I’m trying to take a vacation from science fiction, but I can never escape its gravity. The pull of science fiction is as powerful as the “addictive drug” in “Mind Partner”. As much as I want to read something besides science fiction, I can’t stay away for long. However, to tempt me off the wagon, I need a science fiction story that’s different. Anvil blends a film noir detective encountering a cosmic horror invader. Unfortunately, Anvil is no Raymond Chandler or H. P. Lovecraft.

Finding a different kind of science fiction story is mighty hard for me, especially after reading thousands of science fiction stories. The other night, I pulled out a handful of Galaxy Magazines and started reading the August 1960 issue. (Follow that link and read the story before I spoil my analysis.)

“Mind Partner” was the first story I tried, and I hit pay dirt right away. It’s not a great story, but it is different. I checked ISFDB.org to see its reprint history and discovered “Mind Partner” achieved modest recognition. It was published in four editions of Galaxy, in four different countries, and it was selected for The Great SF Stories #22 (1960) edited by Isaac Asimov and Martin H. Greenberg. Greenberg also included “Mind Partner” in the anthology Neglected Visions (1979) that he edited with Barry Malzberg and Joseph Orlander. Their goal was to rescue forgotten stories they thought should be remembered.

Imagine you are a science fiction writer in 1960 and you want to sell a story to H. L. Gold, the editor of Galaxy Magazine. You know his slush pile is full of crappy science fiction that’s recycling ideas that have been around for decades. Could you come up with a new idea?

Here is what Greenberg and Orlander say about Christopher Anvil in the introduction to “Mind Partner” in Neglected Visions. At best, I feel they are condemning him with faint praise. But this is also one of the reasons why this story intrigues me. If you’re a mediocre writer who cranks out formulaic work, how do you break out?

Years later, Greenberg was more emphatic about “Mind Partner” in The Great SF Stories 22 (1960):

Although Christopher Anvil is a mostly forgotten science fiction writer, Baen Books has been reprinting his work in ebook and audiobook editions, which are sometimes labeled “Complete Christopher Anvil” on Audible.com. Seven volumes are listed, and “Mind Partner” is included in Book 4, The Trouble with Aliens. (That audiobook is included in my Spotify subscription, so I might give it a try.)

I didn’t know all this on my first reading. I found “Mind Partner” intriguing but confusing. The story reminded me vaguely of The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick.

Jim Calder is offered $10,000 to $99,999 if he can pull off an undercover police operation. We don’t know if Jim is a detective or a cop. Details later in the story suggest he might be a detective, but he could be a volunteer from the police force.

A new drug is in town. People go in the front door of a mansion, and the next day, they leave by the back door addicted to a mysterious substance. The police have raided two previous buildings and locations, but have never caught the dealers. However, between 800 and 1,200 addicts are left behind living near those two locations. The police learn nothing directly from the addicts. All they know is they go in the front and out the back door the next day. Then they all rent a room near the drug house.

The police investigator, Walters, asks Calder to visit the mansion once and then come back to him.

So far, not that unique, at least to readers of mystery magazines. It sounds like something Philip Marlowe would investigate. And like Marlowe and Sam Spade in early film noir movies, the investigator gets knocked out and wakes up mentally altered.

As a writer, what can this drug do that’s completely different? At this point in the story, I asked myself, “What would Philip K. Dick do?” As I got into the story, I wondered if Christopher Anvil had been reading about LSD in 1960.

Then, as I read a little more, I realized that “Mind Partner” could be considered one of the earliest examples of a time-loop story. A day didn’t repeat like in Groundhog Day (1993), but Jim Calder lives his life over and over like in Replay by Ken Grimwood. We also see something similar in the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation titled “The Inner Light.”

I consider the history of science fiction to be like one giant LLM (large language model). Writers consume science fiction and regenerate ideas. Did Anvil read about a character in a time loop before he wrote this story?

At this point in my reading, I remembered an intense experience I had over fifty years ago. I fell asleep in the afternoon after smoking some pot. I woke up and went into the kitchen. When I came back to the bedroom, I saw a monkey sitting in the window. I was hit by instant blackness. I woke up and thought, “What a weird dream.” I again went into the kitchen to get a Coke, and when I returned to the living room, I saw a chair I’d never seen before. Blam! I was hit with blackness again. I did this several more times. Each time I’d get up and walk around my apartment. It felt absolutely real. I felt absolutely awake. I started struggling during the blackouts. Somehow, I knew I wanted to wake up.

