthermore, we don't see it happening on the page, but hear it recounted by Paul after the fact.

Also, I would have liked more details about the history of the huntsman and why he does what he does. He was an evil man and now he and his evil horse haunt the woods after his death is a weak explanation. Surely, there must be more to the story. Did the huntsman develop a taste for hunting "the most dangerous game" or was he himself hunted by villagers with pitchforks and swore vengeance from beyond the grave? Inquiring minds would like to know.

That said, I did like the solution that what broke the curse was the heroic act of a cocker spaniel. After Dorothy Quick's tale of an evil faery poodle, which appeared in the very same issue, this one makes a nice counterpoint.

The atmosphere and writing are great, but the story is flawed.

Retro Review: "More Than Shadow" by Dorothy Quick

If the cover seems familiar, that's probably because the artwork by Harold De Lay was originally used on the cover of the January 1944 issue of Weird Tales.

"More Than Shadow" is a horror short story by Dorothy Quick, which was first published in the July 1954 issue of Weird Tales. The story may be found online here. This review will also be crossposted to Retro Science Fiction Reviews.

Warning: There will be spoilers in the following.

The protagonist of "More Than Shadow" is Mona, a wife and mother of three. Mona lives in a suburban house with her lawyer husband Hal, the children Carol, Meg and Harry Jr. and the housemaid Ellen.

At first glance, Mona would seem to have a pretty cushy postwar life. However, her 1950s domestic bliss is interrupted by strange occurrences that keep happening in her house. Cause whenever someone spills some kind of liquid – milk, tea, water – the liquid coalesces into a puddle shaped like a cuddly little dog. As hauntings go, this one is certainly creative.

The first two times it happens, Mona dismisses the dog-shaped puddles as a coincidence. By the third time, however, Mona realises that there is something very strange going on in her house.

Just to make sure that she isn't imagining things, Mona calls over Ellen, the maid, and asks her what she sees in the puddle of spilled water. Ellen confirms that the puddle looks like a dog, but not just any old dog either, but the little dogs on which the leprechauns ride on moonlit nights. For Ellen just happens to be Irish and therefore a fount of Irish folklore.

Intrigued, Mona asks where the leprechauns go on those little dogs. A little spooked, Ellen, who – being Irish – of course believes in leprechauns, replies that no one really knows, but that according to legend the little dogs carry the leprechauns over the mountains to the land of youth.

The legend is familiar to Mona, because it reminds her of a quote about the land of faery from the 1894 play The Land of Heart's Desire by William Butler Yeats, which is extensively quoted in the story, copyright apparently being no issue in 1954.

I've remarked before that for supposedly disposable trash fiction for the masses, the pulps were quite literary at times and are often full of literary references and allusions, many of which are not immediately recognisable to the modern day reader, even if they likely were to a golden age audience.

Unlike other authors of the era, Dorothy Quick does not assume that all readers will be familiar with the play (or have Google at hand to look it up), so she briefly has Mona sum up what the play is about, namely a newlywed bride being enticed by a faery child to come with her to the land of heart's desire. The bride eventually succumbs and promptly dies in the real world.

Dorothy Quick also offers up a reason why Mona is familiar with the play, since she isn't simply a fount of random Yeats quotations. For it turns out that Mona's high school graduation class performed the play and that Mona played the doomed bride. More importantly, the night of the premiere of the play was also the night that Mona's husband Hal, then still a young college freshman, proposed to her.

Seeing the dog-shaped puddle not only brings back memories of that long ago school play, it also reminds Mona that at the time, she wondered whether getting to live in the land of faery, forever young and carefree, wasn't worth losing your life and soul for. Now, many years later, Mona feels the longing for the land of faery again, but she quickly dismisses it. After all, she's happy, isn't she? She's got a great husband, three wonderful children, a beautiful home. She's living the dream.

About a week after the incident with the dog-shaped puddle, a real dog comes into Mona's life, when her kids find an adorable black poodle just sitting by the garden gate. Naturally, the kids want to keep it. Mona and Hal are quickly won over, though they caution the children that the dog probably already has an owner and just got lost. But until the legitimate owner shows up, the kids may keep it.

