Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
OtherRealms Issue 09 Part 03
OtherRealms
A Reviewzine for the Non-Fan
Where FIJAGH Becomes a Way of Life
Issue #9
October, 1986
Part 3
Words of Wizdom
Book Reviews by Chuq Von Rospach
Copyright 1986 by Chuq Von Rospach
It isn't often that you run across a true gem. It is quite rare when
that gem is shaped by a first-time author. RATHA'S CREATURE, by Clare
Bell [Atheneum/Argo books, 1983, $12.95 hardback] is such a book. The
real pity is that this book was published by a house not known for its
fiction, and published an a juvenile. It is definitely not juvenile,
but a powerful adult Fantasy set in prehistoric times.
Ratha is a precursor of the Saber-tooth tiger in a story set some 25
million years ago. She and her clan are intelligent cats, with
language and learning and a structured society. They are also herders,
keeping their meat animals and guarding them from the Un-Named,
clanless cats without the spark of thought.
We meet Ratha as she learns the art of herding. We follow her
development until disaster strikes -- lightning sets their forest
afire. In the aftermath, Ratha discovers that she can control and
manipulate fire. For this, she is kicked out of the clan. During
this, she loses her fire and leaves clan territory an exile. She picks
up with Bonechewer, another exile from the clan, who teaches her how to
survive in the wilderness. She unwillingly participates in the winter
raids that decimate her ex-clan, but finally returns to them, only to
be rebuffed again. Another lightning strike returns the power of fire
to her, and she challenges, and bests, the clan leader with it.
Finally, the clan uses the power of fire to turn the tide against the
Un-Named and win the critical battle against them to protect their flock.
This is a very powerful book. Obviously, someone at Atheneum was
impressed enough to publish something that didn't really fit into their
line very well. Unfortunately, this means that it hasn't been pushed
towards the readers that could most appreciate it, and it is not well
known and hard to find. Both are crying shames. This book could have
been an award winner if it had been given some publicity. You will
probably need to special order this book, but you won't be
disappointed. Do it. Bell has succeeded at something many have tried
and failed with in the genre -- a solid first person account from a
truly alien viewpoint; that of an intelligent cat.
This is a stunning gem, hidden in the rough at the edge of the road. I
hope this book makes it to paperback soon, with a publisher willing to
give it a push. It would have been a serious award candidate, if we had
only known about it.
There is a new Amber book out, and it is simply great. BLOOD OF AMBER,
the latest by Roger Zelazny [Arbor House hardback, September 1986,
$14.95]. I panned TRUMPS OF DOOM, mainly because Zelazny deliberately
withheld known information from the reader. BLOOD is good enough,
though, to make up for that and they both get a recommendation now.
BLOOD takes up where DOOM left off, with Merlin stuck in a cave of blue
crystal. He, of course, escapes, but not before a rather long-winded
soliloquy that summarizes the plot to date. Once we get past that,
however, the plot starts moving. For every question Zelazny answers in
this volume, he creates dozens more to draw you into the final volume.
The stopping (the book doesn't end, it just waits for the final third
of the trilogy) is bizarre and unsuspected enough to make the blue cave
seem like a Sunday outing. Very little is resolved, there is no real
crisis, but the book builds to what promises to be a real blockbuster
ending of the trilogy with an energy I haven't seen in Amber since SIGN OF
THE UNICORN.
When an author gets paid a lot of money to write a sequel beyond the
logical end of the story, I find that the quality of the story
suffers. DOOM was disappointing enough to make me believe that the new
Amber trilogy would follow the paths of such books as RINGWORLD
ENGINEERS, but BLOOD OF AMBER is proof that Zelazny has found the
inspiration to carry Amber forward. I enjoyed the trip thoroughly, and
I can't wait for the final volume. Highly recommended. [****]
My find of the month is another Arbor House book, SHELTER by Marty
Asher [Arbor House Hardback, 1986, $12.95]. This book has everything
going against it. The book is small, 136 pages. Each page is only
about half filled with text, usually only a paragraph or two. Marty
Asher is Director of the Quality Paperback Book Club. The blurbs
mention Brautigan and Vonnegut, definite warning signs of impending
mediocrity. When you first see this book you'll think that somebody
owed a favor, and that it has to be rotten.
You'd be wrong, too. Frankly, I'd never have looked at this book if
Arbor House hadn't sent it to me, and I'm very glad they did. The book
is as good as the best of Vonnegut. Asher has a strong sense of
language and writing, and uses it with a strong sense of restraint.