Then I woke up one more time. I went downstairs to sit outside on the steps. I kept waiting for the blackness. It never came.

Here’s where I explored in detail what happened. You really should go read it. I wonder if you have the reading skills to figure out what happened in one reading. I didn’t. I’m also curious how many SF readers are familiar with the obscure story?

The story got complicated, and I lost track of what Anvil was doing. I finished it and had several vague ideas about what Anvil might have intended. I even asked Gemini, Google’s AI, if it knew the story. It did. By the way, I was surprised by this. Months ago, I was asking AIs if they knew specific science fiction stories, and they’d say yes. But when questioned, I realized they had gotten what they knew from Wikipedia or blog reviews. This time, Gemini knew the story in detail and was quizzing me about it.

I decided I need to reread the story. Gemini asked if I saw the ambiguity of the ending, and I said I did. Then it asked what I thought about several scenes. The plot is more complicated than The Big Sleep. Unfortunately, Anvil lacks Chandler’s way with words.

Jim Calder goes to the drug house and talks with a mysterious, dark-haired lady named Cynthia. She tells him the first three visits will cost $1,000 each. The next three will be double that price. The price will double again after every three visits. Jim is drugged the first time.

When he awakens the next day, he reports back to Walters. Walters is so impressed with his intel that he pays Calder the full $99,999. Calder uses that money to start his own detective agency. The agency eventually grows to twenty-seven hired men. Jim also marries and has three children. His youngest son even goes into the detective business with him. Finally, he dies an old man.

Jim wakes up back in the drug house. He leaves, goes to Walters, and again gets paid the full amount. This time, he becomes a painter. Lives to be an old man. Dies.

Jim Calder lives six complete lives. Sometimes, he’s paid the minimum, $10,000, and doesn’t do well afterwards. He remembers each life in detail. The memories become painful. A burden.

After the sixth life, he complains to Cynthia that he wants to forget. She admits that’s why the price of the drug keeps doubling. What they’ve really hooked him on is the drug to forget.

Jim again goes back to Walters. They make an elaborate plan for him to break into the mansion. And they go into the details of the various lives, looking for clues. One clue is that sometimes shutters at the mansion are broken, and sometimes they aren’t.

Jim and Walters discuss the nature of the hallucinations and come up with various theories. Two of which deal with the distortion of time and how humans have learned to overcome their physical limitations. We can’t run as fast as cheetahs or fly like birds, but we can build cars and jet planes.

And what is time? A hummingbird thinks people are standing still. A powerful AI thinks a trillion times faster than we do. Jim and Walters wonder if they are dealing with a being from another dimension, one where time is much different. What if dreams and hallucinations happen at speeds far faster than reality?

Here’s the thing. Jim breaks into the mansion and finds an alien creature. The alien explains how all of the apparent events are happening. It has evolved the power to create detailed delusions in other beings. Its delusions alter humans’ awareness of time. Like humans using technology to extend their abilities, the alien uses mental abilities to overcome its limitations.

The range of the alien’s power is about four hundred feet. That’s why the drug addicts choose to live nearby; they need to stay close to the alien to tune into its power to forget. It’s also why the shutters appear broken sometimes, and other times are intact. Jim and Walters use remote TV cameras to check the alien’s power.

The alien agrees to be captured in exchange for its needs being met.

The end.

But really? Did Jim ever get back to Walters?

If he did, and the ending we are told is real, should we still believe everything? Could the alien have manipulated the police into providing a better living arrangement for its survival?

Christopher Anvil could have stretched this story into a novel. Just imagine what experiments humans would ask of the alien, and what the alien could trick us into giving it.

If Jim never got back to Walters, that could be another interesting novel.

James Wallace Harris, 4/23/26

Can you remember when you first encountered concepts such as aliens, space travel, robots, time machines, and the end of the world? If you read science fiction, you might think of specific books that introduced those ideas. Think hard for a moment. Didn’t you encounter all those ideas before you could read? It’s my theory that all the iconic themes of science fiction were well integrated into society by the 1950s. Anyone under 80 probably heard about space travel, robots, and aliens in early childhood and can’t remember when these concepts first entered their minds. 