However, no previous owner appears and so the family keep the poodle, whom they name Jet, because he was jettisoned. The whole family loved Jet, only Ellen the maid is wary of the dog and insists that there is something strange about him. Being Irish, Ellen is apparently more sensitive towards the supernatural.

Whenever Mona cuddles with Jet, she has visions of Yeats' land of heart's desire, visions that are so vivid and realistic that she worries she might be going mad. When she confesses her worries to Hal, her husband admits that being with Jet makes him want to abandon his work and just go fishing all day long. However, Hal, being the rational type, believes that the presence of Jet simply loosens their inhibitions.

One day, while Mona is napping (Mona naps a lot), Jet cuddled up beside her, she hears strange music, as if in a dream. Jet suddenly starts talking and tells her that he can take her to the land of heart's desire, where no one ever grows old and there's only happiness, no pain. Jet also suddenly grows to the size of a small pony, big enough to ride upon. Jet tries to entice Mona to climb on his back and come with him to the land of heart's desire. Mona is sorely tempted, but then she looks into Jet's eyes and sees an ancient evil there. She also noticed that Jet has very sharp teeth, like fangs. But the temptation is stronger and Mona is just about to climb into Jet's back and ride away, when her children burst into the bedroom, the otherworldly music stops and Jet shrinks to normal size.

Mona dismisses the whole incident as a nightmare. She tells Jet to play with the children and gets dressed – in a Dior taffeta gown – for a date night with Hal. Mona also realises that she has everything she ever wanted and that she would never give up Hal and her family, not even for eternal life and eternal bliss, even if it took her a nightmare to realise this.

When Mona and Hal return from their night on the town, they're met by a panicked Ellen who tells them that their youngest daughter Carol and Jet the dog have both vanished. The two older children last saw Carol playing with Jet in a corner of the garden.

Hal wants to call the police, but Ellen – being Irish and therefore superstitious – insists that the police won't be able to help, because the faeries have taken Carol and Jet was their emissary. After all, it is May Eve a.k.a. Walpurgis Night a.k.a. Beltane, when the little people have power. Ellen also tells Mona and Hal that some neighbours saw a happy and laughing Carol riding on a black poodle the size of a pony.

Hal, being the rational type, dismisses Ellen and her Irish superstitions, but Mona knows better. The nightmare she had was no dream after all. Jet really did grow to the size of a pony and when he couldn't entice Mona to come away with him, he took her daughter Carol instead.

This story was reprinted in 1988 in the anthology "Weird Tales: The Magazine That Never Dies"

"Away with the faeries" stories are dime a dozen, but Dorothy Quick manages to put a new spin on that old familiar tale. Indeed, my initial impression of "More Than Shadow" was, "This is atmospheric and well written, but also really predictable." Because Mona is your stereotypical 1950s suburban housewife who seems to be suffering from what Betty Friedan would eventually term "the problem with no name". Indeed, Mona's frequent naps seem to point at depression. And it was clear to me with my twenty-first century expectations of what stories about suburban housewives in the 1950s were like that Mona would go away with the faeries in the end, leaving behind her husband and kids, just like Lucy Jordan from the eponymous song. It was also clear to me that "away with the faeries" was probably intended to be a metaphor for the many real life 1950s suburban housewives who descended into alcoholism and substance abuse.

However, that is not the story that Dorothy Quick wrote. For while Mona is sorely tempted by Jet and his promises of the land of eternal youth and joy, she resists the temptation in the end. And what brings her back from the brink are her three children. Furthermore, the incident with Jet helps Mona to realise that she is happy with her life. She loves her husband and she loves her children and does not want to give them up for vague promises of eternal youth in the land of heart's desire. And so in the end it is her daughter Carol – who's only three years old and not able to consent – who is taken away to the land of faerie.

Considering how many portrayals of unhappy suburban housewives in the postwar era there are – from Betty Friedan via Lucy Jordan to Betty Draper – it is refreshing to see a suburban housewife who is not unhappy. For while there were many unhappy marriages and depressed housewives in the 1950s, there also were many women who loved their husbands and children and were happy with their suburban existence, though these women are often forgotten today.

