From the sublime to the ridiculous.

Channel 46:  Fritz Lang's classic 1927 German science fiction film Metropolis -  a silent masterpiece in black and white, the first feature length science fiction film, a groundbreaking expressionistic social metaphor which has influenced generations of filmmakers.

Channel 45:  Mega Shark Versus Mecha Shark....

- Sid

Going viral.

Generally I don't worry a lot about the end of the world.  We're well past 2012, as far as I know we're not in immediate danger of being hit by a giant meteor, and I just can't bring myself to view the zombie apocalypse as something that I need to actively concern myself with.

However, there is one end-of-the-world scenario which has an awful plausibility for me:  the global pandemic.  As such, I've been watching the events surrounding the Ebola outbreak in Western Africa with a certain degree of trepidation.

In an article on CBC.ca about the African outbreak, Ebola is described as "a hemorrhagic fever that can cause its victims to bleed from the ears and nose", which, strictly speaking, is correct.  However, it's a bit like describing leprosy as "a minor skin condition".  Ebola Zaire, the most virulent strain of the disease, has a 90 percent fatality rate. That means that out of the approximately 529 million people in North America, 476 million would die. To give you a better idea of what that would mean, it would be the equivalent of killing everyone in North America except the populations of New York State and Canada.*

This is a bit deceptive in that, although the fatality rate is 90 percent, the infection rate is much lower. Ebola is passed along through the transfer of infected bodily fluids.  In order to increase the possibility of infection, Ebola basically liquifies the body:  in the final stages of the disease, victims "crash and bleed out", vomiting extreme amounts of infected blood mixed with stomach tissue, and bleeding from all of the other orifices.

In some odd way, Ebola is too efficient a disease: the debilitating nature of the symptoms means that infectious victims quickly lose the capability to move around and transmit the virus to others.  (Sadly, the most likely to be infected are doctors and nurses who are attempting to treat the victims.) We're also fortunate in that there isn't an airborne version of Ebola, which could easily give it the same rate of infection as the common cold, thereby allowing one victim to infect an entire planeload of passengers, one planeload of passengers an entire airport, and so on, and so on.

So far we've been lucky in that the outbreak has been restricted to a rural environment.  In saying that, I mean no disrespect to the victims in Africa who have died during the outbreak: the sole positive aspect of the recent epidemic has been that the relatively low population density involved has limited the number of fatalities - there just aren't enough vectors for a full-fledged pandemic burn. The death toll would be staggering if Ebola got a really good foothold in a major urban centre like New York or Beijing.

If you'd like an opportunity to be really frightened by a non-fictional account of Ebola, I strongly recommend Richard Preston's The Hot Zone.  It paints a terrifying picture of the realities of Ebola, and graphically describes the effects of the disease - really graphically, this is not a book that you want to be reading over dinner, or perhaps at all if you have a weak stomach.

One of the symptoms that Preston talks about is the point in the disease when the higher brain functions begin to vanish  - when "the who has already died while the what continues to live."  As clots begin to cut off the flow of blood and portions of the brain begin to liquify, the brain is reduced to the basic functions of the brain stem, the primitive "lizard brain".

All it would take is a small mutation in the virus so that rather than passively suffering, these mindless late-stage victims would become manic and angry, assaulting the people around them, perhaps even infecting them by biting. Almost like, well, zombies...

- Sid

* I don't mean to suggest that Canada would dodge the bullet at the expense of almost all of the United States, it just made the math simple.

"It's all about the boobs, man!"

The second question is: why does the (attractive) female lead always end up wearing an inadequate little outfit and a disproportionate amount of content involve close ups of cleavage?

- Laurie Smith

Following the Evil Dr. Smith's comments regarding The Dinosaur Experiment, I took the liberty of reworking the DVD artwork in the interests of gender equality.  Sadly, I don't think mine looks all that much more fake than the original. Seriously, though, could they not at least have given the poor woman a belt?

- Sid

 

Win some, lose some.

