Retro Review: "The Huddling Place" by Clifford D. Simak

Is it me or were some of the 1944 Astounding covers really ugly?

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

Warning: Spoilers beyond this point!

"The Huddling Place" starts off with the funeral of one Nelson F. Webster. It might be a scene in any contemporary set story, if not for the fact that the pallbearers are robots and that Nelson F. Webster died in 2117, aged eighty-three.

Our narrator is Jerome A. Webster, son of the late Nelson F. Webster, and one of only three Websters still left alive. The other two are Jerome's son Thomas, who will soon be leaving for Mars, and Jerome's mother, who never gets a name. In the course of the funeral, We also get a brief rundown of the Websters (and a Webster father-in-law, William "Gramp" Stevens who is an important character in the first "City" story published earlier the same year)  interred in the family crypt on the Webster estate. Again, only one woman is mentioned, Mary Webster, Jerome's late wife.

For four generations now, the Websters have lived on a spacious estate with whispering pine trees, meadows, a rocky ridge and a stream full of trouts, ever since John J. Webster, great-great-grandfather of Jerome, moved there after humans abandoned cities in the twentieth century in favour of what the characters consider gracious living on huge lots of land, served by a small army of robots.
The story follows Jerome through his day, as he retreats into his study to mourn his father, not even bothering to say good-bye to the priest who conducted the funeral service. Instead, Jerome leaves the Websters' faithful robot butler Jenkins to deal with the priest, just as he leaves him to deal with everything else.

We learn that Jerome never leaves his house, even though he spent several years as a doctor on Mars in his younger days. Nowadays, however, Jerome doesn't see any need to leave his house. After all, modern technology allows him to speak to anybody, virtually visit any place, attend a concert or play, browse a library and conduct any business he might want to conduct, all from the comfort of his home. This short paragraph is probably the most prescient thing published in Astounding in the entire year of 1944, because the Internet allows us to do all of that from the comfort of our own home as well. Though I hope that most of us react to those possibilities a little differently than Jerome.

Jerome's contemplations are interrupted by a virtual visit from an old friend, the Martian philosopher Juwain whom Jerome met during his time as a doctor on Mars. Juwain has come to pay his respects to the late Nelson F. Webster and also to ask why Jerome never physically returned to Mars for a visit, even though the Martians owe him a great debt, because Jerome wrote the book on Martian medicine. For we learn that the Martians never really had doctors before the humans arrived. Instead, they simply accepted illnesses as fatal. Meanwhile, Martians have come up with orderly and logical philosophy that may be applied as a practical tool, rather than the fumbling human attempts at philosophy. And Juwain is about to make a further breakthrough in philosophy, a breakthrough that will help both humans and Martians. A. Williams' interior art depicts Juwain as a being with flimsy tentacle-like limbs and a huge domed head, which certainly suggests a species of philosophers.

This is not the first time in Astounding in the 1940s that different races and species are given different specialisations they are inherently suited for. Something similar can be found in the Jay Score stories by Eric Frank Russell, one of which – "Symbiotica" – was a finalist for the 1944 Retro Hugo. Though it's certainly interesting that the superior Martian philosophy is orderly, logical and practically applicable, i.e. it is a type of philosophy that would have appealed to John W. Campbell. Meanwhile, humanity still gets to be superior, if only because medicine is a much more vital field than philosophy for the survival of any species.

The story picks up again at a spaceport, where Jerome sees his son Thomas off to Mars. Jerome can barely keep himself from begging Thomas to stay on Earth. Once the spaceship carrying Thomas to Mars has lifted off, Jerome suffers the mother of all panic attacks. He barely makes it across the open stretch of concrete back to the terminal building, where he huddles on a chair near the wall, terrified of the noise and the strangers all around him.

Jerome is desperate to return home at once, so he can feel safe again. However, the faithful robot butler Jenkins informs him that they can't leave just yet, because the Websters' private helicopter is in need of repair. Jerome freaks out even more. "I understand, sir," Jenkins says, "Your father had it, too."

Now Jenkins reveals that crippling agoraphobia apparently runs in the Webster family and usually sets in at around fifty. That's the true reason why Jerome as well as all the Websters before him never leave their estate. Because they cannot.