Besides, Mona really does not have any visible reasons to be unhappy. Her husband Hal is no philandering Don Draper nor a permanently absent workaholic in a grey flannel suit nor is he abusive. Indeed, Hal is portrayed as kind and supportive throughout. He does not yell or complain when the kids or Mona spill something on the carpet (and one of the dog-shaped puddles is caused by a cup of tea that Hal spills), he does not dismiss Mona as hysterical, when she confesses her dreams of the land of faerie to him and he's clearly still in love with his wife after several years of marriage. Okay, so Hal does not believe that the faeries took his daughter, but I don't think we can blame him for that. Indeed, one thing I've noticed in all of the Dorothy Quick stories I've read is that Quick always portrays supportive and loving relationships. Even if the central couple dies horribly, as in the two Patchwork Quilt stories I reviewed last year, the relationship is still supportive.

Another thing that sets Dorothy Quick apart from other writers of the pulp era is that her stories always pass the Bechdel Test, something that is extremely rare during the golden age, even in stories by female writers. "More Than Shadow" is no exception and passes due to a scene of Mona talking to Ellen about leprechauns as well as several moments of Mona talking to her daughters.

What also strikes me about Dorothy Quick's stories are her detailed descriptions of clothes, fabrics and interiors. Again, this is most notable in the Patchwork Quilt stories, where pieces of fabric trigger a kind of mental time travel. But "More Than Shadow" is also rich with description, whether it is Mona's blue satin bedspread, her Dior taffeta gown with a bell-shaped skirt or the lacy negligee Mona wears in the scene where she is almost tempted to go away with Jet.

A cute little black poodle as an agent of evil and temptation may be unexpected, but there is a precedent. For in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's take on the Doctor Faustus legend, Mephistopheles initially appears to Faust in the guise of a black poodle. Was Dorothy Quick familiar with Goethe's Faust? I have no idea, but it is not unlikely.

"More Than Shadow" is a neat little spooky story with an unexpected twist. The story appeared in the penultimate issue of the original run of Weird Tales, proving that the quality remained high until the end, even if half of the July 1954 issue of Weird Tales consists of reprints from earlier years of the magazine. Recommended.

Guest Review: Sirius by Olaf Stapledon, reviewed by Don Briago

Today, I'm please to feature a guest review of Sirius, a 1944 science fiction novel by Olaf Stapledon. So I'm handing over to Don Briago to give you his thoughts on Sirius.

***

I'm not sure what Olaf Stapledon's current stature is in the SF community, but back in the day Brian Aldiss and other authorities ranked him with the greatest pioneers of the genre, second only to H. G. Wells himself. Personally, I could never get through Stapledon's forbidding astronomical/evolutionary sagas. I'd occasionally dip into my copy of Star Maker, read one of its breathtaking descriptions of cosmic phenomena, thinking, "Yes! This must be exactly what it feels like to hurtle through space faster than light while observing the birth and then the heat-death of numerous galaxies!" - and then quickly get bored, because that's all the book seemed to have: breathtaking descriptions.

Though Stapledon is on record with the sentiment "A living man is worth more than a lifeless galaxy," his epics remain soulless, nearly devoid of human interest. Like Stanislaw Lem, Stapledon, awe-inspiring as he was, left me cold. Sure, the guy offers you philosophical depth and trail-blazing vision, but would you really want to have a beer with Olaf? American pundits would dismiss him as "unelectable.”

Fortunately, there's at least one surefire way to humanize yourself for the masses: sharing your love of animals. If Stapledon were alive today, he would be delighting us on Instagram by taping strips of bacon to his cat and uploading videos of his Dachshund barking in time to "Jingle Bells." Tragically, in 1944, there was no Instagram, not even any My Space. If you wanted to amuse a wide audience with adorable animal hijinks, your best option was to churn out a novel. Stapledon's is called Sirius.

And you know what? It works. For the first time, Stapledon engaged me at the primal level of storytelling, and got me emotionally involved in the destiny of his protagonist, a hyper-intelligent Alsatian "with a dash of Great Dane or Mastiff." Stapledon tells the story (unexpectedly structured like a leisurely old Bildungsroman) with impressive touches of humor and, yes, humanity. 