(Contributed by Laurie Smith)

Recently I had the mixed pleasure of watching two dinosaur horror flicks:  Poseidon Rex and The Dinosaur Experiment.  The first one was watchable albeit a bit slim on plot, and unintentionally humorous in the moments of carnage and gore.  The latter was abysmal.  No plot and no intelligence in sight other than from the raptors, to the point where each casualty made me feel like cheering ("Hooray!  One less stupid human!").  Both movies ended ambiguously, opening the door to a sequel.  I know which sequel I'd watch and which one I'd avoid.

Two questions: does the presence of a deep underwater sink hole ("from which no diver has ever returned") or posted signs blatantly warning "Raptor Farm – Keep Out!" and "This door MUST be kept locked at all times" not register with these hapless morons who insist on exploring the deep blue sea (BTW, snorkelers would be long dead from the water pressure before they reached the 400 foot depth, just a FYI to the film maker) or opening the sturdy multiple bolted doors from behind which menacing roars are emanating?

The second question is:  why does the (attractive) female lead always end up wearing an inadequate little outfit and a disproportionate amount of content involve close ups of cleavage?  Perhaps to quote one of the expendable supporting actors in The Dinosaur Experiment, "It's all about the boobs, man!"

- Laurie 

Yeah, that always surprises people.

It's time for war, it's time for blood. It's. Time. For. TEA!!!

Emilie Autumn - Time for Tea, Fight Like a Girl

And now for something completely different:

From Kiskaloo, by Chris Sanders

As a dedicated tea drinker* for my entire life, it's these little moments of affirmation that make it all worth while.

 - Sid

* Just for the record, I drink Tetley's™ Tea, which often leads to tea snobs telling me that I drink crap tea.  Well, too bad - I like Tetley's, and it's been a comfort to me in all kinds of situations where I needed either caffeine, a break, a warm drink, or just something familiar in a strange place.  Not to mention control over the undead.

Recommended Reading.

Last night, the Evil Dr. Smith and I went out for dinner with my friend Alan and his new female companion Karli.  Alan is in the process of moving to Vancouver from Toronto, and has shown the foresight to line up an apartment and a girlfriend in a single visit.

Given that Alan is not a great fan of literature himself, I was pleased to discover that Karli is a reader. (She's also extremely good looking and apparently quite smart - I hope Alan's apartment is as nice.) As part of our conversation, we were discussing the trials and tribulations of long-distance moving, and I mentioned that my move to the West Coast was a little more expensive than Laurie's due to factors like my extensive library. When pressed, I confessed to my long term addiction to science fiction and fantasy.

As sometimes happens when people find out that I'm a geek, I was asked what science fiction novel I’d recommend - Karli had already explained that her literary interests are not tagged to a particular genre. 

I initially went with Dune, by Frank Herbert, which is a superb novel in spite of unfortunate adaptations to both movie and miniseries, but settled on Larry Niven’s Ringworld instead.

We finished dinner, we paid the bill, we shook hands and hugged and so forth, and went on our separate ways.  When I finally got home, I made a cup of tea, came into my study, sat down, stared at my books, and brooded for a while. 

Ringworld is not a bad recommendation when put on the spot over dinner. It deals with aliens, space travel, extended life, teleportation booths, and a plethora of other familiar SF tropes.  The massive scale of the Ringworld itself illustrates the sense of wonder and imagination which typifies the best of hard SF, and the adventures that Louis Wu and his motley crew experience there are thought-provoking, exciting, and entertaining.  It’s a clever book, and I think it’s easily accessible for non-fans.

All that being said, I feel that I’ve slighted any number of equally valid candidates for recommended reading: Ursula K. LeGuin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, The Dispossessed, or perhaps The Lathe of Heaven; The Lord of Light, by Roger Zelazny*, (maybe The Dream Master); Downbelow Station, by C. J. Cherryh; Babel-17, or Nova, by Samuel R. Delany, Lord Valentine’s Castle, by Robert Silverberg; Robert A. Heinlein’s The Moon is a Harsh Mistress; The Centauri Device, by M. John Harrison; Altered Carbon, by Richard Morgan, Hyperion, by Dan Simmons; Neuromancer, by William Gibson - and I'll stop there with ten authors.

Other science fiction fans (including my sister) will read this list and immediately voice their objections.

"What about Stranger in a Strange Land?"

"There’s no Clarke!"

"There’s no Asimov!"