Being a doctor, Jerome conducts an experiment and invites some two-hundred and fifty men (Simak's word choice, not mine) to visit him. Only three of those invited actually show up, which suggests to Jerome that more and more of humanity (well, the male half) is succumbing to the same crippling agoraphobia that has affected him. This is, Jerome assumes, the result of humanity's lifestyle living far away from each other on huge tracts of land, where they feel so comfortable that they simply cannot bear to leave the familiar surroundings, unless they absolutely have to. And maybe not even then.

Jerome's theory is tested when he gets a call from a man called Clayborne, an old acquaintance from Mars. Clayborne works for the Martian Medical Commission and has contacted Jerome with an urgent request. After all, Jerome is the leading expert on the Martian brain and Clayborne has a patient who urgently needs a brain operation, an operation only Jerome can carry out. And that patient is none other than Jerome's good friend Juwain who has been asking for Jerome.

"You'll bring him here?" Jerome asks, only to be informed that Juwain cannot be moved. Jerome will have to go to Mars to operate him, otherwise Juwain will die.

"But I cannot come," Jerome tells the increasingly (and understandably) irritated Clayborne. Surely he isn't really needed, surely someone else can carry out the operation. Clayborne, however, won't have none of that. He's sending a spaceship straight to the Webster estate.

Soon thereafter, Jerome receives another call, this time from one Henderson, president of the World Committee, which appears to be the global government in Simak's future. Henderson also insists that Jerome must go to Mars to save Juwain. Because if Juwain dies, the philosophical breakthrough he was about to achieve, a breakthrough which will advance humanity and Martians by a hundred thousand years, dies with him.

To be fair, Jerome is determined to at last try to go to Mars, even though he is utterly terrified. He also realises that even though humanity may have left the cities behind, they have still psychologically chained themselves to their homes. Finally, he realises that he has to break those chains and leave his comfortable home behind, just as humans left the cities behind some two hundred years before. So Jerome forces himself to pack a bag and promptly suffers yet another panic attack.

His panic attack is interrupted by Jenkins who arrives to tell him about a most extraordinary occurrence. A ship landed at the estate and wanted to take Jerome to Mars.

"They are here?" Jerome asks, "Why didn't you call me?"

Jenkins declares that he did not want to bother Jerome, because the whole thing was just too preposterous. So Jenkins personally told the men to leave and when they refused, he threw out by force.

Poor Juwain is doomed and humanity will never learn the philosophical revelations he had in store for them. And all because of an overzealous robot butler.

I enjoyed "Desertion", the other Clifford D. Simak story I reviewed for the Retro Reviews project, a whole lot and it's definitely going on my Retro Hugo ballot. I did not like "The Huddling Place" nearly as much. What is more, the story reminded me of what always irritated me about Simak's stories, when I first read them as a teenager, namely the anti-urbanism.

Now I'm very much a city person and I was even more of a city person, when I was younger. My teenaged self wanted to live in some major international metropolis – London, New York or Paris were my top choices – and literally could not understand that there were people who actually enjoyed living in the countryside or in suburbs or small towns. I always assumed they were forced to live there due to jobs, money issues or families who had the idiotic idea that children should grow up in the countryside. Realising at age fifteen that American suburbs like the ones you always see in horror films were a real thing where real people lived utterly baffled me, because who would choose to live in a horror movie setting?

When I read about city world of Trantor, capital of the Galactic Empire from Isaac Asimov's stories, I thought Trantor was the coolest place ever and immediately would have moved there, if that had been at all possible. And when I first encountered the City cycle by Clifford D. Simak at around the same time, I thought it was a horrible dystopia where human had abandoned the cities to live on country estates where nothing ever happens and no one ever goes anywhere, because there is nowhere to go. Worse, I strongly suspected that Simak was not aware that he was writing about what to me was a horrible dystopia.

My adult self has a more differentiated view of the City stories. Yes, Clifford D. Simak was clearly not a city person and obviously preferred the countryside. Just as he was obviously a dog person. Indeed, I was stunned that there is no dog anywhere in sight in "The Huddling Place", because dogs are so prominent in Simak's fiction, including the City stories.

However, even as early as "The Huddling Place" it is very clear that Simak does not view the cityless world he has created as an unalloyed good (and civilisation does eventually break down in the City cycle and humans die out, while dogs and ants take over the world). After all, Jerome A. Webster is a pitiful person, chained to his home and unable to leave even to save the life of his friend. Furthermore, Jerome is utterly dependent on Jenkins and the other robots. It isn't Jerome himself who makes the fatal final decision, Jenkins makes it for him.

