William Tenn - Brooklyn Project

On the Congressional front, Senator Joseph McCarthy had not yet appeared in all his rattling glory, but the matters he was to specialize in had been ably handled for some years now by Martin Dies and the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). The stage was being set.

Nineteen forty-seven was also the year, therefore, of a slashing attack on the entertainment industry by Martin Dies and HUAC: all kinds of celebrities and behind-the-scenes creative people had been subpoenaed and questioned most closely about their political associations and personal friendships—all in the name of national security and the protection of the manufacturing secrets of the atomic bomb. “Security” was the watchword of the day, a watchword invoked to cover all kinds of investigations and much more likely to be referred to at that time than the Constitution itself.

In the portentous name of Security, to mention just one hilarious example, supermarkets that stocked Polish hams (Poland, after all, was behind the Iron Curtain and was a full-fledged Communist state) were picketed as being of doubtful patriotism. There were prosecutions in the name of Security; there were suicides because of Security; there were heavily financed national campaigns in newspapers, magazines, and the broadcast media; there were even elections based on Security. And one especially enthusiastic junior Congressman had finally proposed that there be a seat in the Cabinet for Security.

It was this last development that sent me, halfway between laughter and outright terror, to the typewriter. I wrote and rewrote “Brooklyn Project” in a day and a half.

Both Sturgeon and Conklin liked it and marked it as their first purchase for the new magazine.

I was ecstatic. I blocked out a whole series of political and social satires I would write for that magazine. I had found the form I would be content to concentrate on for the next couple of decades. And I had found a well-paying market for that form.

Then the roof fell in. Or, rather, a whole series of roofs.

The backers of the magazine unbacked. They’d been involved in bad deals, assets that were supposed to be liquid had solidified on them, this, that—whatever: all plans for the new publication were cancelled. Conklin and Sturgeon tried to find financing elsewhere, and failed.

Sturgeon returned the manuscript to me with the comment: “Sorry, Phil, but you won’t have any trouble peddling a piece this good.”

He was wrong. Campbell called me to his office and skimmed the piece back to me across his desk. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no!”

Science-fiction magazine editors on the next level down reacted pretty much the same way. “I wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole,” one of them said. “Not in these times. I wish I could, though. The time-travel gimmick is lovely.”

The story finally found a home at what was then the very bottom of the field— Planet Stories, which paid a maximum one-half cent a word and specialized in action stories that took place anywhere but on Earth.

“The story doesn’t fit our book in any way,” Malcolm Reiss, the editor, told me, “and it’s dangerous as hell, but I figure this one is for God. An editor is entitled to at least one for God.”

Written 1947 / Published 1948