Be aware that this is NOT SF or Fantasy, really. It is much closer to
experimental fiction. This is primarily a story of the idealism of the
1960's running head on into the 1980's, as Billy, professional bumper
sticker writer, tries to come to grips with the upcoming Armageddon.
This book really isn't a novel, but a charming character study and
exposition on our society. If you like Vonnegut or Ellison, you'll
love Asher. Definitely not a book for everyone, but highly
recommended. [*****]
KITEWORLD by Keith Roberts (Arbor House hardback, 1986, $15,95) is a
Fantasy of a different flavor. Roberts is a British author, and this
is the first U.S. publication of a 1985 British book. The book is
written as a mainstream novel written in the world that Roberts
creates. The upshot of this is that a lot of material is taken for
granted, and few of the things that are normally explained away in a
Fantasy are mentioned except peripherally.
Roberts builds a full and fascinating society where the kite plays a
central role in life. It is a religious icon, man sized kites are used
to patrol the borders of civilization as protection from the Demons
beyond, and houses fly kites for safety from unnatural forces.
Very little of this is explained. You don't know where the kites came
from, what the Demons are (except for sideways glances), and the only
view you get of the society is that you would get from being in the
society. In lesser hands, trying to write a story like this would
collapse in upon itself. Roberts carries it off almost flawlessly, and
even though it is a bit confusing at first, once you settle into the
story you'll enjoy it. I found myself wondering when he was going to
stop telling the story to explain what was going on -- once I figured
out he wasn't planning to, everything fell in place. This book
requires an active reader. It doesn't explain anything and you'll have
to figure it out for yourself. Some people won't like this book, but I
found it refreshing. [****]
WIZENBEAK (Bluejay Books, 1986, $8.95 trade paperback) is the latest
from artist/author Alexis Gilliland. Slightly dotty wizards seem to be
in these days and Wizenbeak, a water wizard, well qualifies. He is
interested in settling the deserts by finding underground water and
digging wells. Toss in an aged, dying King, a sorcerous (but not evil)
Queen, two chafing Princes, a step-prince, and a slew of troll-bats
(whatever they are) and you're in for a good read. It starts out
funnier than it ends, as though Gilliland wanted to write a funny
Fantasy that got away from him, but that didn't bother me. Solid
Fantasy, worth reading. [***]
AFTER MAN: A ZOOLOGY OF THE FUTURE (Granada Publishing, 1981, oversize
paperback) showed up on the remainder table. Written by Dougal Dixon,
this is a look life will look on earth 50 million after man has left
the world. You meet a wide variety of animals, the Rabbuck family
(deer sized herbivores based on Rabbits), the Chirrit (a tree dweller
somewhere between a chipmunk and a ferret) and the wooly Gigantalope
(something that looks like a Bison crossbred with an Antelope). What
makes this book interesting is the thought that went into it. Dixon
has looked at what animals are likely to survive and how they will
adapt to changing ecological niches. There are a lot of illustrations
of the various animals, and they are all well done. You won't agree
with all of his choices, but I don't think we'll be around to find out
who is right. This could be a useful tool for people who want ideas on
how evolution works. [***+]
TAKEOFF [Starblaze/Donning, trade paper, $7.95] is a 1986 re-release of
a 1979 book. It is a collection of pastiches, parodies, and homages of
various Famous Works by Randall Garrett. Garrett sharpens his pencil
and his wit to write a series of satirical stories set in the Universes
of famous authors, attempting to write the same way the author does.
This he does, with great success. The worst of the pastiches is simply
wonderful, the best, such as "Backstage Lensman" and "On the Martian
Problem" (E.E. "Doc" Smith and E. R. Burroughs, respectively) are in
many ways better than the original. The latter part of the book are a
series of "Reviews in Verse" where Garrett reviews famous books in
rhyme. They are less successful, but don't detract from the book at
all. This book should be a must read, if you have a sense of humor at
all. [****]
Insufficient Transmission
Fiction by Jim Brunet
jimb@ism780c.UUCP
Copyright 1986 by Jim Brunet
At Schrodinger Station, drifting in a lonely orbit a full tenth of a
light-year out from Earth, fourteen men and women were hunched over
consoles or laboratory equipment, conducting research on causality,
temporal gradients, and the properties of space beyond the
gravitational singularity of Sol. Three others were off-duty, making
love in one of the recreational lounges. Roger Z. Briarton, the
station's eighteenth and final inhabitant, peered cautiously into the
communications room and then quickly stepped inside. Working swiftly
yet carefully, he removed the cover to the tachyon resonator's input
module. Roger looked over his shoulder and then reached inside his
overalls and withdrew the storage chip containing the document he had
created in the utmost secrecy. Roger pressed a button and the
contents of the chip were dumped into memory, joining the queue of
reports and other documents bound for Earth.