I vaguely remembered that the way the humans treated their robots as slaves to run their oversized estates was one of the things that annoyed me about the City cycle. However, upon rereading the story, I realised that it's not so much the humans who are enslaving the robots. Instead, it's the humans who are slaves to their robots. Furthermore, I also remembered Jenkins as wholly positive figure fully in the "robot as pathos" range, to quote Asimov's classification of science fictional robots. But upon rereading, I found Jenkins an almost sinister figure. Does he truly have the best interests of Jerome and the other Websters at heart or is he slyly making Jerome even more reliant on him? After all, if not for Jenkins, it's quite possible that Jerome might have managed to overcome his fears and gone to Mars after all.

Agoraphobia is another theme that keeps popping up during the golden age, particularly among writers in the orbit of John W. Campbell and Astounding Science Fiction. Isaac Asimov, who suffered from agoraphobia himself, addressed the issue several times, most notably in the Elijah Baley and R. Daneel Olivaw novels. Asimov's 1953 science fiction murder mystery The Caves of Steel is set on a future Earth that is pretty much the opposite of the world from Simak's City stories. Here, humanity has retreated to huge domed cities and is terrified of any open space. The 1956 sequel The Naked Sun, meanwhile, is set on a world of suburban sprawl that is even more extreme than that of "The Huddling Place". Here, too, humans live on huge estates tended by robots. But in The Naked Sun, the Solarians not only refuse to leave their palatial homes, they also cannot bear to be in the physical presence of other humans, even members of their own families. Indeed, the similarities between "The Huddling Place" and The Naked Sun are so pronounced that I wonder whether both stories aren't the result of one of John W. Campbell's infamous writing prompts.

It's also interesting to view both "The Huddling Place" and The Naked Sun in the light of the trend towards suburbification after World War II. Because in the 1950s and 1960s, people all over the western world really did turn their back on cities in favour of suburbs built on what had been fields and meadows only a decade before. Of course, those people were far more likely to end up in a Levittown shoebox or a "garden city" housing estate than on a huge multigenerational estate like the Webster home. On the other hand, the McMansions that were popular in the US from the 1980s into the early 2000s do seem to show a trend towards a scaled down version of the Webster home. And while humans post WWII did not actually succumb crippling agoraphobia, people did stop going to cinemas, theatres, restaurants, bars, etc… for a while, preferring to stay at home and watch TV and have dinner parties in the privacy of their own homes. Suburbification is mainly associated with the postwar era, but now I wonder whether those trends were already noticeable in the 1930s and early 1940s and whether stories like "The Huddling Place" and The Naked Sun were a type of "If this goes on…" speculation.

In the real world, the trend towards suburbification and people retreating into the privacy of their homes eventually reversed, as younger people moved back into the cities, once derelict city neighbourhoods became extremely desirable places to live, while some suburbs withered and became places for old people, families and those who can't afford to live in the city. Just as people started going out again and cinemas, theatres, restaurants, etc… rebounded. Furthermore, the postwar trend towards suburbification was a purely western phenomenon anyway. Beyond the western world, people continue to flock to the cities, because that's where the jobs, the opportunities and the facilities are.

Indeed, the world Simak describes in "The Huddling Place" and the other City stories is pretty much unsustainable. It's simply not possible for people to take up so much space, unless the world population has been drastically reduced. And in fact, I always assumed that only a minority of people, mainly in the US, lived like the Websters, while life and cities go on as normal in the rest of the world. And considering how very few women there are in the City stories, I also wonder whether women didn't continue as normal, maybe even happy that the men had walled themselves in.

In many ways, "The Huddling Place" is a very American story. Now many of the stories I reviewed for the Retro Reviews project feel very American, but "The Huddling Place" is an extreme example, since the story's idea of gracious country living is very American phenomenon. "The Huddling Place" is an early example of what Joanna Russ would eventually call galactic suburbia science fiction and one of the comparatively few that was written by a male author.

Since "The Huddling Place" is a Clifford D. Simak story, it is beautifully written. The nature descriptions do their best to make the reader understand just why Jerome loves his plot of land so much. The panic attack scenes are visceral and will bring back unpleasant memories to anybody who ever suffered a panic attack.