(The canine terminology is a bit confusing. An Alsatian is what I (and most people?) call a German Shepherd, though throughout the book Stapledon often refers to Sirius as a "sheep dog", which is what I (and most people?) call an Old English Sheepdog. German Shepherds have short hair while sheep dogs sport long, gloriously flowing locks, which is why my parents used to yell at me, "Get a haircut, you look like a goddam sheep dog!” BTW, according to Wikipedia, only two English Sheepdogs have ever won Westminster. This is an outrage.)

Sirius may lack the icy majesty of Star Maker's evocation of the Doppler effect, but it is - to use a word I never dreamt I’d use about Stapledon - cute. Not Baby Yoda cute, perhaps, but Werner Herzog cute. Although I should warn you right away that the ending is anything but cute, and you may find it as upsetting as Old Yeller or Bambi. I found it gut-wrenching without being manipulative, but I realize some people have zero tolerance for any hint of animal suffering.  

Stapledon doesn't waste time getting the story into gear. After a preliminary chapter introducing the narrator (a very dull dog indeed) to the amazing Alsatian, we learn about the mad scientist Thomas Trelone, who's earning a reputation in Welsh sheep-farm circles for his experiments in animal husbandry. Except I lied, he's not a mad scientist at all, he's another dull dog whom Stapledon hardly bothers to characterize throughout the whole novel, besides now and then referring to him as "unimaginative." Trelone's crowning achievement is Sirius, a dog so smart he's figured out how to communicate in English with growls and consonant-like barks.

Wisely, Stapledon doesn't attempt to transcribe Sirius's pidgin dog-English, instead always reporting his dialogue as it is remembered or interpreted by the humans. (I imagined Sirius's speech sounding like Scooby Doo's.) Noam Chomsky might nitpick about the way Sirius manages to acquire a language in defiance of all modern linguistic theory, but Trelone's hormone-injecting, selective-breeding method of creating an Uber-dog is sorta, kinda scientifically plausible, maybe?

Whatever. I'd have been perfectly happy if Trelone had been a wizard in purple robes who casts a spell on Sirius that gives him the gift of speech. That would technically make the novel fantasy rather than SF, but do we care about that distinction? It doesn't matter how Sirius becomes intelligent. What matters is how an augmented animal intelligence might cast light on human nature, because this is the speculative heart of Sirius.

The dog's unique intelligence doesn't define him. Above all, Sirius is lonely. “Why did you make only one of me?" he asks Trelone. Loneliness is such a painful, difficult subject that even the greatest novelists tend to shy away from it, but Stapledon tackles it head-on. Sirius's dog body alienates him from humans and his human brain alienates him from dogs. He can feel lust for a bitch but "when her heat was over she became devastatingly frigid and unattractive. The fragrance was gone; the moron mentality remained." Desperate to make some connection, Sirius struggles to come to terms with our strange species.

This quest leads him from a Welsh farm where he learns to herd sheep, to Cambridge where he's studied as a lab animal, to churches where he briefly flirts with religion. But nowhere can he get relief. Everywhere he's overcome with human cruelty, dishonesty, and self-deception. Inevitably, Sirius reaches the same conclusion that all the wisest sages throughout history have reached: human beings are shit.

"As he drifted along the streets, he felt stifled by the surrounding herd of the grotesque super-simians who had conquered the earth, moulded the canine species as they trimmed their hedges, and produced his unique self. Feelings of violent hatred surged up in him."

You can probably guess where this leads. Sirius reverts to an ancestral "wolf-mood" and the simians retaliate. Sirius can be forgiven for being a bit skeptical about the innate goodness of human nature. As the war with Hitler begins, the humans start using their marvelous technologies to create deadly rockets, death camps, and nuclear weapons. 

Sirius's emotional arc is less satisfying than his intellectual arc. It focuses on Plaxy, Trelone's daughter, who is a baby when Sirius is a pup. Although she's by far the most well-developed human in the novel, Plaxy never quite comes to life as an individual. The early chapters describing their upbringing together are wonderful. The two squabble with each other like siblings but also become possessive when the other gets involved with a different member of their respective species. It's complicated, as the kids say today.