"Where's Douglas Adams!  Or Piers Anthony!"

"Peter Hamilton's really good!"

"What about Lovecraft?"

"How could you skip Harlan Ellison?"

And they would be completely correct - the books listed above are in no way intended to explore the complete range of science fiction, and I could double those names in two minutes.

Then what does that list represent? 

The authors I’ve listed above are the ones that captured me with their imagination, style and skill, in books that I've returned to again and again over the years.  It's a bit sloped toward the 80s, when I was really hitting my stride as a fan, but includes older and new fiction as well.  Some of them are not as high profile - I suspect that M. John Harrison is a new name to some fans reading this - and the books I've listed aren't always the best known for those authors.  But they are all exceptional examples of writing talent, regardless of their genre, and I would unhesitatingly recommend all of them in a heartbeat.

And, in conclusion, I have to apologize.  I've always said that I didn't want to do lists here, everyone does lists, and now I've done one.  In my defense, I held out for almost eight years, so I don't feel I've betrayed my principles by too much.

- Sid

* Both these authors are equally at home with fantasy or science fiction, but Karli’s original question was for a science fiction recommendation, so I’m restricting myself to SF.  Although, really, with Roger Zelazny it's sometimes hard to tell.

Is there another answer?

I'm obsessed by time. If I had a time machine I'd visit Marilyn Monroe in her prime or drop in on Galileo as he turned his telescope to the heavens. Perhaps I'd even travel to the end of the universe to find out how our whole cosmic story ends.

- Stephen Hawking, How to Build A Time Machine

I've previously mentioned that my employers have a long and unfortunate history of choosing admin staff with little or no knowledge of Star Trek.  We've recently hired a new employee to fill one of the positions in question - I offered to prepare some basic Star Trek questions for the interview process, simple things like: "What is the name of Data's brother?", but I was quietly reassured that the HR people could take care of that sort of thing themselves.

So far, I haven't really had a chance to test the hiring team's due diligence in this critical area, although I've been reassured that I shouldn't worry. However, a recent encounter with Diana, our new co-worker, has made me a bit concerned about how things will work out in the long run.

Coming back from lunch with my fellow employee Wendy* last week, we bumped into the new hire wandering down the street with what appeared to be a bagged lunch clutched in one hand.  Wendy politely recommended a nearby park with a nice view of the mountains and dock gantry cranes and so on as a pleasant spot to eat.  I added that I had found a time machine there a few months ago as well, which I felt added a certain je ne sais quoi to the park's credentials.

Diana considered this for a moment, and then asked, "What year does it go to?"

Mildly affronted, I replied, "What year does it go to?  All of them! How do you think this works?  'Excuse me, does this time machine go to the Battle of Hastings?'  "Sorry, no, miss, this is the Number 12 Time Machine, I only go to the French Revolution.  You want the Number 8 Time Machine at the stop across the street.' "

At this point Wendy intervened and explained that further explanation of my mania could be found on my ongoing eight-year old science fiction blog**, which concluded with Diana pointing at me and happily exclaiming, "AH, YOU'RE A GREAT BIG NERD!!!!!"

Well, yes...was there a question in there?

But, honestly...what year does my time machine go to?  It's time PORTALS that only go to one date, what do they teach people in school these days?

Seriously though, from Wells' eponymous Time Machine through almost 120 years of time chairs, time ships, time projectors, time highways, time tunnels, police boxes, DeLoreans and phone booths, I am at a loss to think of a single example of a mechanical time travel device which is dedicated to a single temporal destination.  I open this up to my readership - any examples of single-stop time mechanisms come to mind?

- Sid  

* There is some mild irony here in that Wendy, to whom I offered the Star Trek interview questions, is one of the people who experienced Jean-Luc Picard fail at the reception window. She has since been promoted, which would seem to indicate that the company doesn't place the same focus on this that I do.

**The blog thing really does take all of the guesswork out of it for people, perhaps I should have t-shirts made or get cards printed or something.

All the ladies in the house say, “Awwwww….”

Spider-Man in particular, he loves Spider-Man.

Terry, talking about his son Edward

And now, here's Ed with his favourite umbrella.  Ed is apparently also fond of Los Angeles, but that's less relevant for this blog.