In fact, "The Huddling Place" feels more like a work of mid-century literary fiction than like the sort of hard science fiction normally found in the pages of Astounding. Maybe that is why John W. Campbell felt the need to add a blurb announcing that this story is an important extrapolation of social trends. In fact, if Jenkins and the other robots had been replaced by human servants, the spaceport with an airport or train station and if the dying Juwain had resided in a different country rather than on Mars, "The Huddling Place" wouldn't have felt out of place in a 1940s issue of the Saturday Evening Post or the New Yorker.

A tale about crippling agoraphobia and the dangers of suburbification with rather sinister undertones for such a quiet story.

Retro Review: "The Dear Departed" by Alice-Mary Schnirring

"The Dear Departed" is a ghost short story by Alice-Mary Schnirring, which was first published in the May 1944 issue of Weird Tales and is therefore eligible for the 1945 Retro Hugos. The story may be found online here.

Warning: There will be spoilers in the following.

"The Dear Departed" opens with a séance in progress. Six people are seated around the table, including the medium Radha Ramavi. During the séance, the voice of a child can be heard calling "Mommie, Mommie". One of the people at the table, a woman named Mrs. Harcourt, recognises the voice as that of her late daughter Dorrie. Clearly upset, she gropes about in the dark and breaks the circle, ending the séance early. When the lights go on again, Mrs. Harcourt is holding a stuffed toy elephant that used to belong to Dorrie, but has been missing since her death.

Radha Ramavi declares that once the circle has been broken, there is no use in going further today. But they can try again tomorrow. Then his assistant, described as a small man in Eastern clothes, sees the guests out, but not before Mrs. Harcourt slips him an envelope containing one hundred dollars, which was a lot of money in the 1940s.

Once the guests are gone, Radha Ramavi and his assistant take off their pseudo-Indian outfits and share a smoke. We learn that Radha Ramavi is really called Joe and that his assistant is called Mark. Neither of them has ever even been to India and Radha a.k.a. Joe cannot really talk to the spirits of the dear departed either. Instead, Joe and Mark are frauds, preying on the despair of the recently bereaved. They acquired the toy elephant from a nurse and used it to fleece Mrs. Harcourt and the others for money.

Joe and Mark head out for dinner and we learn a little more about how their scam works. Mark researches the customers and their dead relatives. He's also a ventriloquist and produces the voices, while Joe plays the medium. Occasionally, Mark also organises the materialisation of a spirit, using props such as an old Air Force uniform. Since the story was written in the middle of WWII, there would have been a great demand for spirits in uniform and as well as a lot of bereaved parents and widows and therefore a great demand for mediums to talk to the dead. However, Joe and Mark decide to lay off the materialisations for now, because they suspect that one of their customers, a man called Henderson, might be an undercover cop.

By now it's pretty clear that Joe and Mark are despicable people. But just in case there was any doubt, Mark decides to use his ventriloquist skills to harass a black truck driver waiting at a traffic light, while he and Joe are crossing. And so Mark produces a disembodied voice that whispers "Black boy, debbil's waitin' fo' you," to the truck driver. As a result, the terrified truck driver slips off the brake, the truck lurches forward and runs over Mark. Poetic justice, I'd say.

Schnirring's decision to make the truck driver black not just shows that New York City, where "The Dear Departed" is set, was a highly diverse place, it also adds racism to the already long list of Mark's sins and proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that Mark is or rather was a horrible person. I could have done without a awful accent Schnirring gave the black truck driver, though.

Now that Mark has gotten his comeuppance, Joe is distraught. For starters, he needs Mark or someone with his skills to run his fake medium scam. And besides, Joe was fond of Mark, because Mark worshipped him and would have done everything for him. Like a mongrel who'd do everything for a bone, a pat on the back or a kick. Just in case there was any lingering doubt, Joe comparing his faithful friend (and maybe more?) and business partner to a dog shows that he is a horrible person, too. Not to mention that we wonder why Mark put up with Joe, especially since Mark was the one who did all the work. Joe just pretended to be a fake medium.

However, Joe still has a séance scheduled for the next day and his customers arrive on cue. Joe has no idea what to do now, cause with Mark gone there is no one to do the voices of the spirits and arrange all the other little tricks. But since he can hardly send his customers home again, Joe decides to go through with the séance and just pretend that the spirits are not in the mood to answer that day. And so he sits at the table with the others, eyes closed, and wonders just how long he will have to pretend that he's trying to contact the spirits before he can send everybody home.