I didn’t understand there was a genre called science fiction until the fall of 1964, just before I turned 13. That’s when I discovered the science fiction section at the Homestead Air Force Base Library. Before that, I just stumbled onto science fiction books in the Young Adult section of the base library or at my school library. They weren’t labeled science fiction.

From ages 0-5 (1951-56), I don’t remember television, books, or magazines. My cognitive awareness was limited to my parents, sister, and grandmother. I can only recall a few conversations, and I was struggling with some very limited ideas. My vocabulary was small, and I comprehended few abstractions. However, if I had perfect recall, I bet I heard people talk about rockets, space travel, aliens from outer space, and robots. I’m not sure about time travel.

From 1956 until the fall of 1964, I was exposed to science fiction on television. I didn’t know these shows about space travel, aliens, and robots were science fiction; I was just drawn to those ideas. However, if I study my memories of sitting in front of a television set, I don’t think I comprehended much before third grade (1959/1960).  

I turned five on 11/25/56. I have only a few dozen memories of that year. My view of the world was quite minimal. Unlike some kids today, I didn’t know my alphabet, I couldn’t count, or tell time. I didn’t learn those things until first grade, which began in September 1957, the month before Sputnik. I attended Kindergarten in the 1956/57 school year, but they didn’t teach us those things back then.

The first show I remember liking was Topper. All I can remember are the names George and Marion Kirby, the dog Neal. They were ghosts. I don’t remember any scenes or plots, other than the ghosts had to hide from everyone but Topper. I had no idea this show was a fantasy. I’m quite sure I didn’t even know the word fantasy.

The earliest TV show I can remember a specific scene from is Gunsmoke in 1957. Matt Dillon killed a guy in a gunfight. I remember thinking that guy was only pretending to be dead, and I started thinking what being really dead meant. It blew my little mind. As far as I can remember now, that’s the first time my mind got philosophical.

The first movie I remember seeing at the theater was in 1958. It was called Snowfire, about a white wild stallion that a little girl loved. That same year, I remember seeing my first movie on television, High Barbaree. There was a scene about a little boy and a girl. The girl’s family was moving away, and the boy was crying. I had already experienced that several times since we moved a lot. That might be the first time I identified with a fictional character.

The next TV show I can remember was Clutch Cargo in 1959. This show may have had plot elements and may have proto-science fiction. I don’t remember any plots or stories, just the visuals.

My first real introduction to science fiction was probably The Twilight Zone during the first season, 1959/1960. I was in the third grade. There were many science fiction shows on television before The Twilight Zone, but I don’t remember ever watching them. 

The only specific episode I can remember is “The Eye of the Beholder” (November 11, 1960). It was so creepy. I remember watching it with my mother and sister. I had started the fourth grade, and we were living in Marks, Mississippi. That September, I also remember going to a friend’s house to see the last showing of Howdy Doody.  

That first season of The Twilight Zone introduced me to robots, aliens, rockets, and Martians. I didn’t really comprehend what all of those concepts meant. I was eight years old when the season started.

Writing this essay has helped me understand the limits of the childhood mind. It is a time when we are quite impressionable and especially gullible. If you meditate very hard on this, you’ll discover that many of your beliefs go back to these early years. There is no other way to say it, but we are brainwashed as kids by popular culture.  

My earliest memories of going to church and hearing about God and Jesus were when we lived in Marks, Mississippi. My mother’s oldest sister lived in Marks, so I think we lived there because my father was stationed in Texas. He was training as a mechanic for the F-106. My mother’s family, as well as the people from Mississippi in general in 1960, were big on going to church. I didn’t like Sunday School or going to church. It wasn’t because I wasn’t religious; hell, I didn’t know what religion was when I was eight. I just thought being stuck in Sunday School class or sitting in a pew during church services was boring. But I do remember they taught us this little song, “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” which had these lyrics:

Jesus loves the little children

All the children of the world

Red and yellow, black and white

They are precious in His sight

Jesus loves the little children of the world

I didn’t know what racism was, but I felt it in Marks, in 1960. I have this distinct memory of being at the Piggly Wiggly getting a drink of water, when this giant of a man runs up, grabs me by the arm, puts his face right up next to mine, and starts screaming something at me. I was terrified. I don’t think I ever understood his words, but later my mother explained I had been drinking from the fountain for black people. 