 - Sid

But which seven?

There's a 1949* novelet by Keith Bennett called The Rocketeers Have Shaggy Ears which details the trials of Ground Expeditionary Patrol One, whose ship crashes during an exploratory mission on Venus.** Thirty-two men set off on a five hundred mile trek back to their main base - seven survive the trip.

The story is told partially from the perspective of Clarence Hague, an inexperienced young gunnery officer who, through the process of attrition, ends up in command of the last remnants of the ship's crew. Near the end of the story, he lists the remaining eight men under his command:

There was young Crosse, his face twitching nervously.  There was Blake, the tall, quiet bacteriologist; Lenkranz, the metals man; Hirooka, the Nisei; Balistierri; Whitcomb, the photographer, with a battered Hasselbladt still dangling from its neck cord against his armored chest. Swenson was still there, the big Swede crewman; and imperturbable Sergeant Brian, who was now calmly cleaning the pneumatic gun's loading mechanism.

Following one last battle with the lizardlike natives of the Venusian jungles, they successfully arrive at the base:

Chapman remembered his field glasses and focused them on the seven approaching men.  "Lieutenant Hague is the only officer."

And so the story ends. Obviously Hague survives that final skirmish, but I've always felt a bit cheated by the fact that we are never told which two of those other eight men fail to complete the journey. I wonder why Bennett decided to omit that crucial bit of information - and why the editor let him get away with it?

 - Sid

* In the interests of complete accuracy, copyright is from 1949, but the story wasn't published in Planet Stories until Spring of 1950.

** There was a point in time where Venus was theorized to be Earth-like but much warmer due to its position closer to the Sun.

In search of vintage books: a tragedy in three acts.

Act One:  The Object of Desire
There's a particular subgenre of fantasy, primarily British in origin*, in which teenagers and tweenagers find themselves unexpectedly involved in mystical events of enormous importance while on vacation.  Examples would be the Narnia books, Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising series, and The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath by Alan Garner. (Not Harry Potter - I think that J. K. Rowling was painting a far more complex canvas than the sort of story that I'm talking about here.)

I own a very early example of the genre:  What Happened At Garry-Eustace, by Dorothea Townshend, with illustrations by Alan Wright, detailing the adventures of the four Eustace children with leprechauns, the Sidhe, Tirna'an Og, enchanted princesses, magical swords, hidden treasures and the like. My copy is undated, but was probably published in 1927.*  Sadly, it is in such horrible condition that it is only by courtesy that I can call it a book - the covers still enclose the pages, but that's about it.  In my defense, I haven't abused it (okay, maybe a little when I was ten or eleven) it's just an old book that wasn't taken care of.

Act Two: Fulfillment
I was flipping through this poor battered book recently, and thought to myself, "Wait a minute, Sid, this has to be available someplace on line - you can't possibly own the only copy in the world."  So, I sat down with Google™, and to my extreme pleasure instantly found a copy for sale by a third-party seller on Amazon.co.uk for a mere £5.99 and an additional £6.94 for shipping and handling. A different edition, admittedly, but under the circumstances, I considered finding a copy at all to be a win.

I was a bit concerned that the British branch of Amazon might not want to sell to someone in Canada, but all of my regular Amazon.ca account information worked - bang, done, and then it was just a question of waiting a couple of weeks for delivery.

Act Three:  Disappointment
Imagine my surprise to then receive an e-mail announcing that the seller had cancelled my order because the item was out of stock.  This was followed by a very polite letter of apology from the seller, explaining that the book had been sold recently and that she had neglected to delete the listing immediately.

As I commented in my reply to the seller, I was of course disappointed, but more than anything else I was surprised that someone else - in fact, ANYONE else - had been looking for the same book at the same time!

So, ultimately I was left with my original timeworn tome. I couldn't find another copy for sale at that point in time, but it's not as if I am in desperate need of a copy in better condition, and at least I know that there are other copies out there. Hmmm...perhaps I should do another search now, you never know...

- Sid 

* I'm open to debate on this, but personally I think of it as a British thing.

** The online WorldCat Book Catalogue says that there were only 1927 and 1930 editions of this book, and based on the publisher, mine is from 1927.