Suddenly Joe smells cigar smoke and wonders about that. After all, he told Mark not to smoke in the séance room, because the smell of smoke gets stuck in the draperies. Then Mrs. Harcourt screams and faints. Joe opens his eyes and there is Mark or rather his ghost, his body still mangled from the accident. "You wanted me, Joe, so I came," Mark's ghost says.

"The Dear Departed" is short, only three and a half pages long, but a certainly manages to pack a lot of punch into its short length. In many ways, this story is similar to "The Gothic Window" by Dorothy Quick, which ran in the same issue. For both stories feature a character faking a supernatural occurrence – though for very different reasons – only for the supernatural to really happen and make sure that a loathsome character gets their comeuppance. Though in "The Gothic Window" there is a plausible natural explanation for the supposedly supernatural occurrences. In "The Dear Departed", the ghost of Mark really does appear at the end, witnessed not just by Joe but by Mrs. Harcourt and the rest of the circle as well.

Apart from Mark's sudden death by truck, there are very few surprises in "The Dear Departed" and a savvy reader can quickly tell where the story is going. Nonetheless, the story is well written and highly effective. And while fake mediums are as common in fiction as they probably are in the real world, I nonetheless found the explanations how Joe and Mark conduct their scam fascinating.

Alice-Mary Schnirring is another forgotten woman writer of the golden age, except that she is even more obscure than Allison V. Harding and Dorothy Quick, if that's possible. According to ISFDB, she was born in Brooklyn in 1912 and died in 1978. Her byline is very likely her real name, if only because no one in their right mind would choose a surname like Schnirring, which is almost impossible for Americans to pronounce and spell (and not exactly great for Germans either), as a pen name. And indeed, in my quest to learn more about Alice-Mary Schnirring I found the obituary of her son, William Schnirring who was born in 1938 and died in 2003 and also worked in publishing, though in very different fields than his mother.

Alice-Mary Schnirring was less prolific than Harding or Quick. ISFDB lists only six stories by her, all published in Weird Tales between 1942 and 1944. However, she also seems to have been active in other genres. A 1975 Alfred Hitchcock anthology contained a story by her and crime fiction writer and Edgar Award winner Robert L. Fish dedicated a novel to her. All this points to a writer who left SFF for friendlier and more lucrative pastures (Weird Tales was notoriously slow to pay its writers). Alas, there is no crime and mystery equivalent to ISFDB, therefore it is impossible to tell how active she was in that genre.

Considering that every scrap of paper left behind by H.P. Lovecraft or Robert E. Howard has been scrutinised to death, it's telling how very little is known about the women who wrote for Weird Tales, even though Weird Tales had more female contributors on all levels (writers, editors, artists) than any other SFF magazine of the pulp era. We clearly need a comprehensive study about the women of Weird Tales.

Screenshot from the Night Gallery adaptation of "The Dear Departed"

With regard to reprints, Schnirring seems to have done a little better than Harding or Quick and several of her stories, including "The Dear Departed" have been reprinted in anthologies over the decades. Furthermore, "The Dear Departed" was also adapted for an episode of Rod Serling's Night Gallery in 1971, which David Juhl reviews here. The Night Gallery episode sticks to the basic plot of the story, but adds in a love triangle between Joe, Mark and his wife. I suspect that the adultery subplot was added to dispel any suspicions that Joe and Mark are a couple on a personal as well as professional level. Because the story certainly contains hints in that direction.

An effective and genuinely spooky ghost story by yet another underrated woman writer of the golden age.

Retro Review: "The Lake" by Ray Bradbury

"The Lake" is a short story by Ray Bradbury, which was first published in the May 1944 issue of Weird Tales and is therefore eligible for the 1945 Retro Hugos. The story may be found online here.

Warning: There will be spoilers in the following.

"The Lake" is narrated by Harold, who as a twelve-year-old is spending one last day by the shores of Lake Michigan, the titular lake, with his mother. The next day, Harold will get on a train to move to California. It's September, the beach is largely deserted and the hot dog stalls and merry-go-rounds on the boardwalk have already closed down.

The melancholy of the setting echoes Harold's mood. For Harold is not just sad because he is moving away, but also because he lost something or rather someone important here at the shores of Lake Michigan. His classmate Tally, a girl Harold has been in love with since forever, drowned in the lake earlier that year and her body was never found.