He checked his watch when he had finished and then crossed his arms as
he waited, watching the machinery. Two minutes later, the resonator
started humming, followed after thirty seconds by a soft rumble. There
came a second, shorter, hum and then silence.
Roger smiled. All the documents, including his secret, were now
inbound for Earth. Whistling a soft and springy tune, Roger Briarton
left the Com Room and sauntered down the corridor in the direction of
the Rec Lounges. Maybe I can get someone interested in a good game of
Monopoly, he thought.
"Oh, Loo-TEN-ant! Ansible's ringing!" Lieutenant Brady Entwhistle,
communications officer of the Niven Colony on Titan, sighed and put
down the tech manual he had been reading. Ansible indeed! Brady was
fighting a hopeless battle to maintain proper technical designations
for all equipment. Tachyon resonator, for instance, instead of
ansible.
Brady swiveled himself out of his chair and walked from the duty office
into the Com Room. Outside, beyond the stellarium window, Saturn
filled half the sky. It's the damn planet's fault, thought Brady as he
flicked on the monitor and began to scan the incoming communications.
Even the most straight-laced service officers developed a poetic
temperament as they were slowly seduced by the ringed world.
That train of thought evaporated as Brady began to flash through the
documents. From Schrodinger Station, most were due to be
re-transmitted to Earth. He dumped out to local memory and printed
hardcopy of a report addressed to the Deep Space Psychological
Institute (Titan) and a letter addressed to the Titan field office of
the Interplanetary Revenue Service, appealing the IRS decision deeming
living quarters on Schrodinger Station as a "...taxable benefit,
supplied in lieu of salary for alternate arrangements." The rest....
Brady's eyes widened as he saw the address of the last document in the
queue: Com Duty Officer, Titan. Brady shook his head and press the
hardcopy button. He didn't know anyone in Deep Space.
The first sheet was a cover letter. Ten minutes minutes later, Brady
exhaled softly as the inbound laser facsimile transmission toward Ceres
was completed. Brady had complied with the requests of the cover
letter, but unusual as they were, he was unhappy. It was against all
regulations, it really was. Mis-appropriation of government
communications channels for unofficial business. Brady shook his head.
Better not to think about it. Instead, he stuck his tech manual back on
the gray metal bookshelf and signed out of the duty office. Maybe that
craft class on ice sculpture was still open.
K.T. Dooley hunched over his drink and glumly watched the desultory
social interactions among the clientele of the Gay Caballero. K.T.
wasn't gay or bi -- which marked him as something of an oddity in the
asteroid belt, given the scarcity of women -- so the social maneuvers
of the other patrons were of only academic interest to him. The drinks,
however, were the cheapest on Ceres, and Gus, the bartender, had even
been known to be generous on occasion to a down and out single-ship
prospector.
K.T. checked his watch and then swirled his drink moodily, trying to
stretch out the time before he would order one more, depleting his
finances by another half credit. Two more hours until his ship was
refueled, two more fucking hours until he spaced again. He would have
to hit this time, even a modest strike. Hit or go down the hole.
This last time out he had come up hard-vacuum empty, without even a
lousy kilogram of usable ore. K.T. swirled his glass again and then
drained it, setting it down on the table with a clunk. Things couldn't
get any worse.
He started to raise his hand to order when a movement at the door
caught his eyes and he saw the silver-overalled figure of M'lumba
Nsanzi striding purposefully toward him. "Oh, shit," said K.T., burying
his face in his hands. Things had just gotten worse.
"Hey, Kay-Tee, old man. Just who I was looking for."
K.T. spread his fingers and peered out, hoping desperately to find that
he was the victim of an illusion. Instead, he saw black, bald-headed
M'lumba grinning as he pulled up a chair. K.T. groaned as if his
eternal soul had just been consigned to the flames. All Government
Service officers were bad news, and this one-- this one was with the
belt's Provost Department, worse yet -- and this particular one NEVER
smiled unless the news was going to be excruciatingly bad.
