Fredric Brown: The Best of Fredric Brown

Innovation, in the science fiction of the fifties, was generally considered synonymous with advanced extrapolation of orthodox scientific theory, or the extension of contemporary social phenomena. Thus it was that stories involving antigravity and anti-matter were hailed as daring concepts, and fictional constructs of future society governed by advertising agencies or insurance companies seemed to be the ultimate in speculative expertise.

Characteristically, Fred chose to turn his back to the trend. Quirky individualist that he was, he wrote The Lights in the Sky Are Stars.

It was one of his best—and bravest—books.

Today an entire generation of younger writers has emerged to tell it like it is, or at least like they think it is. Their speculative fiction is peopled with angry young anti-Establishment figures, drug-users, and ambisextrous characters who freely express philosophical profundity in four-letter words. One does not necessarily question the sincerity or dedication of such writers. But the cold truth is that they are not quite as courageous as they profess to be. Today they are merely setting down in print the speech and attitudes which had already surfaced amongst young militants and street people a full decade ago. Rather than formulating a future based on their own imaginative abilities, their work is merely an echo of a past reality.

The Lights in the Sky Are Stars doesn 't fall into this category. It didn't deal with kinky sex, and its characters spoke in ordinary dialogue rather than verbalized graffiti. Nevertheless, it was a daring work.

Appearing at the zenith of the Eisenhower administration, at a time when science-fiction writers as well as their readership idealized and idolized the launching of the Space Program and the brave young men who pioneered it, Fred's book deliberately dumped on dreams and offered, instead, a raw reality.

In an era when virtually all science-fiction heroes were young —and the few "middle-aged "exceptions were presented as grizzled veterans of thirty-five or thereabouts—Fred 's protagonist was a man well over fifty. On top of that, he was physically handicapped, and yet (a horror unthinkable to youthful science-fiction readers of the time) he was sexually active. Moreover, the plot of Fred's novel dealt not with the gung-ho glories of space projects, but with the machinations of politicians and the military-industrial complex bent on subverting such efforts to their own ends.

This was heresy with a vengeance. It was also, I submit, far more "realistic "than any tale of a hippie transplanted virgo intacto to a future society bearing a suspicious resemblance to present-day New York City during a garbage strike.

Oddly enough, the book was well-received. It won no awards, nor did it score a breakthrough to the best-seller lists, but today this novel deserves recognition for what its author achieved by way of honest statement.

Yes, Fred was an innovator. Along about this time he ventured another experiment. Safely ensconced as a leading mystery-writer, with assured contacts and contracts in the field, and rapidly rising in the science-fiction field, he decided to write a mainstream novel. And in the face of his reputation for unusual plot angles, colorful characters and off-beat humor, he would write a "straight" book; really telling it like it is at a time before the phrase had even been invented.

The result was The Office, a semiautobiographical account of his own experiences in the twenties. But such was his honesty that he succeeded only too well—and in succeeding, failed. Because the way it is, or was, for Fred in the twenties, proved humdrum and pedestrian in the telling. Minus murder and mayhem, sans piled-up plot complications, and lacking rapid-fire repartee, this day-by-day account of real people in an ordinary office setting seemed dull to readers who expected a typical Fredric Brown entertainment.

He never repeated the venture. Instead he returned to the mixture as before—but what a rich and variegated mixture it was! The burgeoning men 's magazine market offered outlets for his talent, and new freedom of expression. Sexual taboos were giving way, and while Fred eschewed vulgarity, he found welcome opportunity to base his fantasies and science-fictional efforts on once-forbidden themes. He gave free rein to his wealth of wit, and discovered a new story-form in the "short-short."

In that connection, aficionados may be interested in a 1960 Warner Bros. recording, Introspection IV, in which a narrator named Johnny Gunn, accompanied by the background musical effects of Don Ralke, reads a series of short tales. Five of these—"Sentry," "Blood, ""Imagine," "Voodoo," and "Pattern"—are the work of Fredric Brown at his whimsical best.

Moving to the West Coast in the early sixties, Fred and Beth established residence in the San Fernando Valley. I had already arrived on the scene and we again saw a great deal of one another.

For a time Fred tried his hand at films and television. Way back in the forties a producer had purchased a story from him in order to use its ending for a motion picture called Crack-Up, starring Pat O 'Brien. Again, in the fifties, his mystery novel, The Screaming Mimi, was filmed. A number of his stories had been adapted for radio and later for various television anthology shows. It was only natural that he would attempt to do some adaptations or originals on his own. And, Hollywood being what it was—and, alas, is—it was only natural that his efforts met with little acceptance. Producers didn 't understand Fred. Their definition of a "pro" was a hack who could and would write anything to order. But Fred, genuine "pro "that he was, wanted to write Fredric Brown stories.

Again, he reverted to print. And Hollywood's undoubted loss was our gain, for he continued to turn out a series of unique, highly individualistic tales; stories which established him in the genre. If he 'd never written anything except "Puppet Show, "we 'd have reason to be grateful for Fredric Brown 's contribution to science fiction, but there were many others. You 'll find some of them in the following pages, and if you happen to be discovering them for the first time, I think you'll share the general gratitude for his efforts.

And it is in his stories that Fred 's fame endures. He was never, to my knowledge, attendant at a science-fiction convention; he was not a trophy collector or a publicity seeker, and a surprisingly large number of fans and fellow professionals knew only the name, not the person who bore it. But as readers, they came to appreciate the qualities which so distinguished his best work—the sardonic humor, the irony which at times brings to mind Ambrose Bierce. And yet there was a leavening element of playfulness which adds an extra dimension to his most savage satire or scaring cynicism. Add to this his gift for the realistic rendering of dialogue and accurate observation of character traits and the result is as impressive as it is entertaining.

There 's not much more to tell. Fred 's respiratory problems increased, forcing a move to Tucson in the midsixties. And it was there, on March 11, 1972, that he died.

Those of us who were privileged to know him, mourn his passing. But those who were privileged to read his work remain eternally grateful for what he gave them.

A sampling of that work has been gathered here. There 's more, much more, and I urge you to seek it out. For into it he poured a lifetime of effort and experience, wit and wisdom and whimsy, honesty and make-believe, joy and despair—all of the qualities which mark the measure of a man, and which make his writing truly, and aptly, The Best of Fredric Brown.