‘I don’t believe in divine punishment either.’
‘Maybe you don’t, but you behave as if you do.’ The phrase was delivered flatly and with considerable contempt. ‘What I do just happen to believe in is that a day is coming when exploitive systems will be swept away. Maybe we don’t have a working example in the world as yet, but that’s no reason why we should not strive for better systems.’ D’Exiteuil spoke with spirit. Both men had grown red in the face. Several delegates, lounging about the foyer, watched the argument with covert interest.
‘Jacques, I do not believe that you personally hate the past and the present; but such is the attitude that all these old dried figs of cliché enshrine. “Systems” you talk about – typical French intellectual pretension to want to live under a system – but it is all simply materialism—’
‘System is just a word! We all have to live under some bloody system, you know!’ He rattled his remarkable locks about his head.
‘Karl Marx was a nineteenth-century materialist without much historical insight. He saw the miserable condition of the workers, and for that we respect him although he was far from alone in doing so, but he was typical of that progress-obsessed generation. It thought everyone would be happier when reduced to systems. He was just one more pedagogue. His idea of a classless society is one more dotty millennial creed. We should all forget about his theorizing, just as we’ve forgotten about Disraeli’s “Young England” movement. Instead of remaining hypnotized by some vain illusion of pie in the future, forget it, junk it, free your mind, and rather try to enjoy and strengthen the present.’
He was alarmed by the venom in his own voice, alarmed by what he had said to his old friend. In the pause, he saw d’Exiteuil gather himself to attack, and feared what was to come.
‘You have no creed, no scientific philosophy to guide you. Just “enjoy the present” – that’s really the feeble message behind “Frankenstein Among the Arts”, isn’t it? Enjoyment. How trivial! Sure, Karl Marx made some mistakes; but his is a whole reasoned programme for conduct, now and in the future. You when you speak make out the case against yourself. You think a classless society is dotty – or rather you hope it. On the contrary, it is a lofty ideal. We want men united, not divided, and the honest truth is – though I admit I am not much of a revolutionary – that Britain and France and Germany will have to be destroyed before all the old divisions which –’ he pressed an index finger against Squire’s shirt button – ‘which you embody in your privileged position are destroyed. I’m sorry that I make you angry, but so were dinosaurs made angry when they saw little mammals trot by.’
‘Again an analogy drawn from last century. Evolutionary argument twisted to fit human society. We’re trapped by the outworn garments of last century when we should be free to face the future, free to see that enjoyment is not trivial but central—’
‘Sorry, Tom, I’ll listen to no more. You insult me unnecessarily, I who have fought many battles on your behalf. We have hitherto managed to keep our politics apart from our friendship. Obviously that is no longer possible. I am deeply hurt, deeply offended.’
Squire looked worried.
‘I’m sorry, Jacques. Perhaps the conference has been too much for me. I have no wish to offend you personally. We must each stand up for our own beliefs.’
D’Exiteuil spread his hands. ‘Didn’t I invite you here as guest of honour? Now you call me the worshipper of a nut-cult. Well, we’ll see – you observed the flying saucer, not I. There are good men here, your friends and allies, as I counted myself. You really insult and disgrace us all.’
‘That wasn’t my intention. Forgive me for speaking out. You know I have personal troubles – possibly the strain has told on me. I shouldn’t have been personal.’
‘Excuse me, I am required in the conference hall.’
Squire stood mopping his neck with a handkerchief. He went to the bar and ordered himself a beer, which he drank standing, conscious of having made a fool of himself. He looked at his watch. He followed along to the hall, where almost all the seats except Ajdini’s were already filled.
Enrico Pelli turned a murderous glare on him.
In a minute, Gianni Frenza called upon Herman Fittich to give his paper on science fiction as a modern literary form.
Fittich, soberly dressed in a grey suit, rose, clearing his throat as he looked nervously about him. ‘To avoid a few translation problems I intend to deliver my paper in English, since possibly more of you speak that language here than speak German. My apologies to my hosts that I don’t try it in Italian, my congratulations to them that I won’t.
‘When I shall return home, when I will return home, friends will ask me how I enjoyed Ermalpa. “A lovely, fascinating, and complex city”, I may answer. I’m hardly going to tell them that I have spent almost all my time in the Grand Hotel Marittimo, and in fact in this very room. But I do know from a study of some guide books before I left Germany that this city is many things. It’s a melting-pot, that’s a phrase that comes to mind, a melting-pot. A melting-pot of conflicting cultures. Ermalpa has been a western city looking towards the east, and also an oriental city looking towards the west. Many races have made their contributions, from Phoenicians and Greeks to Arabs, Normans, and even the British.
‘Melting-pot is a funny description. Things don’t melt down that easily in human terms. After many centuries, the various traits remain pretty distinct. But that is what makes it interesting still. We don’t want an imposed uniformity of any kind.
‘So Ermalpa is a good place in which to hold this first serious critical enquiry into the aspects of the popular culture of our time. My subject is science fiction literature, or fantascienza, the excellent Italian word, or Utopische Romane, the less effective and in consequence now obsolete German phrase. Science fiction – or SF – is a melting-pot much like Ermalpa. It also contains conflicting cultures. It looks to the future and to the past and, by implication, most searchingly to the present. Many disciplines make their contribution, such as science, of course, notably astronomy and cosmology and the physical sciences, but also any other science you care to name, genetics, biology, down to soft sciences such as sociology and anthropology. Also such more general themes as religion, mythology, apocalypse, catastrophe, Utopia, perfectionism, literature, adventure, and sheer crazy speculation.
‘All such things and many more go into the melting-pot. They don’t actually melt down, but they all give the brew a flavour. Its contents are so diverse that readers can pick and choose their own specialities. This is why it’s difficult for two people to agree on what SF is all about. Despite the popular misconception that it’s all about space, it’s actually more important than that. It’s all about everything.
‘It is the modern literature read almost obsessively by the young in all industrial countries, although sadly neglected by their seniors.’
Yes, but what SF’s not about is things like this conference. It simplifies, whereas this conference complicates. It substitutes simple aliens for the complexity of nationalities and internationalities. And in the examples I’ve read, it externalizes evil, making it a menace from without instead of within. Perhaps that’s why it’s so popular. Even Marxists like it, or use it for their own purposes.
But maybe SF tells the truth in showing how change is everywhere. How the present nations, the current power blocs, will disappear, leaving not a wrack behind – or only a bootee and a bridle. I remember the Scythians and their deep-frozen underwear. In their time, they thought the world was their oyster.
Now I suppose the Marxists feel the same way. What’s wrong with all that, apart from its high boredom factor, is that it is presented as the Ultimate. There’s no ultimate in human affairs, or won’t be for many