K.T. lowered his hands from his face and forced a smile. "What's the
matter, M'lumba? Run out of government clerks to bugger and figure
you'd try the private sector?"
M'lumba's smile only broadened as he shook his head. "You said that as
a joke, thinking it funny, no? No matter. No, friend Dooley, I came
seeking you for a different, but less--" The provost officer flicked
his eyes over Dooley's scrawny frame and ragged dress a moment,
"--unappetizing favor."
"Favor?" K.T.'s voice fairly squeaked. "What are you talking about?
I don't do favors for any government snooper scumbag--" His voice
broke off as M'lumba's smile vanished and the officer pressed his hands
together, slowly tapping his fingertips against each other.
"It's only the delivery of a package," said the officer, quietly,
reaching inside his overalls and placing a flat, foil-wrapped package
on the table between them. K.T. breathed easier for a moment. Perhaps
a small favor wouldn't be such a bad idea. You never knew when it
might be nice to have someone in the provost's office who owed you one
and might be persuaded to overlook a minor indiscretion....
"That's right," repeated the officer, "just one small package. An
inbound facsimile mail parcel from Deep Space, to be delivered to an
inbound ship at Marsport."
"Marsport!" bellowed K.T. "Marsport! Are you crazy? Do you know what
kind of orbit I'd have to burn to get to Marsport? And what sort of
chance I'd have of running across any decent ore on the way?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Nobody, ah, more reliable is in port and
heading that way. So I'm afraid you will have to do."
"The hell I will. There ain't no way I'm going to Marsport, so you can
just kick in your jets and roll right now."
"Oh, but I think you will," said M'lumba softly. "Oh, yes, indeed, I
think you will. Because it would be rather more unpleasant for you if
you were to be officially detained in my office to discuss the little
matter of changing the frequency of a Survey Service navigation buoy
and then nudging it into a different orbit for your own personal use."
K.T. blanched. That had been six months ago and he had been so careful
to avoid detection. Damn, he thought, I was sure I was radar masked.
If the provost's department had hard evidence and could make it
stick.... K.T. stared and M'lumba and tried to fight back the panic.
"You're just prejudiced at me because I'm an independent," he whined.
M'lumba stood up and grabbed K.T.'s tunic at the throat, pulling him
half out of his chair. "Wrong," he snarled. "I'm prejudiced against
you because you're stupid." He threw K.T. back down in his chair. "I
figure you might just barely be smart enough to get this packet to
Marsport and get it on an inbound ship. It's either that, or I'll nail
your ass. If not now, then the next time. Now, is it a deal?"
K.T.'s head bobbed up and down. Whatever M'lumba had on him might not
hold up before a magistrate, but then why take chances. The provost
officer scowled at him and then spun on his heel and left.
K.T. exhaled deeply and slumped back in his chair. Marsport. Christ.
How was he going to stay in business? He shut his eyes and moaned and
then opened them as a glass clunked on the table. "Here you go, big
guy. Anyone who gets harlanned like that, get's one on the house from
me."
K.T. looked up bleakly at Gus's compassionate face. Gus was okay, even
if he did wear a dress. "Thanks, Gus," he said, taking the glass in
hand. "And I'll pay you for another one, right away." He spent the
next two hours drinking and staring at the address label on the
package.
Brin Garrett stared curiously through the armored windows of the taxi
as it made its way through the congestion on Lexington Avenue. It was
his first visit to New York, for he was a west coast boy and normally
took leave in L.A. or San Francisco on the earthbound side of the
*Clarion*'s run.
Though it was near noon, the sun cast a diffuse wan light through the
haze. On a clear day, you can see half a block, or so the song ran.
He shook his head. And they complain about L.A. He watched approvingly
as an elderly, white haired lady dispatched three would-be purse
snatchers with a couple of well-aimed electrostatic jolts from the
stunner concealed in her umbrella. Technology being used for the
improvement of social conditions, he thought. That's the way it should
be.
Brin momentarily checked the address on the foil package on his lap and
then compared it to the numbers on the buildings that he was passing
by. The business of the package was the reason for his presence in New
York, and a curious one it was.
He had been having lunch at the Nip-and-Tuck at Marsport when a crazy
single-ship pilot had burst into the lounge, buying drinks for everyone
in the house, a grand if economical gesture as the house was
three-quarters empty. It seemed as if the pilot had made a strike on a
hefty chunk of high-grade iridium ore while on transit between Ceres
and Mars, chancing upon a bulky rock in a lonely orbit.