My favorite moment of the novel is when Sirius, aching from loneliness, decides to write and mail a letter to Plaxy at her boarding school. His human brain knows how to do it, but his dog anatomy can't. How on earth is he supposed to sharpen a pencil, open an envelope, apply a stamp, etc.? The scene works as a cute adventure in classic puzzle-solving. I'd argue that it's quintessential science fiction, too. Stapledon breaks down a mundane activity through a fictional technology (animal brain enhancement), and makes the reader appreciate just how miraculous and complex the activity really is. 

The novel could have used more little vignettes like this. Stapledon was mainly a "Tell, don't show" type of writer, and much of Sirius consists of reflections on What Is Real and What Is Human, the two great themes of Philip K. Dick's work. Dick's genius was to dramatize ancient philosophical questions using trashy pulp tropes, something Stapledon couldn't conceive of doing. Sirius would have been better if Stapledon had, like Dick, shown more and told less. All the same, I found the book engrossing from beginning to end, and I can't really ask for more than that. Sirius is an accessible, provocative fable that deserves to be a strong contender for a Retro Hugo award. 

***

Many thanks to Don for this great review of Sirius.

Retro Review: "Desertion" by Clifford D. Simak

"Desertion" is a hard science fiction short story by Clifford D. Simak, which was first published in the November 1944 issue of Astounding Science Fiction and is therefore eligible for the 1945 Retro Hugos. The magazine version may be found online here. "Desertion" is part of Simak's City cycle and has been widely reprinted.

Warning: Spoilers beyond this point!

"Desertion" is something of the odd one out in the City cycle, because unlike the other City stories, "Desertion" doesn't take place on Earth, but on a human research station on Jupiter. Kent Fowler is head of the Dome No. 3 Jovian Survey Project and has a problem. For none of the four intrepid explorers that he sent out into the wilds of Jupiter, their bodies altered to suit the atmospheric conditions, have ever returned. And now Fowler is about to send out the fifth explorer, one Harold Allen, who most likely won't come back either.

Fowler is not happy about this, but he feels that he has no choice but to send people out into the deadly Jovian atmosphere, because otherwise the human colonists on Jupiter will be stuck in enclosed domes that are almost impossible to maintain considered the atmospheric conditions as well as the high pressure and gravity of Jupiter. This being a hard science fiction story published in Astounding, we get a detailed description of the conditions on Jupiter with its high pressure and gravity and its corrosive ammonia rains. This being a Clifford D. Simak story, these descriptions are much better written than usual.

Miss Stanley, who is in charge of converting the explorers into their Jupiter-adapted form, is even less happy about the whole mission than Fowler and flat out accuses Fowler of sending young men to their death, while he himself sits safe in his office inside the dome, all so Fowler can become a great man, the one who opened Jupiter to human colonisation.

Miss Stanley is the rare example of an older woman character in a golden age science fiction story who is not someone's mother, aunt or grandmother, but a highly skilled specialist (the best conversion operator in the solar system) in her own right. Miss Stanley also takes absolutely no shit from anybody, least of all Fowler. She knows a man who's chasing glory and doesn't care whom he sacrifices along the way when she sees one. And yes, I'm certain that it is total coincidence that the argument between Fowler and Miss Stanley about the ethics of sacrificing young men for some nebulous greater good was written towards the end of WWII, when the Fowlers of our world were sending young soldiers out to die by the thousands.

To no one's surprise, Harold Allen does not come back, but vanishes without a trace. Fowler tries to deflect the blame onto the conversion machine and the biologists who programmed it, based on a Jovian lifeform the humans call "Loper". But Miss Stanley declares that nothing is wrong with her machine and the biologists offer an undoubtedly lengthy explanation why their data is correct that Simak thankfully spares us.