Harold disentangles himself from his mother and ventures into the water, calling for Tally to come back. Finally, he builds half a sandcastle on the beach and calls out to Tally to come and build the other half, just like they used to do. But of course, Tally doesn't come. Instead, the sandcastle is washed away by the waves.

The story now skips ahead ten years in two paragraphs, as Harold takes the train to California, grows up, goes to law school and marries a woman from Sacramento called Margaret. For their honeymoon, Margaret suggests visiting Harold's old stomping grounds in Illinois.

By now, Harold has happily settled down in California and largely forgotten Illinois, but the train ride east brings back memories. Walking through his old hometown, he finds that he doesn't recognise anybody, though some faces seem vaguely familiar, carrying echoes of old classmates.

Of course, Harold and Margaret also find themselves down by shores of Lake Michigan, walking along the beach on a September day much like the one when Harold left Illinois forever. Harold watches a life-guard boat moor at the quay, watches a life-guard carry out a bag containing a body. Full of foreboding, he tells Margaret to stay behind and walks over to the life-guard to ask what happened.

The life-guard tells him that they found the body of a little girl who has been dead a long time. The only reason the life-guard knows the dead body is a girl is because of the locket she had been wearing. The life-guard also says that no child drowned in the lake recently and that only one of the twelve children who drowned there since 1933 was never recovered. Harold already knows that the body has to be Tally, but asks to see it anyway. He also asks the life-guard where the body was found. "In the shallow water", the life-guard says.

Harold walks over to the spot where the body was found and sees half a sandcastle on the beach, footprints leading to the castle and then back into the water. Harold finishes the sandcastle and realises that he will love Tally forever, even though he grew up and she will forever remain a child. He also wonders what to do about this woman called Margaret who's waiting for him on the boardwalk. Though I do feel sorry for Margaret who after all didn't know that she was marrying a man who was still in love with his dead childhood sweetheart.

"The Lake" is a famous story that has been reprinted dozens of times. And rightfully so, because the story is utterly beautiful. I knew that I had read the story before, but I had forgotten how short it is, a mere four pages long. But Bradbury packs a lot into those four pages. You can almost see the beach, you can hear the seagulls, smell the hot dogs, feel the sand between your toes and the water lapping up to your legs. And you also feel the overwhelming sense of melancholy and loss that permeates this story.

Stylistically, Ray Bradbury was one of the best writers of the golden age and "The Lake" is a perfect example of his trademark poetic style. Much of the story consists of evocative descriptions of the shores of Lake Michigan. And it is certainly no coincidence that Bradbury was born in the town of Waukegan, Illinois, which lies on the shores of Lake Michigan, and later moved to California, just like his protagonist. A lot of Ray Bradbury's stories feel autobiographical and "The Lake" is one of them. And if you do the math, you'll notice that Bradbury was about the same age as his protagonist and first-person narrator Harold, when he wrote "The Lake". Was there ever a childhood friend who drowned in Lake Michigan? I don't know. But the evocative descriptions make the story feel very real.

Considering how description heavy this story is, it is interesting what Bradbury does not describe. For we do not get a single description of the dead body in the bag – Bradbury only tells us that Harold looked into the bag and looked away, for one look was enough. Harold also remarks upon how small Tally's body, for while he grew up, she never did. Considering that Weird Tales was a horror magazine, Bradbury's restraint in not giving us a description of the dead body is notable. But then stories in Weird Tales often kept their various horrors vague, the writers well aware that imagination can generate horrors worse than anything a writer can describe. And I guess we can all imagine what a body looks like after ten years in the water. Bradbury doesn't need to tell us.

In one of my posts about last year's Retro Hugo finalists, I noted that Ray Bradbury's 1944 Retro Hugo finalist and eventual winner "R Is For Rocket" was the story which felt most timeless among the finalists, even though it included such vintage science fiction tropes as food pills and rockets with mighty fins. "The Lake" feels even more timeless than "R Is For Rocket", simply because it doesn't contain any overt science fiction tropes. Instead, it is a story about loss, grief and a September day on the shores of Lake Michigan. "The Lake" wouldn't feel out of place in the (virtual) pages of a contemporary issue of Uncanny or Fireside or Tor.com, though instead of a train, Harold would probably take a plane these days.

A wonderful and haunting story.