Brin was only to happy to enjoy the hospitality of another, but after
the second vodka and tonic, the time came to pay, as the belter pilot
staggered over to Brin's booth, insistent upon striking up a
conversation. Brin had inwardly shrugged; there was, after all, no
such thing as a free drink.
The fellow was ge-snockered to the gills and had rambled on about some
"perverted prick of a provost officer" and the need to deliver a
package to an inbound ship or his ass would be occupied by a navigation
buoy. Who's ass, Brin wasn't sure, as the prospector's slurry speech
left his pronoun antecedents in doubt, but the pilot had pulled out a
foil wrapped package with an Earthbound address on the outside.
Brin had accepted it -- it was the kind of simple favor that crewmen
often did -- mainly in hopes of the pilot going away quickly, but the
man had been so grateful that he had insisted on buying Brin another
drink and staying until he finished it.
The cab pulled over to the side of the street and the robot-driver
beeped through a speaker set in the grill dividing the front seat from
the passenger compartment and announced "Your destination, sir. Please
insert your credit chip in the slot provided." Brin did so and moments
later the driver released the door locks.
Brin re-pocketed his credit chip and exited. Little did he realize that
the robot-driver had debited twenty percent extra from his chip,
proving that after three centuries, New York cab drivers still held the
upper hand and the so-called laws governing robotic behavior toward
humans were as theoretical as ever. Brin again checked the address
label on the package against the number of the building in front of him
and then walked inside to look for the designated office.
The Editor finished reading the manuscript and then contemplated the
mess in the far corner of his office -- six feet away -- for a moment
before buzzing the intercom for his assistant. He was known simply as
The Editor to almost everyone (except his wife, who called him The
Husband), simply because he had held his present job as editor of one
of the world's most prestigious science fiction magazines for well over
a century. Rejuvenation treatments were wonderful.
Someone had once asked him about getting bored after so many decades in
the same job, and he had replied, "Bored? Bored, when every day the
future is unfolded before me as I read dozens of brilliantly written
stories based on solid scientific extrapolation?" The response had had
two effects. First, it had confirmed a general suspicion that the
rejuve treatments did nothing to give one a more mature perspective on
the world. Secondly, no one ever asked him the question again.
The Editor buzzed for his assistant again, and this time she looked up
from her desk in the far corner of the office -- six feet away -- that
they shared. "Yeah, boss?"
The Editor sighed. His assistant really was very good, but he wished
that she would indulge him by using the intercom, so that at least he
could pretend that he had a large spacious office of his own. "It's
about this story, 'The Hyperspace Bordello and Other Conundrums,' by
this guy Roger Briarton."
The assistant editor nodded her head. (She was not known as The
Assistant Editor, she was called Ellen, which is most peculiar, because
her name was Shelley.) "Uh, uh. I remember it. It was one of three
out of this week's slush pile that I thought might be passable."
The Editor nodded. "Almost, but not quite. Still, it's promising
enough that I'd like to ask for a re-write. The only thing is, the
return address on the manuscript is a general credit number. Is there
an SASE?"
The assistant editor grimaced and shook her head. "Nope. It was
delivered in a foil space-pac by an off-duty Ansonline officer -- not
the author. No self-addressed return envelope. The general credit
number belongs to an unlisted account at a Zurich bank, I already
checked."
The Editor riffled the pages and skimmed a few lines here and there.
No, it wasn't quite good enough. And no way to even send an
encouraging rejection note. The assistant editor was already back to
work, so The Editor shrugged and tossed the manuscript into the gray,
round waste can. Why couldn't writers take the trouble to make a
proper submission?
Have You Joined the Conspiracy?
Have you joined the 1987 Worldcon yet? A supporting membership gives
you the right to nominate and vote for the Hugo, SF's most prominent
award. Many people complain that the Hugo is a popularity contest.
Complain all you want about the award, but the publishing industry and
the buying public watch the Hugos and reward them with sales. If you
aren't voting for the Hugo, your voice isn't heard and you have no
right to complain. Joining isn't expensive, and a few votes can make
a difference in the outcome. Supporting membership is only $15 It
gives you a say in the outcome of the awards. There is no reason not
to get involved except laziness. To get a membership in the Worldcon,
send your money to: Conspiracy 87, C/O Bill and Mary Burns, 23
Kensington Court, Hempstead NY 11550. Do it today, and make your voice
heard.