This was the beginning of my doubt about Christians. They had me sing one thing, but they lived another. I didn’t know the word hypocrite then, but I felt it. Not consciously. I bring this incident up to illustrate how my mind was being shaped.

Here’s the thing: around this time, I was being told a lot of fantastic things. God and Jesus came along the same time as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And then there was science fiction, with aliens, robots, rockets, and flying saucers. In the second grade, a girl humiliated me in class when I told the class that Santa had brought me a certain toy. She sat in front of me, our row was next to the left wall. My desk was third in line. She said very snotily, “What a baby, there ain’t no Santa, it’s your daddy.” I think that was the first time I realized that people could lie to me.

So in the third grade, I was disturbed that adults were talking about believing in God and Jesus, beings I couldn’t see. If they hadn’t tricked me with Santa Claus, I might have been more receptive. I didn’t challenge them. And I didn’t completely doubt them. I just thought maybe they could see things I couldn’t.

I admit I was a weird little kid. After hearing about robots, I wondered if adults were robots. Kids were real. I could relate to them. But adults didn’t tell me what they were thinking. They just ordered me around. I didn’t know about the Peanuts comic strip at this time, but my world was like Charlie Brown’s. I hardly saw adults. I was in school, playing with my friends, or watching television. Adults only gave orders: get up, take a bath, go to school, go outside and play, clean up your room, etc.

And I wasn’t too impressed with school. My friends were real. Television was real. School was boring. It was painful to have to sit at my desk all day. I wanted to be out playing in the dirt with my cars and trucks. I loved climbing trees. I loved walking around the neighborhood looking for treasures. I loved playing Cowboys and Indians. By the way, TV back then was dominated by westerns. The Twilight Zone shook up my world.

Looking back, since I turned fifty, I realized that during this period, instead of accepting what people told me about God, I chose to believe in what science fiction was telling me. Most kids were sucking down theological beliefs. I didn’t want to go to Heaven, I wanted to go to the stars. I wasn’t interested in God; I wanted to hear about aliens. Of course, kids didn’t talk theology or science fiction.

In 1960, I had no idea about geography, much less astronomy. Outer space was just up. I could see the Moon. Mars and Venus were just words like Heaven and Hell. My absorption of concepts from science fiction came at a murky time in my mind. I wasn’t really self-aware and conscious. 

There were certain Bible stories I was drawn to. Adam and Eve, and the Garden of Eden, Noah and the Flood, and the Tower of Babel. But think about it, those stories are very much like science fiction. In recent decades, I imagine they were written by guys who had minds like science fiction writers.

My theory is that we acquire fantastic beliefs in early childhood. That’s why ancient people embraced myths and religions. It’s why we embrace science fiction today. Our personalities meld with ideas we love, and we spend the rest of our lives believing in them. 

But there’s a problem. A huge problem. At that age, we have little cognitive ability to evaluate those beliefs. And once ingrained, they are almost impossible to reprogram.

By the eighth grade (1964/65), I decided I was an atheist. I didn’t know it at the time, but I believe now it’s because I had accepted science fiction instead. 

Why has it taken until I was in my sixties, retired, and collecting Social Security to challenge my belief in science fiction? Science fiction helped me challenge my faith in religion as a child, but why did I wait so long to challenge my faith in science fiction?

I am reminded of something Eric Hoffer said in his book The True Believer. He said to get a true believer to give up their beliefs, you have to give them something else to believe. That’s what I did with religion and science fiction. But for me to challenge my faith in science fiction, I would have to believe in something else.

In old age, I’m looking for something else. I’ve concluded that all the political turmoil since 2016 is caused by people having too much faith in their beliefs and not enough understanding of reality. I’ve decided everyone is delusional, and we need to give up faith in our beliefs. I’ve decided faith in anything is bad.

I’m reminded of a science fiction novel I discovered in my teens, Empire Star by Samuel R. Delany. In the story, a wise character tells a naive character that there are three modes of perceiving reality: simplex, complex, and multiplex. The beliefs we acquire in youth are a simplex view of reality. As we learn that our beliefs are only fantasies, perceiving the world becomes complex. It’s only when we can act on the multiple complexities of reality that our thinking becomes multiplex. 

Jim Emerson has finally reached the nineteen thirties.