Unlike some of the more bloodthirsty and ruthless WWII generals of the era, Fowler does have a conscience. As a result, Miss Stanley's accusation that he is sitting there high and dry, while he is sending young men to their deaths has clearly gotten to him. Therefore, Fowler decides that the next person to go out into the Jovian atmosphere will be Fowler himself. Though he won't be going alone. Instead, he'll take his faithful dog Towser with him, because Fowler would feel bad about leaving him behind.

And so Fowler and Towser step onto the Jovian surface in their new bodies. Fowler realises that unlike the hell world his human mind had envisioned, Jupiter is a pleasant and beautiful place, when experienced in the body of a Loper. The massive gales are a light breeze, the corrosive ammonia downpour is a light and gentle rain, the toxic atmosphere smells of lavender.

When Fowler tries to call for Towser, he realises that he's telepathic and that he can talk to Towser now. And Towser, who's very happy with his new body, because it is so much better than his aging dog body, can answer him.

"You're… talking to me", a stunned Fowler exclaims, whereupon Towser replies that he always talked to Fowler, only that Fowler could never understand him.

Fowler and Towser engage in a friendly race to an ammonia waterfall that crashes over a cliff of frozen oxygen and realise that their minds are changing as well and that they know things they never knew before about Jovian colours and how to make metal withstand the Jovian atmosphere better. "Maybe…" Fowler muses, "…humans are the morons of the universe, naturally slow and foggy."

Fowler also realises why none of the people he sent out ever came back. Because life is simply so much better as a Loper, the surface of Jupiter is beautiful and there are so many mysteries to explore.

Towser declares that he won't go back, because they would only turn him into a dog again. Fowler pities the people in the dome who have no idea how wonderful life as a Loper really is. But he also realises that he couldn't live in his old human body anymore, not even for a short while, because its limitations would simply be too much to bear, now he knows how much better life can be.

And so Fowler and Towser head off into the sunset (or the Jovian equivalent thereof) to have amazing adventures on Jupiter, while back at the dome, Miss Stanley and the others wonder what happened to them.

For some reason, I haven't read much of Clifford D. Simak. At least based on "Desertion", I should probably remedy that, because "Desertion" is a wonderful story. It's also that rare beast, a hard science fiction story published in Astounding that manages not to be clunky and filled with infodumps and exposition, but beautifully written. And "Desertion" absolutely is hard science fiction based on what was known about Jupiter at the time, even if the conversion machine is very much handwavium.

In fact, I was stunned that "Desertion" (and the other City stories, for that matter) was published in Astounding, because even though it is hard science fiction, "Desertion" is not at all what you'd expect to find in Astounding and not just because it is better written than approximately ninety percent of the other stories in the magazine. No, "Desertion" also violates John W. Campbell's famous dictum that humans must always triumph. Because the humans in "Desertion" are not superior at all. Instead, they are small-minded, blinkered and – to quote Fowler – "the morons of the solar system". Even a random Jovian critter the Earth scientists are not even sure is intelligent is superior to humans.

Add to that Miss Stanley (who's awesome, by the way, and who I hope gets a Loper body and great and glorious adventures of her own) blatantly criticising men (and they almost always are men) sending out others to die, just so they can make their mark in the world, and I honestly wonder how on Earth this story came to be published by John W. Campbell in Astounding? Was Campbell too busy writing manuals for sonar systems or annoying the FBI that month, so that his assistant Kay Tarrant (who according to contemporary accounts had more than a little of Miss Stanley in her) took over and picked this one out of the slush pile? On the other hand, as I've noted before, John W. Campbell published quite a lot of stories that were a far cry from what we now consider Campbellian science fiction.

Stylistically, Simak is much closer to Ray Bradbury as well as Leigh Brackett and C.L. Moore's solo works than to Isaac Asimov, George O. Smith, A.E. van Vogt and the other mainstays in Campbell's stable during the war years. And like the Bradbury stories I have reviewed for the Retro Reviews project, "Desertion" feels very timeless and with a few tweaks wouldn't seem out of place in a contemporary issue of Lightspeed, Clarkesworld or Tor.com. But unlike the various Bradbury stories, "Desertion" is hard science fiction, which usually dates much worse than softer science fiction or outright fantasy.

A beautiful story about friendship, dogs and what it feels like to be alive. Highly recommended.