End Papers
Editorial Comments
by
Chuq Von Rospach
Copyright 1986 by Chuq Von Rospach
There is a disturbing trend in publishing these days. Publishing
houses are getting very fast and loose with the word "original."
LYTHANDE by Marion Zimmer Bradley is a "Daw Original." It contains
stories from THIEVES' WORLD #1, from the anthology GREYHAVEN, from
Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine.
Baen announces THE COLLECTED STORIES OF TEMPUS by Janet Morris, an
original anthology. Tempus is another character from Thieves' World.
My question on both of these is "What is original?" True, they've
never been published together before. The art is original. The ISBN is
original. The stories? Well, they don't matter.
There has always been controversy as to whether an anthology of
material published in magazines can be considered original. Magazine
material is seen by a very small percentage of the SF readers. First
book publication gives a work life with a new and much larger audience.
Original means new, or at least not published in book form. Anything
less is an attempt to mislead the buyer, and I feel it is an unethical
and unacceptable marketing ploy. In the future, my reviews will
reflect such attempts, and will have a more negative rating than I
might otherwise give. If you find such deceptive marketing practices,
let me know. You should also let the publishers the authors know by
writing letters to them or voting with your pocketbooks. This practice
is detrimental to publishing in the long term, because it removes any
value to the word original and devalues the original material.
*******
This is the first year the Hugo for Best Professional Editor went to a
book publisher, the late Judy-Lynn del Rey. Her husband, Lester, also
properly turned down the award because, in his words, she wouldn't have
gotten it if she hadn't died.
He's right and its a shame. Judy-Lynn deserved the award years ago,
and she is just one of a number of highly talented book editors who
have been ignored over the years because their work is behind the
scenes. The Ballantines and the Wollheims all deserve recognition for
what they've done for the genre and the publishing industry. Beth
Meacham seems to be doing amazing things with the Tor lists, and the
people at Ace and Bantam are publishing a lot consistently good books.
Part of the problem is simply figuring out who does what behind the
scenes. It is becoming a standard procedure to credit cover artists.
Will anyone seriously question whether an editor is any less
important? Let's get the editor name on the credit page with everyone
else, and start giving them some of the recognition (and appropriate
catcalls) they deserve.
Masthead
OtherRealms is Copyright 1986
by Chuq Von Rospach
All rights reserved
One time rights have been acquired from the contributors. All rights
are hereby assigned to the contributors.
Reproduction rights: OtherRealms may be reproduced only for
non-commercial uses. Re-use, reproduction or reprinting of an
individual article in any way on any media, is forbidden without
permission.
OtherRealms is published monthly, except for December, by:
Chuq Von Rospach
160 Pasito Terrace #712
Sunnyvale, CA 94086
UUCP: sun!chuq
ARPA: chuq@sun.COM
CompuServe: 73317,635
Delphi: CHUQ
Publishers: Review Copies should be sent to this address for consideration.
Submission Policy
Material about Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror books is solicited
for OtherRealms. The main focus is reviews of newer, lesser known
works and new authors. Anything of interest to the serious reader of
the genre is welcome. First serial on all articles is requested.
Pico reviews are welcome on any book. Use the format used in this
issue. Comments are limited to one paragraph.
OtherRealms accepts fiction up to 10,000 words. Fiction must be
unpublished, and first serial rights are requested.
Book Ratings in OtherRealms
All books are rated with the following guidelines. Most books should
have a three star rating, anything three or above is recommended. Two
stars is a qualified recommendation. Stars may be modified with a + or
a - to indicate a half star in either direction. [***-] is considered
slightly better than [**+].
[*****] Classic, Hugo quality
[****] Hugo Nominee quality
[***] Average book, recommended
[**] Somewhat flawed, has its moments
[*] Not recommended
[] Avoid at all costs
Subscriptions
OtherRealms is available in two forms: electronic and printed. The
electronic edition is available on Delphi, on Usenet in the group
"mod.mag.otherrealms" and on BBSes throughout the country. Readers on
ARPA, BITNET, CSNET and UUCP can get on a mailing list for delivery,
mail to one of the E-mail addresses above to request it.
The printed edition is available for $2.00 a copy through the mail or
at Future Fantasy, Palo Alto, CA. Subscriptions are $10/5 and $20/11
issues. Make checks to "Chuq Von Rospach." Fanzine trading happily
encouraged, a copy of mine for yours. Contributors get a free copy.
Publishers are eligible for a free subscription upon request. SFWA
members: write for the reduced rates for members. Group discounts for
bookstores are available.