Futures Past 1930 is now available.

Back in the 1990s, I subscribed to a fanzine called Futures Past, written and published by Jim Emerson. Each issue covered one year of science fiction history, beginning with 1926. Unfortunately, the fanzine died after 1929. Then, a few years ago, as Emerson approached retirement, he decided to resurrect his project. Instead of publishing another issue of the fanzine covering 1930, he went back to 1926 and expanded it into a book (available in softbound, hardbound, and PDF formats). He has since expanded and republished 1927, 1928, and 1929 as books, too. See my reviews of 1926 & 1927, 1928, and 1929. (You can get 1926 as a free PDF as a sample of the series. However, it’s the shortest of the volumes, and doesn’t fully convey the potential of the series that we now see in volume 5, 1930. See the end of this essay for a comparison of all the table of contents.)

In other words, I’ve been waiting three decades for Jim Emerson to get to 1930.

If you study the table of contents above, you’ll see how the first 119 pages are devoted to 1930. For each story published in those magazines listed, Jim gives a brief description of the plot. He does the same for the books published that year. I’ve got to say, I hope in a hundred years, the science fiction of our day won’t sound as ridiculous. Although it’s big fun to laugh at these plot synopses, they also reveal something more serious: the mindset of readers. This is how science fiction people thought in 1930.

Reading these plot summaries is also a brilliant way to understand the evolution of science fiction. Here’s a sample covering stories from the October and November issues of Amazing Stories.

Since Astounding emerged as a competitor to Amazing, I thought I’d let you read a sample of what its stories were about.

1930 is the largest volume of Futures Past yet, at 236 pages. That’s about a hundred pages more than he devoted to 1926. 1930 was a pivotal year in the history of science fiction. Astounding Stories of Super-Science began publication with the January 1930 issue. Jim devotes 47 pages to the legacy of Astounding/Analog.

Beginning in the “Other Worlds” section of the book, Emerson strays away from 1930, both before and after. Not only does he chronicle the backstory of pulp publications and publishers that lead up to Astounding, but Emerson tracks the magazine’s history into the Analog days. I assume this means each volume of Futures Past will provide us with the complete history of every new SF magazine as they emerge.

Jim Emerson follows the footsteps of Sam Moskowitz and Mike Ashley, becoming another historian of the genre. I hope he lives long enough to cover the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, my favorite decades of the genre. Now that Jim is retired, he has promised to produce new volumes more quickly.

The unexpected bonus of this issue is Emerson’s history of dime novels and boys’ books titled “The Edisonade: Dynamo of American Imagination.” It chronicles how technology inspired proto-science fiction in the 19th century, and follows it into the 20th and 21st centuries, covering the Tom Swift books. I have read brief histories of all the publications that Emerson covers before, but this is the most detailed account I’ve read. This section, at 134 pages, could be a book itself.

I’m sure I’ve seen the term Edisonade before, but I don’t recall it now. I assume it has the same implication as Robinsonade for Robinson Crusoe, but was inspired by Thomas Edison. The Science Fiction Encyclopedia has an extensive entry for Edisonade. Wikipedia has a much shorter entry. Google Scholar offers several tempting citations, but they aren’t available to read. As far as I can tell, Emerson’s essay is the most extensive on the subject.

There’s a tremendous amount of reading in this volume. I can’t imagine how Jim could be so organized to research and write it. I’m sure it wouldn’t be possible without the internet.

I’ve always wanted to know what kids in the 19th and early 20th century thought about reading these books and magazines. Jim does have a section on fanzines, but 1930 was their starting year. Reading this section on Edisonades helps me to imagine what growing up back then might have been like. I wonder if I could find copies of these publications to see if they had letters from readers.

Have you ever read a novel or biography from the 19th century that mentions dime novels or boys’ books?

If you love science fiction, there’s much to contemplate in Futures Past 1930. Nowadays, young science fiction readers find SF from the 1950s as weird and antiquated. When I discovered science fiction in the 1960s, I thought stories from the 1920s and 1930s were painfully dated. These Edisonade stories are decades older. The DNA of SF concepts is a strange genealogy to track. It’s very psychologically revealing to us lovers of the genre.

Jim, I can’t wait for your take on 1931.

Table of Contents Comparison 1926-1930

James Wallace Harris, 1/17/26